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[antiodote]

Hi friends! She is finally here (or at least the first half, by popular demand). Thank you all so much for your patience and for the kind words you have all sent in during this period of pause. Honestly, I’m glad I split this part off. She beats chapter 6 with a whopping word count of 19.7K — the new first place for longest chapter! (I think we can all understand why this was split off, now. If I’d kept it as a part of chapter 8, that chapter would have been an insane 37.4K. If I’d kept everything that I wanted to fit into chapter 9 rather than splitting it into 9 and 10, the number would be similar. CRAZY.) I have opened a kofi! Donations are absolutely not necessary, but I highly, highly appreciate it! Warnings for this chapter are filthy, filthy smut. A sprinkle of consensual violence. The cane. Oh, also, the D*ddy word. If you enjoy, feedback is always appreciated!

PREVIOUS PARTS HERE | WATTPAD ALTERNATIVE HERE | kofi here

By the time Harry introduces the wand, he’s thoroughly impressed by Isla’s lack of crying. 

He’d expected her to become reduced to tears — some sniffling, at least, with the prolonged exposure. That’s why they’re doing the trial run — a preparation of sorts. Second chances, and all. He’s a really nice guy — a gentleman, he’d say, (…hah), and he was offering the second chance partly because he expected her to cry, at least at first, and mostly because he was rooting for her. 

Rooting to indulge in the riches of reward, himself. 

But he hadn’t gotten any of that. She hadn’t broken down, sturdy in her composure, despite the fact he’s sure a coating of tears had, at one point or another, settled in a glaze over her irises. He has his suspicions for her sudden, resolute determination. There’s a pretty tempting reward on the line, after all. 

Harry holds the wireless wand out to her, stem-first, with his hand wrapped just on the taper below the bulbous head, and his voice carries soft sentiments of encouragement that underlie the teasing tone his words take on. “All ready for the real deal?” 

The real deal — that is, withholding her tears (and enduring whatever twist and/or turn he’s gotten riding up beneath his cuff-linked sleeve — which is funny, because those sleeves are all gone, now) for the sake of being granted his cum painting her spongy walls. It’s a prize that dulls other awards. Makes them lackluster in comparison. Isla takes an inhale for courage. 

“No,” she tells him eventually, surprised that she’s able to enmesh notes of humor into her voice. She still takes the outstretched wand from the man.

“No?” Harry gnaws into the corner of his peachy mouth. He steps into her space — moral support, and all, she needs it — and tucks a bit of loose tendrils back behind her ear as he assures, his tone soft, “You can do it. I have faith.” 

The young woman’s exhale, ridden with woe-is-me-defeat, is shuddery well beyond a dignified tier. It’s pathetic, a little, and she’s sure she’d feel much more embarrassed that she’s unable to hold her bearings over a stick if she wasn’t so tightly wound. The vibrator helps, at first. That always helps. Harry guides her, nudging it to linger just between her thighs, out of bounds, as he keeps eye contact (sort of — and it’s kind of ludicrously impressive, given that he can’t even make her eyes out through the lace. He’s got her pinned with his gaze, honestly). 

“Are you going to drop it?” 

Isla huffs. 

The dominant tells her, pointedly, “Because I’m not keen on the idea of replacing it, if you do, and it breaks.”  

“No,” the submissive gripes — steadfast stubbornness breaking through the apprehension, and she eyes him through her mask with narrowed eyes. She watches the visible features of his face, otherwise hidden by latex, quirk with surprised amusement at her apparent irritation. 

Isla knows his eyebrows are raised behind rubber, solely off his tone when he teases, “M’only asking for precaution. Should I tape it to your hands?” 

“No,” Isla tells him, eventually, with less bite to her words. 

Because, wow. Yeah. They’re doing this. And he’s concerned that she’ll drop the wand — concerned enough to offer to tape it to her hands. Patronizing joking aside, she’s perfectly capable of controlling herself, Isla decides. Without his helping hand of sticky bondage tape. 

She wants to be brave — she wants resolute valor to paint her demeanor, she wants to be indifferent, she wants to be cool and composed. She certainly doesn’t want to crumble, but all of her prior agenda flies out the window the second that the man meets her eye, and then just …slips to his knees ahead of her. Casually. So nonchalantly, it’s grating, nearly. But she could never be vexed at the sight. Not really. 

Instead, she wishes he didn’t have that pesky, rubber hood shrouding him from the neck-up. She wishes that she had the ability to tuck her fingers into his hair. Alas... 

Isla sighs. It’s dreamy-sounding, kind of, because then Harry sets his warm touch onto the front of her thighs. Jade flickers back up to meet her face, melting in its apparent traces of composure. And then his chin dips, and his eyes brace ahead, and he presses the tip of his thumb in, between her parted — parting, actually, actively — thighs, just …spreading her a tad, for his gaze, and that’s— that’s. 

The young woman restrains the soft moan that aches to slip from her mouth when he takes his thumb back and brushes the pad of it over her clit. Again, his irises flit to her like he’s eager to absorb her reaction. She doesn’t give in, gnawing into her bottom lip like the motion is sustenance for her (wilting) composure. Harry leans forward and pastes his mouth to her thigh. Then, the crease in between, where her thigh and pelvis meet. Her knees nearly give out from below — useless, useless joints with little willpower — when the dominant presses his mouth against the sensitive bundle of nerves between her legs. Her chest falls and her teeth unlatch with the sharp exhale he siphons. It’s just a kiss. Chaste, present and flitting as soon as his lips land, but then his tongue slips out, lax for little firmness, and he swipes out over her, and—

Isla can’t muzzle the desperation that’s torn from her, then. It’s impossible. She’s only a woman, after all, and he’s only fucking Eros with his wet tongue teasing up between her thighs. God, she wants him, she wants him everywhere, she wants him to prop her foot up against his shoulder to delve deeper, she wants him to paste kisses against her inner thigh and then leave a trail of bite marks, like he had the one day. She wants to grind her face against his mouth and feel the dig of the splayed zippers amidst the pure rapture of his warmth, amidst his suckling and prodding, the expanse of his tongue slipping against her, into her, as he swallows his moan around her. 

Of course, he doesn’t give her that. He draws his tongue back, and the gentle burst of air she feels against her, instead, is soft mirth slipping from him. He’s amused. She sees in it the twinkling of his gaze, the smile in his eyes when he looks up at her through his lashes. Like proper sadism flourishing. 

“Needy girl,” Harry murmurs, plush mouth curling up as he brings his thumb back to glide against her, featherlight, practically. 

Her whole rib cage rattles. “Please.” 

“Please,” he just mimics — sadism! Flourishing! In the flesh! “I like that word.” 

But he peers up at her, all angel-like, when he switches to a forefinger that he slides further. When he nudges up into her with the tip of his digit, it coaxes a garbled sound. He’s pure heaven. Or hell — Isla can’t decide. Especially when he presses an open-mouthed kiss to the bare skin on her pelvis, right over her clit, and asks, absolutely rhetorically, “Want my cum in here, baby?” 

Harry nips at the crease between her cunt and her thigh with his lips as he stuffs his finger further, “Hm?” 

Her spongy walls squeeze over him like a vice in give-away. And she’s wet, she’s so wet, already, nearly seeping down his knuckles. To be fair, it’s kind of a silly question, but his mouth quirks at the reaction, nonetheless. All to curb his own groan at her tightness. He leans forward and scrapes over a bit of her thigh with the dull edges of his front teeth — his bottom lip, though, is a soft contrast to the sensation. He nips again, sharper.  

“Dripping out of your little hole? Gonna let me fuck it back in with my fingers, after?” 

What a — Isla’s breath hitches, and her thighs tremble — silly, fucking question. She’d walk in a fucking backbend, if that’s what he asked of her. Her fingers twitch into fists. Strawberry pink curves up. His own index withdraws. It’s coated with her arousal, glistening under the buttery light, and he draws his tongue along it, first, maintaining this sick, twisted, almost, eye contact with her, like pure torment. And then he wraps his mouth over the digit and sucks. The sight is enough to draw an untouched orgasm from her, nearly. He’s sick. He’s sick, and he’s fucking twisted, and he’s sadism flourishing, in the flesh. He makes an amused, little sound that just has her bathing in his condescension, and then he pops his forefinger out and drags it over the front of her thigh like she’s a rag for his convenience, and that’s just. Fuck. 

His hand squeezes over her thigh like she’s a crutch for him too, when he stands — and when he does stand, he sort of towers a bit, just ducking his head and letting her drink in the sight of jade sparkling like emeralds through a rubber slit, and lashes, and zippers. He takes her wrist in his palm — laxened post his ministrations — where the wand dangles weakly, now, and wordlessly nudges it towards her cunt. 

Harry advises, once the head’s pressed up between her thighs, “Turn it on.” 

She steals a glance below, in lieu of hopelessly fumbling with her thumb, and his mouth quirks at that, too, as the pad of it skims the protruding silicone edges of the button and just …scrabbles over it. Like the seams of her control have gone loose. So, he helps her — like a proper gent. He’s not just going to let her flounder, is he? Harry slides his hand over the wand, like it’s his shaft — which, by the way, his actual cock is just right there, Isla notes as passively as she can — and takes her thumb below his, guiding it to press over the switch. The toy rumbles alive. 

“Any setting you’d like, sweetheart. Whatever gets you there,” the dominant instructs softly, and Isla flips it, instantly, onto a higher buzz that practically has every molecule she’s composed of vibrating. Her mouth parts on the sudden influx of pleasure, and when the man winds around her, the tip of his cock — hard, by the way — brushes against her hip. In passing. This is all… 

…all… 

It feels much more purposeful when he ducks his chin and tucks it up over her shoulder, when his hardness presses against her backside and grazes the small of her back. The split second mental image of his cum painting the dimples in her back graces the forefront of her mind, then. Which is debauchery all in itself. 

“Feeling good?” Harry murmurs against the shell of her ear, trailing one of his palms up her abdomen to tweak a nipple. 

Buzzing fills the silent void of pause between his question and her answer. It comes, eventually, post shuddery breaths and a garbled sound that rolls from her mouth. 

“Yes, Sir,” Isla hums, all small and withering in resolve. Her lips part for a gasp when he pinches harder, and that sends a vivid wave of bliss straight down to where the toy rumbles. Pleasure unfolds like pulsing bursts of color on a dark canvas. Harry presses harder. When his nails dig in a smidge, and she’s clenching on nothing, riding the wave, the young woman grits her teeth and manages out a strained, “Thank you, Sir.” 

Like a placating bid for mercy. Except she doesn’t want mercy — not at all. And Harry doesn’t give it to her. He speaks against the shell of her ear, all low and sultry, and keeps his hold, sending a steady course of pain through her chest. 

“Thank you. That’s proper sweet. What are you thanking me for?” 

“For— for making me…” her words melt into a breathy huff, on the verge, nearly, already, it seems, when he rolls his thumb over the bud. “God.”

And she can hear the smile in his murmur, then, is the thing. When he tells her, his cadence all quiet and devilish with mirthy condescension, “I didn’t do all that.” 

All Isla can manage is a shuddery sigh — she doesn’t even have it in her to make an attempt at a quippy retort. 

“So what are you thanking me for,” when he draws the cane over her hip, the even pace of her breathing stifles and morphs into something closer to erratic, “sweetheart?” 

The dominant sponges a soft kiss to her neck, just below her ear, lips lingering in a way that allows her to bask in his hum, in his lips moving with the soft dialogue, “Hm? What are you thanking me for, Little Peitho?”  

“Thank you—“ there’s a tremble to her words, despite the resolute quality of her voice. Blatantly feigned courage. Her chest rises on her inhale. He brushes over her flesh with the cane, and it’s like the sweetest caress. Isla’s head hangs with the expiration of her admission, released in a breath, “—for making me feel good, Sir.” 

That last little Sir carries it all — gives telltales of the weight, of the discomfort, of the fear that comes with doing this, for her. Of opening herself up to this. Harry doesn’t sink his teeth into the sentiment. But he does nip with his mouth over her skin, and then smushes his lips to her neck and inhales. He inhales the scent of her skin, sweet traces of perfume she’s dabbed beside her nape, the scent of her hair, all floral and clean. He inhales her like she’s a line of cocaine, and he’s craving. 

“You’re welcome,” he mumbles into her skin, and nips again, with his cushiony lips. “You’re not mouthy at all today, for me, are you? All sweet, actually. S’it the toy? I give you a little buzz, and you’re all nice. Is that it?”  

He can hear her huff through her nostrils, can practically sense the way her hands twitch over the shaft of the wand when he raises the cane and presses it to her abdomen in a diagonal line. 

“Or is it this?” 

It’s sort of miraculous that she doesn’t drop the vibrator, Isla thinks. Maybe he was right. Instead, she squeezes over the stem of it and screws her eyes shut. And even still, with the wood brushing over her skin, and the vibrator rumbling between her thighs, and his lips glued to the side of her throat, arousal is the most prominent sensation. The mixer for the fear. It thrums through her veins, interweaving with the wave of apprehension, coiling together and spiraling through the tubes linked by her circulatory system. 

“Is it making you nervous?” she hears him mumble against her flesh, and though his tone is soothing — gentle, in its blatant tease, it has chills racing down the back of her neck from her nape. 

“…Sir.”

It’s obvious, it’s so painfully — almost literally — obvious, that yes, the big, mean stick is not her best friend. That, yes, she’s shaking in her boots over, essentially, a sturdy twig, but it’s like— it’s like he wants to hear her say it. Wants to draw whatever she’s bottling up out, wants her to acknowledge and succumb to the apprehension, to the discomfort, to the fear. If only for a little while — enough to let it in, and then crowd it back out once it realizes there’s nothing to sink its teeth into. No good reason, no valid reason for her to fear. 

That’s a sweet take that puts him in a far better light than typical. Maybe a more authentic interpretation would put more emphasis on the way his eyebrows draw together at that blatant protest in her cadence, the way his plush mouth curls up, a tad, against her skin. It’d be more appropriate to shed light on his devilish nature, the teasing she knows must outweigh the former, if it’s a motive. 

But when the young woman makes a worried little sound, muzzled by the seal of her mouth, the dominant unhooks his chin and withdraws. 

“Hey.”

His brows are pinched together, now, like, actually, but Isla can’t see all that with her lovely angle, and his brow-shrouding disguise, and all. 

“Hey — I’m not gonna hurt you with it, pet,” Harry promises — a soft croon of assurance, “This is about making good associations, right?” He prods, emphasizing by squeezing at her hip when she doesn’t give him an immediate, verbal response, “Right?” 

Isla chin dips and shifts in a nod accompanied by a hum. Her lips still press together like talking is a precipice to cry. Harry frowns. 

“Words,” the dominant coaxes. 

A second of lull. A little sigh. 

“Yes, Sir,” Isla tells him, eventually, her voice small like her resolution. 

His tongue peeks out and glides, where the young woman can’t see, and he dips his mouth back to her ear to murmur—

“Good—“

The young woman can’t stifle her gasp when his hand slips up the staircase of her ribcage, when it fondles over her breast for a moment, when the pads of his fingers trail higher and roll a nipple between a gentle, tantalizing grasp. 

“—associations—“

The sensation sends pleasure trickling, weaving through her system and pulsing through the bud between her thighs, the bliss of the vibrator against her clit tenfold under the attention. And his smooth baritone, low in a coo against her skin, the cane rubbing over her stomach, his breath ghosting over the shell of her ear—

“That’s what we're here for,” the man tells her, and then he ducks his chin to draw a stripe from the base of her neck back to her ear, capturing her lobe between his teeth as the tips of her fingers work over her chest.

Isla nearly rolls her head back against him. She clenches on nothing, sure she’s slick and dripping down her inner thighs.  

“Just here to make you feel good,” the dominant draws the pad of his thumb back and forth over her nipple as if to emphasize the statement. And he’s so …sultry— just his voice, even. Isla could listen to him talk on and on about the mechanics of a creating no. 2 pencils, if he’d just speak against her ear all soft-spoken and heady, like that. She’d touch herself to the history behind graphite, if he’d share it with that tone. 

But he doesn’t talk about no. 2 pencils. He doesn’t talk about the softness of graphite cores and their impact on shade, he doesn’t discuss the history of pencil factories. Instead, he does so much worse. So, so much worse. 

He calls off a list of all the wonderful, absolutely sordid intentions he seemingly has for the night. 

“Gonna make you cum,” his plush mouth ghosts against her skin, “Gonna clean you up with my tongue, a bit, after—“

That’s— okay. Yeah. That— Isla makes an audible sound she’d otherwise be embarrassed over. And, like clockwork, he feeds into it. But Isla’s too wise to expect otherwise, and, honestly, far past caring how needy and brainless his affections make her feel. 

“Desperate, little thing, all drenched for me, aren’t you?” Harry goads, and then he questions, (actually — he puts a question-mark-esque tone onto some purely rhetorical filth), in a sweeter, quieter tone, “You want my mouth between those pretty thighs, baby?”

And the sound that Isla lets out in response to that, in any other circumstance, would incite pure shame. 

“Yeah? I know, I know. Just need me to take care of it all for you,” his confession — soft, as he tucks her ear back with his cheek — nearly carries the same underlying notes of desperation that radiate from her. His statement is muffled with the thrum of blood in her head and the way his cheek presses to her ear. “Wanna taste you so bad.” 

This is blasphemy; it’s raw, unadulterated filth, and reaction he culls, just from the suggestion, just from the want in his heady inflection, shouldn’t be so intense. This is outrageous. Her whole stomach is in knots, pleasure weaving. 

“And then what do you get if you don’t cry?” Harry prompts after a second, and it’s honestly the most glorious blessing, the fact that he doesn’t expect her to give him a coherent response. Because thinking thoughts is all sort of a mushy, unreliable process from there. “Get my cock, don’t you?” her chest rolls at the reminder of reward, a low, deep murmur. 

“Get my cum.”

A pause. A whimper. An amused sound, from him. And then something soft-spoken, dripping with so much condescension she’s nearly doused in it. 

“Want me to fill you up? Get you all messy again, after?” 

It’s not a premeditated notion; what happens next. It’s actually got a sort of a …chaotic energy to it, considering they haven’t discussed that. And it feels out of the blue, even for her, because she hasn’t called anyone that, since Dan Sever — who had a kind of preference. It’s sort of expected, when he says things like want my mouth between those pretty thighs and fill you up, get you all messy again after. It’s a no brainer. It grows and looms over her — the give — consuming, and it creeps up her throat before she has half a mind to bridle it. And when she says it, she sounds absolutely wrecked. 

“Daddy…”

For a moment, Harry is quiet. He’s warm and firm against her, and his fingertips twitch over her chest. But he’s quiet, is the thing, as if letting the title sink in and process. 

Because that’s — yeah. That one sounds nice. He hasn’t heard that one in a while, and never from Isla. But it sounds so pretty falling from her mouth. It wakes something in him, something hungry and desperate and sharp. Daddy.

And if Isla had nearly half the shame she’d harbored at the start of the scene, before things got all misty and warm with his dumb …unintended sex-hypnosis… well then maybe she’d feel more shame! (Sidenote: like, why are his hands so big, and powerful, and warm, and why does he croon into her ear all patronizing and low, like that? It’s debauched. SEX. HYPNOTIST — Scratch the unintended, he’s beyond self aware. This feels like a war tactic). 

If Isla had any sort of shame, or sober, un-sex-hypnotized (by him! Heathen!) train of thought, then maybe she’d think of the possibility that there could be negative repercussions. That maybe he just liked Sir or Master (as he’d inclined upon introductions during their first scene in the White Room). Maybe Daddy wasn’t his thing. Maybe she’d just, like, killed the scene. Then, maybe little pinpricks of anxiety and shame would bud in her chest. 

But she’s not ashamed. 

Instead, she whines, unabashed, when the dominant pauses his hedonic ministrations — as if it’s totally normal to suddenly switch up honorifics, mid-scene, and teem into undiscussed territory. 

And on the topic, the way she rolls her chest forward, into his stifled touch — that gesture solidifies the whole, no shame basis. 

“Please—“ 

Her speech morphs and garbles, when he pinches in harder. To be expected. Ish. 

“Stop whining,” Eros chastises, his tone hard and …all …daddy. It’s making her rabid. Feral. Her head is spinning. She’s dizzy. The wand rumbles loudly in the silence as her breath catches in her throat, and it’s the only thing grounding her before the man says, “Is that how you get what you want?” 

No. Evidently. 

Isla presses her lips together and takes a shallow breath in through her nose. She’s sure the man can feel her heartbeat, pulsing in desperation, from where the pads of his fingers lie. Her chest heaves under his mean touch. 

“If you want Daddy to do something,” the dominant says against the shell of her ear, in a tone headier than prior — as if it’s possible, “you use your words. So, what is it that you want?” 

The young woman restrains the garbled sound that aches to escape. Instead, she breathes out, needy for him in a way that riles that humiliated little piece of her. But when the man just waits, tugging at her nipple between a carefully calculated, harsh touch, all she can manage is another, “Daddy.” 

It’s a miracle that she’s thrown a lifeline. Anything otherwise is like treading through molasses.

“Want daddy to clean you up, and then get you all messy again?”

“Yes,” Isla breathes, letting her head roll back against him as he takes his touch away. 

And Harry lets it happen, nipping at her neck — newly exposed in a manner that allows him the access — and beckoning, “Say it.”  

“Tell me,” he coaxes, with a little more bite, that firm, daddy tone of voice Isla’s grown well-acquainted with. “Say you want Daddy to clean you up with his tongue, and then get you all messy again with his cum.” 

The toy vibrates on such a perfect setting between her sticky thighs, and his filthy dialogue scores into her so deep and settles, and his breath ghosts over her skin as his lips lurk, and she smells him, his cologne, all rugged sandalwood and tantalizing musk and softer notes, all around her. For a moment, she just basks in it, flesh for his use. That’s what she wants, that’s all she wants, she just wants him to use her however the dominant deems fit, upon a whim. And then his teeth nip harder and he beckons, stern, “Say it, Peitho.” 

“Want— want you to clean me up with your tongue… and make me messy again with your cum, Daddy,” the young woman finally manages out, her eyes screwed shut behind lacy fabric, patterned and swirling. 

And Harry could watch this show all day — listen to this music for hours on end, the sound of her begging for filthy things from him with interludes of Daddy, glazed in desperation. The admission is pure music, settling into his ears and sinking in behind his skull as craving coils in the trench of his tummy. He lets the cane slip and rest at his side, lax in his touch, and bats her hands (and the wand) away with the opposite. The response he gets is one the man has learned to expect — it’s sadistically tyrannical, he’s aware, granting her pleasure and then opting to rip it away altogether. He doesn’t even bother reprimanding Isla when she puts up what can barely be deemed a fight and whines. 

“Show me. Show me how soaked you are,” Harry coaxes, a hunger coating the syllables, “Just wanna touch, baby.” 

So she gives. Of course she gives — what other option is there, when he’s ghosting his breath over the artery in her neck and his hands just wanna touch, baby? And when Isla withdraws the toy, still buzzing relentlessly at that delicious pace, she leaves her neck craned back as Harry grazes her clit with the pad of his middle finger. It’s so sensitive, she’s so sensitive from the vibrator, and then he slips his digits, his index and middle, on either side of her clit, just prodding between her thighs, towards her hole. Like he’s avoiding her clit; like he’s doing it with purpose. Of course it’s with purpose. Isla sinks into him. 

“Shit, baby, so wet.”

It’s as if he’s taunting her, the young woman thinks, miserably. Because now the vibrator is gone, and his touch only skims the sides of where she needs him most, slipping through her arousal and gathering it, and she wants more. Needs more. More, more, more — a greedy mantra behind her skull. 

The dominant withdraws. She feels his touch slink up from between her legs until it's gone altogether, and whatever mewl preps in the chamber is garbled as sticky fingers nudge into her strawberry mouth. 

“See what a needy girl you are?” Eros teases. 

The weight of his fingers on her tongue, stiff in surprise, draws another muffled moan from her. 

“Is all this for Daddy?” 

And the answer is easy. Yes. An overwhelming green light. The young woman’s throat bobs, all craned, with a swallow, as his fingers press further, further against her tongue, further into her mouth, until Isla all can sense is herself and his fingers. Herself on his fingers. But the answer is harder to verbalize, her mouth stuffed with his slick digits, than it is to acknowledge it. She makes a sound around him, muffled. 

“Are you trying to tell me something, baby?” Harry prods, the corners of his mouth buckling, cheeky, when he nudges in further and the tips nearly stroke over the back of her tongue. He peers around, taking a good look at the showcase, because he knows the sight of Isla Cleery choking on his fingers is one for the books. “Hm? Daddy told you to use your words.” 

Her throat bobs again. The feel of her mouth, warm and wet over his hand, is enough to have his tummy frothing, warmth pulsating through him, his cock bobbing against her. His lashline narrows and Harry tells her, voice hard and quiet, right against her ear, “Don’t fucking gag.” 

That’s a threat — it’s definitely a threat of some sort or another, and even as this realization dawns upon Isla, she can’t exactly help reflex when the pads of his digits prod and coax it from her. But even still, as she chokes on his digits and sees, in her peripherals, his irises glinting through his lashes, Isla has no shame. When he pulls them out, slippery with spit, he gives her just enough of a window to cough and gasp before he’s running them over her parted, swollen lips, her cheeks, her chin, catching on the bottom-most hem of her lace. 

“You are so,” Harry daubs her skin with her own saliva, her raspberry lips smushing against his palm with every motion of his wrist, “fucking filthy. Aren’t you? Christ, if you could just see what a filthy whore you are for Daddy...”

If only. If Isla could see him like this, his fingers covered in her drool, smearing it over her lips and her chin before slipping to her throat and squeezing, arms rippling with muscle, and jade alive with flecks of ravenous hunger…

The young woman doesn’t have too long to contemplate over the visual, because she gasps as his warm palm falls away from her throat and the cane clatters over the concrete. And then there’s a new view to ponder over; the sight of him on his knees, ahead of her, all tanned skin, and ink, and eyes twinkling beneath lashes, and cum gutters — he’s got a V sharp enough to cut, even from her view. Christ.

She nearly drops the vibrator (still actively fucking buzzing, by the way) when he presses kisses over her thighs and blinks up at her, with lengthy lashes that’d add an innocuous touch to, literally, anyone else, “Gonna give Daddy a little taste?” 

And the thing is, it sounds even better flying off his lips, the honorific. Daddy, in his delicious cadence, smooth like molasses and deep, and she thinks, yes. A taste. A four course meal. Whatever his libido hungers for, she’ll grant with no complaint. He drags his tongue over her thigh, and she pulses in the vale. 

When Harry props her foot up on his own thigh, sturdy and warm with taut muscle, only to find her arousal flooding a bit down her inner thighs, his lashes flutter like wings batting. The groan that crawls up his chest and climbs up his throat is carnal. His hand is still covered with her drool, and it digs into her flesh to keep her in place. The man runs the tip of his forefinger through the shiny mess, over her cunt, his brows pinched and his jaw slack a bit, and then runs the same, single, digit from her leaky hole to the hood of her clit. Peitho’s whole body twitches at that, and her toes curl against his thigh, maybe looking for escape, maybe hoping to anchor. His opposite hand slips from her calf to the back of her knee, making the decision for her. Also happens to ensure she doesn’t sway off balance — handy little maneuver, there. Dual purpose. But then he just keeps running his finger over her cunt, just all the way up to the hood of her clit… all the way down to just beneath her gushing entrance. 

“So pretty, such a pretty, little pussy,” sounds like a comment that slips from him, unintended, quiet like a mental appraisal that’s not meant for her ears to hear. 

But Isla does hear it, and it lights that fire ablaze, licking at her innards with want. The dominant takes two digits, rubbing them along either side of her clit again, purposefully avoidant to see her writhe a bit, his strawberry mouth slack in apparent bliss at the sight of the arousal gathering in the V between his fingers. Just as he’d done the first time, Harry spreads her lips with his middle and index, the muted raspberry of his bottom lip teeth-swollen into a more vibrant shade. A pleased, little moan plucks at his vocal chords from the sight. Wickedly, the man leans forward, strawberry mouth puckered, and blows over her clit. The current of cold air, teasing beyond fair measures, coaxes Isla’s entire body to jolt with a cry — but Eros has never played fair. Her foot twitches over his thigh. Jade flickers up.

And dirty, mean Mr. Eros sounds absolutely on the brink of wrecked when he states, “Gonna be a good girl and stay still for Daddy?” 

The little hnngh that plucks at her vocal chords and suffuses through the cracks of gritted teeth isn’t exactly a whine, but Harry pinches at her inner thigh until she cries out again and nods, wordlessly. 

“Wanna make you messy,” he affirms, eyes twinkling up at her through shadows of rubber, like his whole apparent mission isn’t an active work in progress — like her wetness seeping isn’t viable proof, “Wanna watch it gush, cause you can’t hold it all in. Wanna give you so much.”

She watches him tuck his fingers into his mouth and suck, a twinkle glinting over flinty jade in a way that suggests wicked mirth. And then he brings his fingers, soaked, back to her cunt and stuffs a middle finger into her, until her own swollen lips fall open on a groan.

“Gonna be a good girl? Make me proud?”

He squeezes at the back of her knee until Isla grinds forward and grits out a strained, “Yes,” to please him. To make him proud. Anything, everything. 

But it’s not pleasing — apparently — because the dominant keeps his finger still, sunk in to the last ridge of knuckle and prompts, “Yes, what?”

“Yes, Sir—“ her cadence stutters and melts off into a silent gape when he pulls the digit out and smacks her between parted, sticky thighs, instead. More than once. Enough times to where her chin is ducked and a pleading mewl escapes her. 

“What happened to the other one? I liked that one,” it’s ludicrous, that way he can contrast the tone of his dialogue as something so playful against the way he’s slapping her cunt.

Every smack punches small jolts of her tummy, cants of her hips — against his palm, away. Another murky decision. Right or left. Green or Red. 

“You’re—“ Isla manages, through sputtery laughter, wincing when he smacks again, his pupils jolting from his own hand to her face, “hitting me.” 

In response, the man pauses his ministrations and gives her a look. Pure endorphins mask as courage when she tacks on, after a moment of (smart, on her part, though it cancels out since she decides to make the quip, anyways) hesitation, “…Why would I give you what you like?” 

When Harry blinks up at her and sits all the way back on his haunches, features creased teasingly to show the bizarre nature of her statement, it culls another peal of nervous giggles from her. It’d be a valid point — in any other circumstance. 

It wasn’t a punishment — it was for fun. Fun for him, mostly, because coaxing surprised, little squeaks from her is easily his favorite pastime. But if she wants to play it like that, then—

“Oh, so that’s how it is,” the dominant hardens his hold over the back of her knee and plants another slap. Isla twitches and groans, so he gives her another, “No. I get it now.” 

“Please—“

“Don’t you think,” another blow that smarts, “it’d be wiser to give me what I want, in your predicament?” 

She grunts girlishly, hissing and jolting when Eros gives her another and pauses for just enough of a window to have the submissive’s chest heaving as she catches her breath. The leg planted against him trembles, straining from her toes, all the way up to her hip. 

“Like, if I was in your position, I’d go, ‘Yes, Daddy.’ But you—“ her hips flinch and draw away in preparation, but the hold he’s got over the back of her knee holds her open (and balanced), “Do the opposite. Always make it harder on yourself, don’t you?” 

Isla cries out on the delayed blow. She’s changed her mind. He’s not a gentleman, at all. 

“Why you choose that route, darling,” he siphons another sharp cry, but he knows it doesn’t hurt nearly as much as she lets on, and the man pauses to shrug theatrically, “Who knows.”

“This isn’t— fair!” 

Harry pauses, the cushiony pink of his lips curling up in amusement, “What’s not fair?”

And the young woman takes the generous break in his unprovoked violence to reason, sharply, “You’re going to make me cry!” 

The dominant’s smirk is absolutely devilish. “I thought you liked to cry.” 

Because there’s no gentleman without gentle and man, and while the devil on his haunches, at her feet, is the latter, there’s absolutely nothing gentle about the ache his handprint incites. 

“Crying, enjoying,” Harry reminds, drawing upon the words from their first sit-down and chucking them at her patronizingly, “Isn’t that what you told me?” 

“That’s different!” Isla argues indignantly. She’s thankful for the pause, and she knows she’s still gushing steadily between her splayed thighs. Harry seems to pick up on the same tidbit of observation, a crude little smile playing over his mouth while his pupils linger. 

“What’s different? You’re soaked.”

“But I’m not allowed to cry,” Isla protests, shifting her hips hopelessly from his wandering gaze. Harry’s mirth is a huff expelled from his nostrils as he stifles the desperate motion, deftly.

“And whoever told you that?” 

“You did!” the submissive squawks incredulously. Her answer coaxes Harry’s eyebrows to pinch. 

He denies, mouth twitching playfully, “I didn’t tell you that.”

“Yes you did—“

“Is a facial really a punishment?” Harry scoffs, rolling his eyes light-heartedly, “Because last I recall, you enjoyed that, too.” 

“No— but,” she rocks forward, her muscles settling into a familiar, welcomed sort of ache, and she admits, her voice smaller, “I want the other thing.” 

Harry cranes his neck back, laughter bubbling at the confession. Isla thinks this isn’t a laughing matter, whatsoever. Her foot is still glued to the top of his thigh, thanks to his unwavering grip. If it wasn’t, she’d probably kick him back, square in the chest, for laughing. 

The man focuses back onto her, sighing, and Isla’s sure the contrast of his soft smile against the rubber hood (and the circumstances) would leave her with whiplash, if she had the opportunity to witness his smiley face in its full glory, “Then it’d be much smarter for you to do things my way, wouldn’t it?” 

“With—“ she’s still honed on that tidbit of a revelation, her brain working on overdrive to process, “…What were we talking about?” 

Harry almost snorts. 

“Honorifics.” 

“Sir,” Isla supplies almost instantly, not quite willing to give. 

Harry tuts. He’s still smiley, amused as he shakes his head and strikes her again, this time catching her off guard with an open-palmed blow to her inner thigh; the one that’s posed out. It’s easier access. Isla winces. 

“That didn’t hurt,” the dominant drawls, unimpressed. 

Isla balls her fists, wordless, teeth gritted in preparation. 

Harry blinks, eyes glinting through his lashes as he encourages her to give, “Would you like it to?” 

“No.” 

He even gives her an out with no physical encouragement. “No, what?” 

“No, I wouldn’t like it to hurt,” Isla gripes. 

She cries out at the smack beside the other, on her thigh, like she doesn’t expect a twinning handprint at the pushback. Silly. 

His mouth curls up, and he tells her, voice low, “You’re a dirty, little liar.”

Isla gnaws into her lip, and watches his tongue swipe over his lips, her heart hammering behind her ribcage. 

“Y’know how I know? Because you just—“ jade winds back onto her thigh as he aims and delivers again, “—keep—“ another smack, “—coming back to the pain.” 

And he’s right. Whether it’s the pain of her unrequited …emotional mess, toggling back and forth between his masked form and the smiley real estate agent, juggling opposing worlds only to rein in, eventually, what she’s sure will be an inevitable heartbreak. Whether it’s venturing back to Indulge, where she knows it’ll hurt most, where fingerprints leave her mottled for days after, or whether he means it only at a surface level-depth — the resistance to give in, in their play, the headstrong resilience against his authority. It’s true. Isla always comes back for more. 

Instead of slapping again, the dominant opts for a different route. He takes the pads of his digits, drawing them up the skin of her thigh like he means to caress over the pinkish bruising, and just when Isla sinks in to bask, he trails lower and pinches a smidge higher than her knee, on the inner part. Eros blinks. He grins lewdly, all pillowy lips. 

His voice is all sugar, an open door beckoning towards reward, and he coaxes, “You know how to make me stop. Just one, little word. You know the one.” 

Isla does. He doesn’t mean red, though she’s half determined to wait out to her absolute wits end and resort to that, rather than let him pinch what he wants out of her. But she’s well aware he’d stop far before it got to that point, and she’s also well aware they’d be doing this for much too long before she genuinely reached that precipice, herself. And he knows it, too, watching her from the depths of the zippered shadows. Like he’s ogling her weigh the options, vision x-rayed through her skull to watch cogs turn. He pinches again, testingly, this time higher. Isla winces, hanging her head with the welcomed pinpricks of pain blooming from the afflicted area, flourishing and zapping electrons to careen through her nervous system, in milliseconds, as it registers. And her whole body flourishes as pain and pleasure enmesh, like misfires. 

He’s right. Isla will always come back to the pain, with a hunger like no other. Harry’s mouth crooks. The pads of his digits dig into her skin harder. 

“Okay— okay!”  Isla jumps as he lets her go and gives a little smack to her reddened inner thigh, like a final reward, of sorts, as he witnesses the priorly resilient walls crumble, “Okay— Daddy.” 

Harry sits back, all smug in triumph, “S’that easy.”

He pets over the handprints on her inner thighs, ruddy welts left behind by his touch, like tracks, and then smears his fingers through her sopping cunt until her chest rolls and her head lolls back. 

“You always welt so pretty. So easy, too,” he murmurs, thumbing, with the hand that’d clasped over the back of her knee, against the sizable imprint of his fingers on her thigh. It has her tummy coiling and warmth drifting lower. Isla nearly melts into the floor. 

Like he knows he’ll get too stuck on admiring her marks, Harry tears his gaze away and settles her foot back onto the floor. Then, he winds a grip over the wrist that has the hand the wand’s still rumbling in, and he guides the vibrating head back to her core. Slowly. Isla’s entire nervous system nearly combusts with the reintroduction of pure pleasure. 

“Are you crying?” 

“No,” Isla denies, despite the sheen of moisture coating her irises. Being pinched over sensitive expanses of skin will do that, just a friendly F-Y-I. 

But Harry can’t see evidence of her fib — only that she’s flustered and that her (typically clear, milky and soft) chest’s morphed with a pinkish tinge, much like the hues that peek out at him from between her shaky legs. Full, eye-covering masks are excellent at deterring suspicion — just another friendly F-Y-I. 

“Good. You’ve got a running chance, still, then.”

Prick. Like he’s not eager for it, too. 

Isla doesn’t know how he’s gotten to stand behind her, when he presses against her back. She doesn’t know when he’s plucked up the cane from the floor — only that his free hand slides up over her diaphragm as it expands, and the cane brushes over her tits. It’s all kind of a blur of rapture, eyes slipped shut and sunk into the pleasure that pulses and radiates from the wand. 

“Same rules apply,” the dominant unwinds the warmth of his arm from her waist to tuck hair behind the ear he apparently intends to murmur filth into, “you ask for permission. And you’ll tell me when you’re getting close.” 

The young woman gnaws into her lip apprehensively. Her eyes burn. She opens them, and stares at the doorknob, just as he’d encouraged. Harry swipes with the horrid thing over her pebbling nipples. It’s one of the lengthy, handlebar ones, black, and — Isla blows out a breath. “Okay.”

She stares at that stupid doorknob until her eyelashes flutter, and her tummy tenses up. Unlike what the submissive had assumed, Harry stays fairly quiet. His soft breaths tickle her neck, and his free hand grazes over her abdomen, drawing caresses from her throat to her pelvis, fingertips skimming lines around her belly button that contrast the terror of the cane when it climbs up and down the ridges of her ribcage like a staircase. When it gets to the point where Isla eyelids are slipping, vision weakly honed on the doorknob and cane all but forgotten in the whirlwind of bliss clambering through her, when her legs strain and shake as rapture builds, she follows his instructions. 

 “I’m— oh— close,” the young woman tells him, her brows weaving together in a pinch behind lacy fabric. 

That’s when Harry takes it upon himself to clue her in, a low promise against her ear that’s emphasized by the cane drawing back, “M’gonna hit you with it one—” unfaltering when her moan comes as a shuddery whimper, “—time when you cum. Yes?”

The submissive, cradled by his arm, whines and rocks on the balls of her feet. His brows furrow. “Hey — hey.”

Harry draws the cane away from her skin, pressing his left palm to her sternum in the same area where the implement had prior become settled, his lips smushing against her ear and tucking it back. 

“S’just a little stick. Twig, practically,” the man assures, sticking his own hand out and whacking over the palm in a showcase. Christ, Isla jolts at the swoosh of it through the air, alone, despite the way her eyes are screwed shut and her lips sealed to bridle a whimper. “It’s not bad.”  

Well now she’s just staving off the pleasure, warring against her own body as the last twine of composure writhes to sink into bliss. There’s a moment in which the dominant pauses, just assessing her state with a serious kind of inquisitiveness, head cocked and turned a tad over Isla’s shoulder. 

“Baby, I wouldn’t hurt you,” Harry promises, the same palm he’d smacked seconds prior smoothing over her tummy. She’s still gnawing on her own lips. “Have I ever hurt you? Really hurt you, something you couldn’t take, something you didn’t like, in the end?”

And he hasn’t. Even with a shoddy inability to process her thoughts, Isla knows that there’s no need to rake back through her memories, because the instance simply doesn’t exist. He hurts her, sure. With his hands, with toys, with mean fingertips, and nippy teeth, and a stern gaze with a hard swing, but she’s asked for that, verbally. All of it. She’d asked him to punish her when she ran sixteen minutes late, because she ached for that bite of pain. She’d asked him to make it hurt after a particularly difficult day, because she wanted the release, and she remembers it like it was yesterday. Open to imbibe and accept — pleaded for it at times, even. And he’s never taken anything too far, never pushed past an unspoken boundary that can only be learned with experience and a one-on-one, intimate timeframe with her body. 

He’s careful, he’s caring, he pauses when he feels she needs a pause, even when she doesn’t recognize it herself. 

The young woman shakes her head. “No.”

The toy buzzes. Isla clenches hopelessly over nothing, and pulls the wand back, just a smidge, before she teeters over the precipice. Her heart thunders wildly in her chest. This all feels like it’s moving so fast. 

“And I never would,” Harry reaffirms, as she sinks back against him, his flinty jade serious and sincere, “Never on purpose. And I promise you, sweetheart, it’s not as horrible as you think it is.”

Isla weighs her options. He’s warm against her, firm, and the insides of her thighs still smart horribly, but she’s just as wrecked with arousal as she’d been when his hand was stamping its print against her skin. Harry bites into his bottom lip, and then sponges a kiss to her shoulder. And he knows that Isla’s well aware he’d never hurt her, never intentionally, and he knows that she could take one, and that the pain would be as intense as a radiating, little pinch. He’s well aware that she can take it. But he’d never want her to think that she has to do something she’s uncomfortable with, that she has to bend backwards, past her boundaries, to please him. He doesn’t want her to think he’d ever be disappointed by her unwillingness to do something that brought her discomfort. Because that’s not what this was about. Ever.

So he asks her, offering an out in a moment of serious deliberation, genuinely open to any response, “D’you wanna stop?” He tacks on, in a tone that’s gentle but never lacks that dominating quality (that seems to be innate), “I’d never be disappointed if something makes you uncomfortable, love.” 

Isla ponders over his suggestion, though there’s no need. The wand still buzzes, just out of reach from where she needs it most. 

“No, I— I want to.” 

“You want to?” 

Isla comes back to the pain. Isla asks for it again. Because she likes the freedom — the ability to dangle over the cliff, hair wild and frenzied, and she likes that Harry gives her that, pulling her back before she plummets.

“I want you… to hit me with the cane.” 

Harry pauses, pursing his strawberry mouth. His hand is still over her, cupped over the vale of her waist, unmoving. “You’re sure?”

Meekly, she nods, and tells him with far more determination in her tone than her body language lets on, “I want it. Please,” despite every muscle and nerve ending in her practically quivering against the notion. 

And who is Harry to deny her of something she asks for? So sweetly, too. Especially when the aftermath involves another pretty mark to admire. 

When he glues his mouth to her shoulder in a kiss, blotting chaste dots with his lips up the line to the nook of her neck, and Isla brings the buzzing head of the wand back between her thighs, the pleasure builds as if it’d never become pulled away to begin with. 

One time. One strike. She could handle it. She has handled it, plenty, and she reminds herself of that fact when Harry wraps over her from behind, like a blanket (of warm… sturdy muscle…), grazing the side of the cane over her hip. She’d even been open to it in a fearplay scenario, because it amps the endorphins — sends the adrenaline skyrocketing and has her insides coiling up with nervous tension that inevitably snaps. 

This was different. Because with that pop of pressure, she’d dissipate into tears. And it felt good, usually. It felt good to get everything out. But she couldn’t cry, not here. It was the entire purpose of their little game. 

“What’s the matter?” the dominant prods, cadence gentle, before he takes the lobe of her ear between his teeth and presses lightly. 

“I’m—“ 

Nervous? Scared? Terrified? It all sounds silly, even behind her skull, because he’s right. It’s just a stupid stick. A stupid stick that’s stuck its way into her memoirs with a nasty association, a stick with bite, but a stick, nonetheless. 

Harry doesn’t need her to say. He pets over her side, the corners of his mouth jolting at the way she twitches, and the nip of his teeth sharpens a smidge before he pulls off and assures, “I know, baby, but you’re fine. That’s why we’re doing this, right? That’s why you asked me to? So I can show you that there’s nothing to be scared of.” 

Isla blows out another breath. Yes. Yeah. That seems to be the agreement. Before the dominant can move forward — however he chooses — with their little game, the young woman, again, pulls the vibrator back just a smidge for a clear train of thought. Well. Clearer. 

“Wait— where —?” Isla pauses, shifting on her feet, and the man knows what she means, filling the gaps of her sentence, even with a lack of verbalizing, on her part. 

Isla expects him to be at least a little miffed at her repetitious need for pause, she expects his exasperation to surface as notes through his tone, in response to the question.

But Harry doesn’t sound annoyed, at all. He takes a moment, but it’s as if he’s deliberating, rather than trying to rein in his frustration. Eventually, he plants a soft kiss to her shoulder, and tells her, “Wherever you’d like, darling. You choose.”

Her choice. So many decisions, so much to contemplate. 

“Could,” the cane draws lower, grazing over tensed flesh, “put a pretty, little stripe on the front of your thighs, just here,” the young woman sucks her bottom lip into her mouth when he guides the cane in a horizontal back and forth, “Or—“

She gasps as his hand trails higher and fondles, “your tits…”

The dominants pauses, giving a squeeze to the handful, like a parting gift, before he takes a step back, his touch trailing down her side and around. “This one’s always a go-to, as well—“ Isla curls her toes over the concrete flooring when he squeezes at her backside, a cheeky note to his statement, “—innit?” 

“But you’d look quite pretty with marks anywhere.” 

Isla weighs the variety of options — thighs, tits, bum, pondering over her selection like the weight of it all is a crucial decision. And it sort of is, right? Thigh, tits, bum. Because if he swings standing one way, it’ll land harder, and if he has to swat at another area, he’ll have to stand different, and—

She brings the wand back. 

Thighs, tits, bum, thighs, tits, bum, thighstitsbum, thighstitsbum—

“Thighs,” the young woman manages out, her eyes screwed shut behind little fragments of mesh through thicker patterns of black detailing, “the— the front of my thighs.”  

There’s traces of frantic desperation to her speech — the bliss climbs and clambers at tenfold speed, until her muscles are taut, and the chill of his breath against the nook in her neck is nearly slithering down the knobs of her spine. Thighs — it’s a frenzied, last second pitch. But she knows she doesn’t want him grazing over the sensitive flesh of her chest, and she doesn’t want him stepping off and holding onto her arm. She wants to feel him, pressed to her back, like a metaphorical anchor of warmth. She wants to feel him there, right with her. 

Isla’s heart thunders behind her ribcage like it wants to beat its way out of her, and she doesn’t hear what he croons against the shell of her ear in response, only aware that he’s pressed the cane up over her skin like he’s figuring out a nice spot to lay it in — like he’s gearing up for it, and—

“I— please—“  

“Please?” Harry mirrors, brows pinched as he smooths a line over with the implement in preparation. He can see, even in his peripherals, that her jaw is tensed to curb moans and that her neck is straining, the muscles there pulled tight. 

The young woman grits her teeth, and then her lips fall open over a stifled, silent moan as the flame of pleasure licks up through from between her sticky thighs. Everything feels tight and heightened, like this moment is the only. It’s a miracle she manages to remember his stupid may rule when she pleads, “May I cum?” 

She knows his chin untucks from over her shoulder with the impending crest looming. She knows he murmurs some form of permission. She knows his hand is cradled over her side (and she registers that it’s comforting), and that he’s pressed up behind her, lingering. But it’s sultry beyond belief, in a way that only heightens the bliss, when it clicks that he’s holding onto her, at least partly, so she doesn’t make to jerk away. Like she’s helpless. Helpless to him, his broad, denuded palm splayed over her diaphragm. 

She knows that her climax has already begun lapping at her core, that she’s just tipped over the threshold, when it strikes her. It’s pain — it’s pain, and it’s pleasure, and it blends in a harmony that nearly has her knees giving out. She’s aware that she cries out, sharply, in response, but the sound almost feels foreign with the rush in her ears. The ache radiates, almost upon impact, only stuttering behind in pace by milliseconds, and when that sensation hits — that’s when she cries out. 

But everything else is just a blur. A blur of pain and pleasure intermingling at the perfect interval, of coos of praise, of words like good girl and that wasn’t so bad, was it, of the same hand that’d kept her trapped, only moments prior, petting down her stomach, slipping over her waist. Of the vibrator being wrangled from her stiff grasp, of her chest rolling with breaths, of her hairline feeling sticky, and the warmth that’d pasted to her retreating, for mere seconds, to stash the implement away.

Of her eyes burning, of her eyelids squeezing over wet irises, of tears trickling down onto the hem and wetting the edge of her mask. 

That’s an unfortunate revelation. Isla wills the wet release back, but it’s easier said than done when everything is buzzy, and all she wants is to become cocooned by him. She lets him stroke over her blowsy cheeks with the ridges of his thumbs, her lips pressed together as she attempts to even her breathing to masquerade the influx of emotion when he tips her cheek to rest against his chest. 

“See, wasn’t that bad at all, was it, darling?” Harry chimes, expecting the kisses and cuddles — in present terms — to be somewhat short-lived. He expects the corners of her mouth to jolt, to hear some sarcastically playful retort to pluck at her vocal chords and escape to sharpen his softness. 

And that’ll be that — they’ll just go on with their game, the fun part.  

What he doesn’t expect is for her to nuzzle against an inky swallow in response, wordlessly, to stroke over her hair and then find that her mask is soggy like it veils tears beneath. The pads of his digits prod and pause. And she must know, off that little prod-and-pause alone, that gears are turning in contemplation. Harry could be horribly mean. Not even mean, to be fair — he could just stand by his initial terms. Crying; facial. No crying; …the other thing. The fun thing. As a reward, that she didn’t meet the mark for, not technically. He could stick to his word. Which isn’t even mean, not innately — that’s just called following through. 

But it doesn’t take the man much lulled assessing to find that sort of …doesn’t want to follow through on his word. Not in that sense. He doesn’t want to tear that prize from her, not when she’s gone so far and pushed herself, not when she’s entrusted him with her composure. And Harry finds that he kind of expected the outcome, inklings of knowing hanging behind the pride and credulous faith.  

“Oh, baby,” the dominant coos, smoothing from the wet hem, over the crest of her cheekbone, down the side of her face, half-expecting her features to crumple as he points it out in acknowledgment, “did you cry a bit?” 

Instead, all his statement coaxes is a sigh and a weary, “Sorry.” 

“Why don’t you go lie down, for me?” Harry shifts his petting to stray strands of hair, after a contemplative moment, ducking his chin with his murmur, “Hm? Go on.” 

He feels the heat of her form ebb with a drowsy kind of uncertainty, on wobbly legs with shining, sticky skin and stiff arms by her sides. He watches her take a few steps, and then pause like she’s deliberating looking back at him. His second, gentle-spoken go on is prepped on the tip of his tongue until she seems to opt against it. Isla makes her way all the way over to the bed, wordlessly, and Harry watches her with his arms crossed over his chest, only taking a few steps forward to tail her right before she turns and shuffles onto the mattress, limbs splaying. The young woman lifts shaking arms to brush trembling hands over her mask — down her temples — and the pink stripe over her thighs, lopsided horizontally, beckons his sight. Isla hears him moving, but her bleary gaze sticks to the ceiling. It’s difficult to feel that she hasn’t disappointed him, that she hasn’t disappointed herself. 

Harry’s on his knees at the foot of the bed by the time she tears her eyes away, prompted by the pads of his fingers skimming down her shin. His own gaze is settled lower, on her thigh, and Isla follows the line of his sight. Only a second passes before the same arm stretches forward. The same fingertips brush over a pink welt. 

“You were very brave for me,” the dominant’s voice sounds distant — entranced, sort of. Pleased. He makes another swipe over it with his thumb and jade shifts. 

Isla gnaws into her lip and doesn’t answer. Harry splays his palms over her thighs — it’s hard not to watch the sturdy muscle of his arms rippling with the motion, but it’s harder to meet his gaze, even if she’s safe behind a mask. He strokes down, and then back up. 

“Weren’t you?”

Slowly, her chin bobs, little motions of a nod. 

“Of course you were,” her breath catches in her throat when his hands roam higher, when his thumbs dig in, just a smidge, against the sensitive creases between her legs and her cunt. That’s a touch full of implication. Harry caresses back down to her knees, and then back up in smooth, slow movements. 

“Y’know how good it makes me feel—“ her chest rolls when he pets back up, and he swipes against the creases again, this time with obvious purpose, as opposed to what could have initially been deemed a mindless touch. It reminds her of how sensitive she is, how raw it all feels post the intensity of her climax. How good it feels to be under his hands, at his whim. 

“—when you show me that you trust me?” the man’s irises sparkle through shadows of zippers, a slit loose, on the eyes, of a skin-tight hood. “S’the best feeling in the world, innit?” 

And, yeah. It is. Isla can’t concur wholeheartedly on the fragment of his role, not exactly, but she knows that on the opposite end, that feeling of weightless security, the kind of safety where she can just fall back and trust — that’s an amazing feeling. 

“That kind of trust is a beautiful thing,” Harry pauses with his touch, resting mid-thigh as he drinks her in, the sight of her, laying there for him, branded with a little stripe for him, raw and pulled apart at the seams for him. And still taking it when his hands creep higher, and his thumb brushes over her clit on the third uptake. For him. 

“Let’s me know I do my job proper,” the corners of his mouth buckle as she twitches and squirms in response. So he amends the teasing overstimulation by taking his hands from her skin, altogether, and planting his palms onto the mattress. 

Isla lifts her chin a bit when he climbs to rest over her, her thighs nudging apart to make room for his knee on the bed. 

“My best girl—“ she’s caught off guard when he shifts his weight over her and utilizes his newly freed hand to squeeze over her cheeks. Even through the mist of her blurry vision, the swirls of lace, and the shadow cast by the angle, Isla can see his cushiony mouth has curled as he jostles her face a tad with his domineering grip. “Aren’t you? So good for me. Always.” 

And — not really, the young woman wants to argue, her lips smushed by the degree of his grasp. Not really at all, because there was a task laid out, with clear terms, and she failed. She failed, and that self-imposed reminder has her brows drawing together behind jet fabric. 

And Harry has dimples cuing beneath his own disguise. He lets her sit there like that, digits pressed into her skin, until he lets go and his gaze becomes cast to follow the draw of his fingers to her chest. He thumbs over a nipple and her whole body comes alive, shifting on the sheetless mattress beneath him. 

“Don’t give these as much attention as I’d like to,” the dominant claims, his sight trained and his fingers winding and his tone like insight of foreshadowing. And it is foreshadowing, because then his fingers tweak, and roll, and tug, gently, before he lets go. 

His mouth quirks again, and he slides down her frame. Her eyes follow the way shifts onto a forearm, and draws aimless shapes over her with his fingertips, blunt, short nails grazing in a motion that mimics a sensual rendition of one of those rigged claw machines, or something. Which— the simile is probably the least erotic way to put it, but. Sensual. Aimless. He thumbs a circle over the sensitive, hardened bud, and Isla holds her breath as his vision flickers up to her. 

“So sensitive, aren’t you?” 

Yes, Isla wants to tell him, very much so, when you’re doing that (it’s like he knows all the buttons to push, and just the way to push them), but she’s sort of been rendered a speechless mess by it all. The man shifts over her again, resting on his elbow so that his other hand is freed, and cups over the underside of her opposite breast and thumbs over that nipple, too. And that’s — Christ, Isla throws her head back, chest arching up into his touch as he grazes, and flicks, and squeezes. And then he shifts again, and she feels something warm and wet — okay. She has to look. 

The submissive lifts her head just in time to catch sight of him and his lewd tongue brushing a path up the side of her breast. His eyes are on her, and it’s absolutely filthy, the view only coming second place to the sight of him pasting kisses between her thighs, weeks ago. And then before the tip of it can draw over her nipple, he steers back down and runs another path up, parallel to the first. And then a third time, until she’s chilly with the air over her wet skin. Isla whines. His mouth quirks, and he tweaks the opposite nipples as …scolding? Apology? To make up for the lack of attention to the first? Isla’s not sure. All she’s truly aware of, in this moment, is that his ministrations are making her head spin, and the fact that she’s pulsing with a newfound wave of arousal between her thighs. 

Scolding, Isla learns, because instead of giving her what she wants — what she needs, the dominant takes it upon himself to glue open-mouthed, suckling kisses over the soft flesh of her chest, drawing marks to the surface of her skin with his venture. On one, over the side, he spends a particularly lengthy timespan over, and the dull pain of his teeth nipping blends with the sensation of his fingertips tweaking on the opposite breast. Isla squirms until he pulls off to admire the mark — darker, in shade, splotchy and red with flecks of purple in contrast with the collection of prior, weakly pink bruises. And then he finally, finally guides his tongue, wet and warm, in a circle over the hard bud, eye contact and all, before he latches on and sucks, drawing waves of pleasure with the roll of that same, lewd tongue. 

Isla is sure she’ll combust. He stays like that for a moment, just laving over her nipple in the enclosure of his mouth and pinching at the opposite, until he pops off and pastes his cheek onto her chest like a fucking pillow. His eyes follow the work of his digits on the opposite breast, mouth crooking with the noises he coaxes as he circles the pad of his forefinger over the hardened flesh. And then his tongue slinks out, lapping, and he seals his mouth over her again. When his teeth graze, just barely, nipping, and he pinches the other between the pad of his thumb and index, Isla arches up into him. She can feel the corners of his mouth jolting. 

“So pretty,” Harry declares when he pulls off, cupping either side of her chest and squeezing her tits together. Because the sight of the wan flesh, (obviously) typically shielded from the gaze of sun rays, marred with his bruising kisses — her nipples puffy and swollen from his attention — that’s pretty. He wants to stray, to mingle with his fingers and pry to see if she’s puffy and wet, lower, too, but good things come to those who wait. 

Instead, he swipes over the ruddy bloom over the side of her chest, voice nonchalantly carrying that undeniable note of authority, “Should I give you another on the other one, to match?” 

She gives a wordless nod, a little jerk of her head, her top front teeth lodged over her bottom lip, and Harry finds he expects it. The fervor of the motion, the way he’s able to see what a frenzied state he’s worked her into just by sucking on her nipples — that causes his mouth to quirk smugly. 

But her desperate, “Please,” is just the cherry on top of it all. 

“Please?” he mimics, the syllable glazed with more condescension than he even intends, pillowy lips curled up with self-satisfaction (there’s just something that riles him at the evidence he’s managed to work her up). The dominant laves over the pang of humiliation that his tone must wake within her by tacking on, sugar coating his words, “Of course. Asking me so nicely.” 

So he gives her another to mirror the first, ducking his head and latching onto an expanse of skin to suck. On the opposite side, he teases and tweaks with the pads of his fingers, just long enough for his teeth to graze like a hickey-hungry vampire, before he pulls off and admires the area where hues have bloomed. 

“There we go,” Harry thumbs over the spit-slicked patch, “That’s pretty. Pretty marks for a pretty girl, right?” 

My, Isla wants him to say. My pretty girl. His. Instead, he cups her tits together again, squeezing, and drags his tongue, laxed and slow, in a horizontal line from one nipple to the other. Isla can’t curb the wrecked sound that crawls from her mouth at the sight. The man unlatches his grasp from the flesh, and it bounces back into place. When he dips back down, it's to pepper open-mouthed kisses down her sternum, from the empty vale between her tits. Harry stipples them all the way down to her bellybutton, then winds around with his tongue and glides it back up into the space in the center of her ribcage. He peers up at her, eyes glinting with allure, his lashes flutter over the green she’s grown so fond of while he draws aimless shapes with his lips. Like gluing mindless, teasing kisses to her flesh. 

And she can’t get enough — the young woman squirms, arches, canting her hips with a subtlety that doesn’t go undetected. Unfortunately. She’d let him draw unfocused shapes with his mouth over her figure for days, let him draw her to the peak of sanity with his teasing touches. Isla’s nearly convinced that’s his aim, when his palm cups over her side to stifle her wriggling. 

“Behave,” Harry murmurs, a sharp trace of authority to his warning.

She does her very best — how can she not, when he uses that sultry …dominating bedroom voice with her? It’s practically impossible for any other intention not to splinter into shards, like a crystal glass bowl meeting tile, in response. She behaves all the way through his speckling kisses to the crease of her thigh, on one side, tongue circling, and back up. Then to the opposite, nearly where she’s pulsing, but not quite there. And again, back up, smudging his pink mouth over her tummy in a way that’s an aphrodisiac beyond fathomability. 

When he slides his attention down to her thighs, though, that’s a change in pace and a different story. It’s unmarked territory — it’s fresh, it lights her libido alive, and she lets him splay her apart to dot those same, open-mouthed kisses up the skin, there. When he reaches the pink welt, on either side, the dominant drags his tongue over the stripe, and then veers down to grant her inner thighs attention, too. She could cry all over again, Isla thinks, when he directs just enough of his mouth to where she feels the tide pulling in, and then ebbs away when she needs him most. 

Harry tuts and tells her, “Stay still,” when she writhes, hips squirming in a way that he can’t ignore. He licks a stripe, vertically, from her knee, nearly to her core. Isla doesn’t stay still, hips arching to guide the motion. 

“Poor thing,” the dominant pouts, raking his fingertips, featherlight, down the opposite thigh, on the inner part, and back up, pausing as his touch trails higher and higher. Slower. “Where do you want me? Here?” and when he presses the pad of his forefinger onto her clit, Isla’s only reminded of just how sensitive she still is. 

It’s not unpleasurable, by any means, but there’s an overstimulating grating that comes with the motion, initially. One of those that she knows will subside under more of his attention, as bliss builds and outweighs it, but it has her making an mmph through sealed lips, and her hips jolting, just a smidge, nonetheless. 

The sound causes the corners of his mouth to buckle. 

“Sensitive?” Eros goads with a sadistic sort of amusement interlacing his dialogue. He brings his thumb into the equation to draw circles, pointedly. Her hands ball into fists. He does that for a moment, a hand on her hip to keep her steady at his whim, and then his touch withdraws. 

“What’s wrong?” the man teases at the sight of her jaw tensing, his palms back to smoothing lines down her lax, parted thighs, “thought you were sensitive, pet?” 

Isla is uncharacteristically quiet, a commonplace retort bridled by clenched teeth behind her lips. Instead of answering, she raises her hips a smidge. Harry makes a sound of mirth, a little hum as his own lips twitch. 

“Maybe if you’d stay still,” Harry tells her, mouth still crooked up as he takes a thumb to swipe from her arousal to curve around, trailing beside her clit, “then you’d get what you want. But that’s just my suggestion.” 

Her chest heaves. His touch draws away. It settles on her thighs, and then draws back up to thumb into the creases between her thighs and her cunt, once more. It feels dirty — like one of those sordid pornos where the ploy initiates as a massage that ventures into unwholesome territory, the kind that starts with the girl on her stomach with a towel over her bits, and then ends with a thumbnail of the guy’s balls pressed to her chin. Then again, Isla’s not opposed. Though, she’d prefer the variation where it ends with his cock, snug in her cunt to the hilt, and cum oozing with every pump out. But that ship has sailed. It’s another reminder that she’s failed, when Isla thinks about it. Knowing that the result of his touches will likely be the former, rather than the latter. 

It’s because of that, then, that she lifts her head off the sheetless mattress a tad and inquires, in a voice full of a desperate-fueled sort of exasperation (that’s much too audacious, and she realizes this after the fact), “What are you doing?” 

The young woman swallows at the sight of Eros cocking his head, quick to tack on a Sir. His gaze narrows as a little smile plays over his lips. The curl of his mouth doesn’t reach his eyes. Isla squeaks when he pauses his caresses to pinch at one of her thighs and release, in lieu, similarly to how he’d done before. 

“Whatever I want. I don’t like that tone, little miss,” there’s light chastisement to his tone — playful nearly, and Isla knows him well enough to gauge that he’s not truly miffed by the snappy degree of her retort. His physical response fucking stings, regardless. 

“I just don’t…” Isla’s statement trails away from her, a crease working in between her brows. 

“Just don’t…?” the man prods, nudging with his chin, eyebrows raised behind latex, all patronizing and expectant. 

“I don’t understand,” the submissive tells him after a moment, her voice small. 

His features relax out, and Harry teases, clearly amused, “Which part?” 

She supposes that because he wants to is a fair enough reason — she’s used to that. He’s used it time and time again, like its irking counterpart, because I said so. He doesn’t need to explain himself, he just does. Things. All sorts of things, within reason, on a whim. It’s just, well— she’d expected to be guided to her knees, she’d expected his tip to drag over her lips before she was beckoned to open her mouth and stick out her tongue. She’d expected his cum to pain over her cheeks, her lips, her chin, and—

“Don’t you— I thought…—“ Isla pauses, words snubbed out by the (practically) theatrical display of curiosity painting his features. She shifts back on her forearms so she’s raised a bit more, and tells him, simply, “I thought you’d want me to give you head. Or something.” 

For a moment, Harry says nothing, just peering at her from the floor, at the foot of the bed where he’s settled. Eventually, he asks, his muted raspberry mouth curving up with a dirty sort of smugness, “Is that what you want to do?” 

The young woman’s lips part. Seal together. Part again, seal. 

“I want to do whatever you want to do,” Isla tells him after a second, tacking on a quieter, “Sir.” 

Languidly, the edges of his mouth curve, “Is that right? Whatever I want?” 

Isla nods. How darling. The dominant smirks softly, casting his gaze to her thigh, thoughtfully, until he tells her, “I want you,” and then nudges with his fingertip into the muscle, “to lay there and be quiet, like a good girl. Think you can manage that?” 

Amidst her wave of bemusement, Isla nods. A lift and dip of her chin, slow with confusion, at least at first. 

“Lovely,” Harry smooths the palm down the expanse of her thigh. 

And then he hooks his hands against the backs of her knees and yanks. The bed creaks with the rough motion, and Isla jerks down towards him, her arms splayed for purchase in surprise. His plush mouth shapes a smirk that he shrouds against her skin when he ducks his head, stippling his lips back against her flesh, this time with a starting point on higher ground. With his palms pressed to the side of either thigh, Harry keeps her pressed to the mattress and draws another stripe up with his tongue. And then his mouth creeps higher, blunt ends of teeth scraping tantalizingly up her thigh. His tongue slips over her, dragging horizontally from the top of her thigh to her pelvis, right above her cunt. His eyes flicker up to her face. 

If there’s anything Isla has learned in her six-week timespan with the dominant of alluring mystique, it’s that Harry’s got a tendency to be a horrific tease. 

Frequently. 

He’s practically crafted the menacing tactics into a hobby, whether it be the way he thumbs over her ridges, all slow, or the way he guides the scene with filthy dialogue, aimed to coax antsy desperation. The way he teases her senses with whipping bites and soft touches, the way he winds her up with fingers that turn into harsh smacks. The way he edges with his words, to the way he edges with the pads of his digits, or toys, or his tongue — and his tongue is absolutely no exception. When he slides that same tongue over the hood of her clit and around, delving into where she’s sopping, Isla’s reminded of that fun fact. He draws an exhale from her — the kind that happens after a pause of holding her breath, one that’s obviously a placeholder meant to bridle a far more shameful noise — when he prods in, when he glides it over and exhales warm air against her. 

She can see the glint of mischief in his gaze as he works her over, avoiding where she needs him most. Subtly, the young woman shifts her hips. At first, Harry doesn’t seem to pay it any mind. He notices — sure — pupils flickering down to her cunt as he adjusts to work against what she feels is a fairly innocuous motion. 

When his tongue trails around and she does it again, though, he presses a firm hand over her thigh and hums out a muffled, “Stay still.” 

She doesn’t — of course she doesn’t. Her obedience lasts all of, maybe, a minute — and that’s a generous estimate. Harry expects it, partly. It’s nice to rein the power and receive subservience, but it’s in Isla’s nature to push back, at least at first. He’s half-convinced she’s ingrained with every fiber to fight back against his authority. His personal little brat, crafted to fight every trace of his dominance. All part of their little game. So it’s no surprise when she cants her hips up, after a little while, with far less subtlety. 

“Peitho.” 

It’s sharp. It’s not sweetheart, it’s not pet, it’s not baby. It’s not darling, or love, or my girl, or little miss. It’s not even little Peitho. It’s direct, with audible dominance, and inklings of frustration leaking through the syllables. Isla adjusts again, like a half-hearted last-ditch effort of disobeying — like the last word, in a way, and finally settles. Harry blinks, the corners of his mouth twitching. She imagines that the rest of his features are steely behind the rubber. The bed dips and rises and dips as he moves his arms. He rests them in between her splayed thighs, against the mattress, and then one hand comes up to tug up the hood of her clit. 

“What is it?” Harry prods, raising his eyebrows at her from the foot of the bed, “Where do you want me so bad? Here? Again?”

Isla’s whole body twitches when he utilizes his other hand (his opposite thumb) in swiping over her most tender fragment, honed on where she’s most sensitive. At the twitch of her muscles, the man doubles down. 

“Is that it? You’re such a desperate whore that you can’t stay still, when you’re told to stay still? …All because of—“ 

She makes a choked-off moan when he presses harder into it, drawing circles, “—this?”

It’s like he siphons all the air from her lungs with the little motion, pulling her muscles taut and ridged under the pressure of his touch, as if the circles of his fingertips are tugs on strings of a marionette. Her thighs slip apart further, flesh strained, and his eyes stay pinned on her. It’s overstimulation — all of it. His gaze, unimpressed and passive, but piercing, his touch, causing flames to lick upon her sore embers, a reminder that she’s already been brought to tip over the edge with a buzzing wand that’d practically permeated the marrow of her bones with its vibrations. There’s an undeniable blip of pleasure beneath it all, but it's layered under what makes her want to squirm away. Isla worries her lip with her teeth and shakes when he draws over it, slowly, featherlight with what's barely a fingerpad and mostly the blunt end of his nail. 

“What are you whining about? …Isn’t this what you want? You were practically begging for it a minute ago, weren’t you?” Harry tells her, unperturbed by the soft sound that plucks at her vocal chords. 

And she was, basically — the young woman can’t deny it. She’d ground her hips up for more, a wordless plea of body language, just like the desperate whore he makes her out to be. Because when he’s tonguing her everywhere but where her body needs him most, yeah, it’s a little more than frustrating, despite the way her nerve endings scream under the newfound attention. 

Harry takes the thumb away, dips forward, and latches his mouth around her, sucking harshly to siphon a cry. He doesn’t let up, not when she tightens up and begs, not when she places a hand onto the top of smooth latex, (wishing she could interweave her digits through the soft curls she knows are hidden beneath), nudging at him pathetically. Her neck cranes back, throat arching and chest rolling as his thumb stays settled over the hood, tucking her most sensitive piece out for the torture of his warm mouth. 

“It’s too—“ her hand nudges again over the top of the rubber hood, only to find resistance tenfold in strength, before her palm falls away altogether. 

In response, the dominant hums over her, an incoherent note of disagreement. When she finishes out her statement, “too much,” chest heaving in little movements, her voice is smaller — symbolism of her give. 

“No it’s not,” he’d tell her, if his tongue wasn’t busy rolling over the bud. For now, the vibrations of his hums, notes of his protest layering the sound, do the job. 

There’s little complaint Isla can make when the man is drawing shapes between her sticky thighs. It feels practically immoral to be miserable when he toys at her with his mouth, his lips, his tongue — but it’s impossible to lay back and just enjoy when every fiber of her being is screaming at the intensity of the stimulation. He certainly gives her what she asks for, there’s no denying it. The pad of his free thumb slips over her gushing entrance, nudging, not quite pressing in. 

“Please,” her head rolls onto her cheek.

By the time his mouth lets up a smidge in its fervor, morphed to languid grazing and tongue slinking to lap lower, meshing with the motion of his thumb, the pleasure has begun to outweigh the discomfort. He slides his tongue up through her, slick with her arousal and his own spit, pressing open mouthed kisses that turn to half-hearted sucks over her cunt, chaste and soft enough to have her craving more, the same manner in which she’d been hungry for it, before, as a desperate whore.  

“One more,” he’s beckoning as he stuffs her with a digit and draws circles over her clit with the thumb of his left hand, “Gimme another.” 

Like he’s just as hungry for her release. Harry pumps the finger, slowly, thumbing at her seams of composure, and then adds a second digit, curling the pair up expertly against her spongy walls. 

Isla crumbles like wet sand in minutes. It doesn’t take long for the fire, although weaker in its intensity than its ravenous elder, to lick up at her and send her trapezing over the edge. Not with his mastered routine, a set switching amongst fingers curling, and thrusting, and a tongue lapping as his lips pucker and envelop. Isla begs, and he gives it to her.

“Fuck, yeah,” Harry groans when she pleas for release, thumb swiping from the hood of her clit to her entrance where he keeps her full, bumping against his digits with each motion, and back up. 

She pushes into each sensuous drag, baited by the teasing stroke each time he lingers where he needs her most and ebbed as she swipes away. It’s the ebb that gets her — the tantalizing drag amping the satisfaction that much more, splintering her semblance. Her legs quiver in their frame around him. She clenches on his fingers and vaguely hears him say something like, “That’s it, baby. Give it to me.” 

When her hearts racing, pulsing frantically behind its caging of bone on the comedown, she barely has time to lure her floating mind from its aimless bumps over the walls, like an animated DVD screensaver on a TV, before he comes around the bed and digs a knee into the mattress beside her shoulder. 

“Get me nice and wet,” Harry tells her, his cock cradled by his fist. Her eyes trail from his pink tip to the ridges of his knuckles weakly, and Isla musters what strength her melty muscles has to lift her head and brace onto her forearms. 

His fingers cup the back of her head, digits interweaving into the loose strands at the back of her skull as he guides his hips towards her mouth. The dominant traces her lips with the head, drawing the precum over the pink like a debauched application of lipgloss, and doesn’t hesitate to nudge into her warmth, against her tongue, once the sheen unseals. The weight of him is heavy on her taste buds, and the submissive hollows her cheeks over what’s stuffed into her mouth, dragging her tongue over the underside of his tip to siphon a hiss and a subsequent groan. She’s familiar with this activity; closely familiar. She imagines him pulling out, long fingers cupped over the hilt as milky ribbons shoot out and land like streamers over her cheeks, her lips, her chin, her outstretched tongue. But she doesn’t even get to work her rhythm into a steady bob before he tugs away. A sticky string of spit connects from the head of his cock to her tongue, showcased in bemusement. The man breaks it with his thumb, pressing that against her tongue as a preventive measure to lull her noise of question, before he brings his palm back to his shaft for a couple of twisting tugs. 

“Fuck,” Harry huffs out, his tummy shuddering and shoulders hunching into his apparent bliss. 

Her jaw is still unhinged a tad in confusion, but then it clicks, and her tongue twitches as she slinks it further for his target, mouth parting wider. 

Except it doesn’t click, because a moment later, with Isla’s tongue still dangling out over her bottom lip, awaiting and inviting, the dominant sticks an open palm out ahead of it and breathily instructs, “Spit.” 

She puts her tongue back in her mouth. Her lips clamp together, a crease working in between her brows. In response, Harry tugs at the roots on the side of her scalp with his free hand, but the motion is only meant to be hard enough to get her attention. 

“Spit,” he tells her again. 

So she does. She only blinks a couple more times before her mouth puckers and she ducks her chin, letting her saliva dribble out in a stream into his palm. She half-expects him to stroke the palm over her cheek, her nose, her mouth, in response. He doesn’t. Instead, he brings the palm back to his shaft, cupped carefully in its motion to prevent spillage. The young woman watches him stroke over himself, all the way from tip to shaft and back. 

He’s squeezing lightly over himself when he makes his way to the foot of the bed, where her legs are still dangling off, muscles a mush. 

“Y’can—“ 

Isla’s braced arms nearly give helplessly when he hooks his hands over the backs of her knees, once more, and tugs up rather than towards him, so that her hips hover over the bed in his grasp. 

“—lay back,” he sighs, mouth quirking up, lopsidedly, at her apparent surprise. It’s mercurial, the way that, in the blink of an eye, that upturned corner of his mouth settles, and his lashes flicker down to veil his irises as he guides his tip towards her entrance. 

Isla wriggles half-heartedly when the head of his cock nudges against her — slick and warm — a little afraid to be dropped if he does more as she squawks, “Wait.” 

Harry pauses, his palm still splayed over the back of her thigh and his cock twitching in his clasp. His voice is soft and his eyes are serious, flitting to her face at the word — the frantic tone of it, “What is it?” 

“I’m—“ Isla sputters over her words, stupefied. Her hips are still raised well over the mattress. She swallows, licking out at her lips. “…Confused.” 

“What about?” Harry asks, his chest slow in its rise and fall with his breaths. His fingers twitch against her skin. 

Surely he didn’t forget, Isla thinks. 

…Or maybe he did. 

Maybe she should’ve kept her mouth shut. Maybe she’s opened it and ruined this perfectly good reward, offered to her on a platter with no conditions, his lack of recollection serving as the silver lining to the pinnacle of their night. The young woman bites into her lip, weighing her words carefully. Because if she goes about it the right way, maybe they can just gloss over this little hiccup and proceed. Nevermind, It’s nothing! or Well, I’m just confused, because the terms and conditions of your creampie implied that I don’t cry — those could siphon entirely opposing consequences. 

But, no. That just feels wrong. 

“I …cried,” Isla confesses, well aware of the possible response her candor could supply. There’s a certain hesitation that her words carry she can only hope the dominant doesn’t pick up on. 

“Mm. I know,” Harry responds after a moment, his own cadence laced with bemusement and his grip a little laxer. He does jostle her up and re-secure the grasp, his cock no longer cradled by his palm. 

The submissive bridles her balk, her legs winding around his hips loosely. 

“But— you said—“

“I know what I said. But,” the tip of his tongue peeks out from between his muted raspberry lips and retreats just as quickly, “you were so brave.” The newly freed palm smooths down the side of her thigh, ungripped, and then it wraps over the back to hold her levitated, steady, “Took everything I gave you. I think that deserves a reward. Don’t you?” 

Isla tries to ignore the way the praise incites butterflies to bump around the walls of her tummy. 

“I don’t—“ know dies at the back of her throat. She pauses and blinks behind her mask, careful with the enthusiasm of her voice, “If you think so, Sir.” 

“Of course, I think so,” Harry tells her earnestly, his grip squeezing over her, as if for emphasis, “You were such a good girl for me, weren’t you?” 

The multitude of pinky splotches littering her skin — her inner thighs, from slaps and pinches, to be specific — are pure evidence against that, but she nods, regardless. 

“Yeah?” the man coaxes, nudging with his chin, jaw set, just to see her nod up at him, all timid, her ruddy lips, teeth-swollen, and pretty tits, bare. 

He casts his gaze down to where they’ll slide together soon, fitted like puzzle pieces, and puckers his lips for spit to slide out and land against her slick core. It lands beside her clit, running down her skin until he takes one of his hands out from under thighs, keeping her steady with one deft grip, and thumbs the saliva up over her hole. By the time his jade irises flicker to her face, Isla feels like all of the air’s been sucked from her lungs, and the organs are just vacuum sealed behind her ribs. 

“Gonna let me fuck you, raw?” the dominant murmurs. 

His tip strokes over her gushing entrance, smearing spit and arousal as he teases at her with a bare tip. Raw. Gonna let me fuck you, raw. Those are words Isla never would have imagined to fly off his teeth, but the proposal is obviously framed rhetorically. In what world would she say no to the proposition from her Eros? Even his nude tip feels different drawn against her skin. Warmer, realer, none of that synthetically lubed latex shit serving as a barrier between their skin. 

“Hm? Gonna let me stretch this pretty pussy out?” Harry prods, strawberry bottom lip tucked behind his teeth as he glides the head of his cock over her. 

Isla’s head lolls to the side. “Yes, Sir.” 

Her hips grind up, what little they can, hovering over the mattress in his grip. 

Harry tuts, his teeth on display as his mouth curls up over them, lopsided in the same way his open-mouthed smirk had shaped prior. “That’s not the one I want. You know the one I want.” 

He strokes over her, tip bumping up against her clit. 

“Yes, Daddy,” Isla assuages, little protest to her subservience. There’s less urge to manage a retort when she’s eager to be stuffed full of him. 

“There’s a good girl,” Harry praises softly, pupils honed and brows pinched behind rubber as he guides his tip to slot into her. 

Her sigh, like wispy agreement all on its own, morphs into a quiet moan, elongated as he nudges in. Just the tip — just part of it, and even that little bit just feels so different. It’s still a cock, it’s still his cock, stretching her just the way it always does, the way he does every Friday night for the last six weeks, and then some — but there’s something different in the way their skin meets. When he pushes in a smidge further and her spongy walls clench over some more of him, like a hungry vice, and his jaw slackens, Isla knows he feels it, too. 

Harry curbs his quip on the lack of rose petals, because even the joke feels a little too intimate. Like he’s making more of what doesn’t need to be made more. Still, it feels oddly ceremonial — like a shift in dynamics, and he nearly feels it palpable, the air surrounding them, all the way down through the nerve endings of his cock. His jaw stays slack all the way, as he stuffs her to the hilt, and when his balls are flush against her, he cranes his neck back and groans. Even from her angle, Isla feels like she’s witnessing him in his truest form. His latex hood shrouds his throat, and shines in the light, and his shoulders, broad and bare, are the root of his arms, flexed as he holds her hips propped up in an impressive feat of athleticism. Her eyes trail over ink, over muscle, over bare skin, until there’s nowhere to venture and all that’s left is only what she can feel. He looks absolutely godlike, true to his stage name, the butterfly over his abs fluttering its wings with every breath he takes and expels. Isla clenches over him testingly. His whole frame goes rigid, like the motion’s sent chills wracking down each individual knob of his spine. He groans again, swearing softly at the ceiling. 

Christ. It feels good, and, yeah — sex always feels good. But this feels good. Beyond carnal need, beyond nude flesh on nude flesh. This feels right, and he’s probably got arousal running through his veins so potently he’s nearly drunk off of her and her wet cunt alone, but he’d spend eternity wrapped by her spongy walls, milked until he’s raw, and still bask in her warmth. 

When he pulls out a tad, ducking his chin just in time to catch the view of her own mouth parted in a pretty, open ‘o,’ he can’t bridle his dirty grin and his confession, “Christ. Been wanting to fuck you bare for so long.” 

It bears similarity to their first scene, where he’d confessed, balls deep, the way he’d been wanting to stuff her full of himself for as long as he’d been watching her prance around the lounge in her slinky, little underthings. But that feels different, too. So long ago, it feels like, and just …different. Harry doesn’t let himself ponder on what’s different and all the things he’s been wanting to do, because he’d probably confess something far more outlandishly intimate, something rancidly lovesick. Something like Isla — her name, the fact he knows her name — and the fact that he’s been wanting to have her bouncing on his bare cock since the moment he’d noticed the smileys on the toes of her sneakers and put the pieces together. Something like the fact that he’s been wanting to know more of Isla, beyond Peitho, since she’d texted him a goofy gif of one of those blow up tubes dancing in the wind as symbolism of her eagerness when he’d sent her a link to another property, weeks ago. Instead, he focuses on the feel of her stretching around him, slippery and clinging. 

He focuses on the strangled moan the jab of his hips draws from her, his smirk opened for his tongue to flaunt, “I know, baby. I know you’ve wanted it, too. Feels good, doesn’t it?” 

And it does, Isla thinks. It feels good, and it’s all she can think about, the statement a mantra echoing in the mush beneath her skull, every fiber of her being hungry for him and every cell of energy practically honed on cherishing the present moment. He severs the connection of their gazes, vague on his end and blatant on hers, to catch an eyeful of the way her cunt splits open over his cock, squeezing at him like puzzle pieces meant to be. He groans at the sight alone, but the way she’s pulsing over him is no deterrent. When he hooks her legs over his shoulders, folding them, with a knee tucked onto the mattress for balance, it hits another angle entirely. It’s a subtle shift, but it’s enough, evidently, for Isla’s upper body to practically twist up, muscles stiff like a guitar string pulled tight. 

“Right there? Yeah?”  

Yes. Yes, yes, yes, Isla wants to tell him, wants to scream it from the rooftop — but all she can manage out is a Daddy, the word nearly mangled by her vocal chords. 

In response, his groan is guttural, and Harry throws his head back with a sloppy thrust forward. She feels him pulsing inside her, is the thing, and she clenches back to draw more of that. Because seeing him nearly as wrecked as he gets her is the view of views. 

“S’all for you,” Harry manages out, maneuvering his thrusts with a subtle back and forth rocking over Isla’s own hips, with a grip on either side, bouncing her against him with every motion forward of his own. It feels a like the admission’s treading into sappier territory, in a way, but he sounds muddled with lust, enough, as he expands, “Just for you to bounce on, like the pretty, little whore you are.”

Daddy, she manages out, again. 

“Just needed Daddy to fuck you raw, right? Needed it just like this—“ 

She squeaks at a harsh jab into her, the kind where he stills right after for a split second, for emphasis. Harry replicates the motion. The corners of his typically mirthy, plush mouth stay straight, no visible amusement leaking through his features at the sound he’s drawn from her. Isla feels like her pulse is visible in her throat with the way it pounds and the way her neck strains back as he does it a third time. 

“Just needed Daddy to fuck you hard and fill you up with his cum, yeah?” 

Isla writhes, her toes curling, uncurling, curling again. And the dominant just hauls her, by the hips, off and back against him in a steady teeter, like she’s his personal toy, purely for his offhand gratification, meant to be wrapped over his cock until he gets her all messy. That thought only makes the manhandling that much filthier, that much hotter, like a familiar flame licking at her. 

“Yeah— yeah, fuck— yeah,” Isla gets out, sounding animalistic even to her own ears, her typically soft-spoken cadence of femininity morphed ravenous and wild. 

“Yeah? Tell Daddy. Tell Daddy how hungry that sweet, little cunt is.” 

He punches a shrill, wet gasp from her with the snap of his hips, and then a girlish grunt that ebbs, and then she’s rattling off a slew of all sorts of filthy things — filthy things he’s never heard off her lips, filthy things that contend, up there, with his own crude remarks. Things about her cunt, things about his cock, things about his cum; words like tight, and wet, and sloppy, and messy. Daddy seems to be the common denominator sprinkled in between each of her poorly separated thoughts, surging out in a slur of desperation and desire. But the one that gets him is the one about his cum running down her thighs. Want you to fuck me hard and stuff me full, for it to run down my thighs, after, Daddy. Something like that — and his own breath chokes him on that one. He screws his eyes shut, settling her hips flush against his own for a second of composure. His grip draws white to the surface of her flesh, harshly. The moment is long enough for her to draw her hips in slow circles over him and whine. And that has his mouth falling open. 

“You’re a filthy, fucking girl,” the dominant tells her, his voice hard, when his eyes pry open, the darkness of his pupils nearly blowing out the familiar soft jade, entirely. Gonna fuck you like the filthy girl you are goes unsaid, because from there, he manuevers into a hover over her, practically planting the fronts of her thighs to the bed as he folds her in half. 

And he gives it to her hard, from there. He fucks into her at a merciless pace, withdrawing nearly all the way and slamming back in like she’s a cock-hungry slut, because she’s his cock-hungry slut, every Friday night. He pumps his hips forward and grinds out a string of pathetic whines from her, like it's all too much for her to fathom all at once, and in response? 

“Take it,” Harry grits out, lifting the head he’d hung over her to pierce her face with his gaze, his pace stern and unwavering with each helpless whimper, “Y’can fucking take it. This is what you wanted, so don’t start begging me to— shit— slow up, now.” 

“Kiss—“ he hears from below, a phantom of a word he’s convinced he’d misheard altogether, judging by the way her pretty mouth is pried open in a silent cry. 

But then she says it again — a plea — one that his eardrums can’t deny. It’s garbled, but it’s coherent enough for his sight to snap up. “Kiss me—“

He gives, corners of his mouth finally buckling as he slows his pace and nudges forward, nearly slotting his mouth against her own, only to withdraw teasingly. Again. Again. His huff is mirthy, amusement subsequent to her whine, to the way she mouths helplessly at him, trying to lift her head from the sheetless mattress. He cups a palm over her throat, partly to still her, and mostly because it makes her cunt flutter around him. 

“Kiss,” Isla pleads, her voice small and sounding on the verge of wetness leaking from the seams of her disguise, siphoning softness from the dominant despite the sternness of his gaze. A silent mouthing over words as he pumps out, and then back in; words like kiss, again, like kiss me, like daddy, and then an audible repetition of the latter. 

Harry ducks forward and merges their mouths, bottoming out. It’s not a tentative prod. It’s sweet in that it's languid, in that their eyes slip shut, in the way that his strawberry mouth works over her own. His squeeze over her pulse, the twitch of his cock against his spongy walls, the way he sucks her bottom lip past his own pair and nips, and then trails along the parted seam of her mouth with his tongue — that’s the contrast. He nudges out with his hips a tad, and licks out against her own tongue when he rocks back in. And then again, with the mesh of their tongues. Her mouth muffles his moan and he drills into her, hips working back up into a steady pace. By then, it’s messy, much like the first kiss they’d shared — his tongue slipping out of bounds and trailing over the corner of her mouth, stuffing back in, and working against the roll of her own. 

When he pulls off, she’s gasping for breath and her pulse is hammering against the press of his palm. He dips his head back against the crook over her shoulder, huffing to slow the race of his own heart. 

“Shit, baby,” Harry pants, pumping his hips forward. She clenches over him on a drag out, and that’s when it happens. 

“Fuck, Isl—“ 

The man garbles the latter of his statement with a groan, neck twisting for his head to face the wall beside them as he tucks further against her, the hammer of his heart only spurred. That’s bad — that’s really bad, and he can only screw his eyes shut and hope that the grind he makes forward disorients her enough not to pick up on what had just nearly spilt past his lips. 

Judging by the series of soft moans spilling beside his ear, his nearly fatal slip-up has, by a godsend, skirted unheard, but the headrush and the tightening in his chest is enough to have him feeling lightheaded. Another Daddy doesn’t help. 

“Peitho,” he amends in a groan, hips only amping in their pace when she squeezes over him again. “God, baby, think you can give me another?” he prods, breathily, slinking his palm between their bodies and settling over her clit. 

The girl below him whines and juts with her chin, a jagged side-to-side shake as he draws circles into her sensitive flesh. Like the contrast of scorching, ruddy devil horns against a shining, golden halo, Harry juts his own chin in opposition — a nod — and circles slower, the grind of his fingertips slick with what's between them. 

“You can,” the dominant seems to decide for her, despite the vehement motion of protest and the noise that tails it, “You can, and you will. Come on, baby. Give me another. Daddy wants to feel that little pussy squeeze around his cock.” 

As if on instinct, to appease, Isla clenches around him and siphons a sound of amusement. A pleased breath through parted teeth, cushiony lips crooked up. Not pleased enough. 

“Not like that.” 

She writhes beneath him, chest rolling and heaving under the press of her own thighs as he works his fingers in quick circles between them, beckoning with each pump forward. 

“Come on, sweetheart, know you’ve got another in you.” 

“Give Daddy another.” 

She feels the coiling in her belly as the spring contracts, little blips of pleasure fighting to the surface rapidly, despite the way every fiber of her body yearns for his touch to trail away. It comes onto her suddenly, like a looming wave built from priorly low, harmless tides rippling through the water. Isla clenches over him in give, and her muscles grow taut before the inevitable snap. 

“Daddy— Daddy, please— I—“

“Bloody fuck— go on. All over my cock, wanna feel you,” Harry coaxes, his statement catching on a groan as the motion of his fingertips grows sloppy in frenzy over the slickness between them, the pace of his hips as steady as he can manage, to work her through it. And he does — he feels it, the moment the coil snaps free. When she flutters over him helplessly, she tears a throaty groan from the dominant, in the process. 

And then he’s just chasing his own release, pummeling into her with his pupils bounding from the bounce of her tits, to the way her lips are parted softly for breaths. With every nudge forward, the tips of her dark hair sways, strands splayed, dancing and unfurling like the animated heads of Medusa’s snakes. It’s certainly enough to turn him to stone when he feels his own resolve crumble, balls drawing up at the edge inches nearer. 

“Gonna get you full,” Harry babbles, a crease between his brows as his tummy seized up, the pleasure lapping at every square inch where they press together, “Christ— always milk my cock so well— gonna give it all to you, baby—“

He’s not sure when his lust-fueled prating morphs into something incoherent, dying off into wordless grunts and groans, but it does, eventually. That’s the point he’s at when he’s pulsing in her, fingers wound against the roots at her scalp so her face is steady on him. Whether her lashes flutter behind the lace and her own pupils, disoriented, loll back in her scalp, Harry doesn’t know, and he doesn’t care. Because, eventually, his own eyes screw shut, lashes twitching lightly on their lines as his cushiony lips fall apart for a long groan. He empties into her, pulsing warm ribbon after ribbon against her spongy walls. 

She cranes her neck back, clenching over him as if to draw every drop, and catches glimpses of his upper body, hovering over her and taut, before he snaps and hangs his head. Her soft moan catches on his lips as he nudges their mouths together. They’re all lips moving and limbs caressing as he bottoms out, pulsing a couple times more before he settles onto her like a weighted blanket, the brush of their mouths the only interruption of the stillness. Harry disconnects first, looking over the features of her face unshrouded by her mask, with a certain fondness — the soft kind that always seems to settle in his eyes by the end of their night. He brushes sex-mussed hair from her skin with gentle fingers. The sensitivity of his climax really settles in his bones when she squeezes over him, again, and his whole body shudders over her. The corners of his mouth curl up lazily, and he plants his palms onto the mattress, siphoning what little strength he has in his exhausted thews to withdraw. A hiss slips through cracks of gritted teeth as his hips tug away, and then Isla’s empty. She’s empty, and she’s full. Full of him, slick, and wet, and messy. 

The bed creaks under the uneven distribution of his weight as he knees his way up off of her and shuffles away. As if on their own accord, her own legs stretch out and settle against the mattress, folding over the bed, as every sinew of every muscle screams exhaustion. The dominant nudges her thighs apart further, prying with his fingers and with jade, and smooths a hand down her tummy as he gets comfortable — a sweet touch. Isla draws her arm up — a feat, considering the fatigue of her muscles — to drag finger pads against the inky butterfly over his abdomen. She brushes the corner of a forewing with her index, featherlight, before he catches her knuckles in his own grasp and brings his mouth to the digits, lips grazing softly. He dots kisses to every fingertip, to every knuckle, down her thumb, before he blinks up at her, lips curved softly. Isla sighs. 

She’s still clenching over what he’s given her, as if she doesn’t want to part with even a drop, but her own body betrays her when his fingers skim over her hip, drawing aimless shapes all the way across the expanse of skin to just below her belly button. His vision flickers to her core. The fingers venture lower. He thumbs at the milky cream, leaking, and switches to his middle and forefinger as he draws it up to the hood of her clit. Isla’s mouth parts on a silent sound. A cry, a sigh, a moan — Isla’s not sure what would even pluck at her vocal chords. It settles into the latter when Harry takes the same middle and forefinger to stuff the remnants back in. 

She’s warm mush and he’s soft touches and words of praise. All sorts of words, and none touch on the fact that it's their final scene. 

Neither of them discuss the verdict of their contract. 

[antiodote]

gay dinner

[antiodote]

Harry Styles: Love On Tour (2021 - 2023)

[antiodote]

THIS IS THE FUNNIEST SHIT I HAVE EVER SEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEENE LMAOOOOOOOOOOO

[antiodote]

this is the most intense fucking thing dear GOD

sunshine (part 2)

In which Harry's a little bit nicer, and y/n is very excited to possibly, hopefully, maybe be kissed.

sunshine (part 1)

˙· .° ｡  ˚ ｡  ° . · ˚ ˙ · . ° ｡ ˚ ｡  ° . · ˙ · .° ｡ ˚ ｡ °.  · ˙ ‧̍̊  

Y/n’s apartment is filled with a bunch of people she doesn’t know. Maddie has a bunch of people over – not really a party, but a fairly large gathering. A few of her school friends, a couple of her co-workers…. nobody that y/n is really close with, though. 

That’s why she locked herself in her room, away from the music and the stuffy, smoke-filled air. She said her polite hello and everything, of course! But… she just wasn’t in the mood to hang out with Maddie’s friends. They weren’t really y/n’s type of people, and the smell of weed is giving her a terrible headache. 

She bunches up her hair in her fists as she stares at the math problem in front of her. She had been able to do integrals just fine with Harry, but when you add trig into the equation? She’s thoroughly fucked. Not even The Organic Chemistry Tutor could help her work through this problem. 

A knock on her door makes her jump. “Come in,” she says politely, though her brows are still furrowed grumpily as she stares at the calculus in front of her. 

“S’this room taken?” a deep voice murmurs. 

She whips her head around, heart fluttering excitedly in her chest. “Harry,” she says softly. “What are you doing here?”

“Maddie invited Blake,” he says, sitting down on her bed. “And Blake invited me.” 

Oh. She should’ve known. 

She rolls away from her desk and faces Harry, who’s making himself more than comfortable on her bed, laying down with his head on her pillow. “Smells like shit out there,” he grunts. 

“Yeah,” she shrugs. She’s accepted that her apartment will always reek of weed, no matter how hard she tries to get rid of the smell. “Did you smoke anything with them?” she asks. 

“No, not in the mood.” Honestly, the only reason he decided to come over with Blake was because he knew that he’d be able to go chill in y/n’s room. Hanging out in Maddie’s smelly apartment was the last thing he wanted to do on a Thursday night, but… he knew y/n would be there, sitting quietly in her room like the good girl she is. “Did you?”

“No.” She fiddles with her fingers. “I– I don’t smoke.”

He snorts. “You don’t smoke but you live with Maddie?” Maddie cannot survive two seconds without her vape. “That doesn’t make sense.” 

“The smell of it gives me a headache,” she tries to explain. 

“Your apartment literally always smells like weed,” he deadpans. 

She blinks. “Yeah…” she trails off quietly. “If I close my door though the smell isn’t that bad.”

Harry rolls his eyes. “What are you working on?” he asks, pointing to the textbook sitting on her desk.

“Um– math.” His lips quirk up, while she pouts. “S’not making sense again.”

“Lemme see,” he says, sitting up. She looks at him for a second, not moving, but when he nods towards her ipad again she scrambles to pick it up and sit next to him on the bed. 

“So, what were you going to try and do?” he asks, grabbing her pen. She’s hyper aware of how their thighs are touching, how she can practically feel the heat radiating off his body.

“Um… I feel like I need to use one of the trig rules here but I can’t think of any that would do anything here.” 

“Okay you’re right… the issue is that none of your sins or cosins fit any of the rules. But you can break cos3x down into cos2x times cosx, right?” 

“Okay…” she looks up at him like a lost puppy, still not fully getting it. 

“Do you have any trig identities with cos2x?”

“Um…” she shuffles through her notes, “ cos2x equals 1 minus sin2x?”

He nods his head, “yeah. So now that everything is in terms of sin, you can do a u-sub.”

“Oh,” she blinks quietly, staring down at the paper. “Why’s it so easy when you explain it?” 

He shrugs, leaning back down onto her bed, “y’just need a lot of practice.”

The bottom of his shirt rises up as he puts his hands behind his head, revealing a pair of black ferns that point towards a yummy v-line. Y/n tries her best not to look, but she’s reminded of the night where she showed up to his apartment to pick up Maddie… how he’d been shirtless, his abdomen so chiseled and firm. The swallows on his collarbones, the butterfly that seemed to jump with every breath. She finds herself getting a bit short of breath as she thinks about all of the things hidden beneath his shirt currently.

That’s the thing about being a touch-deprived, romantic girl like y/n. The littlest things get her going. 

He was nice to her once, helped her with her math homework and comforted her when she cried, and now her heart flutters like crazy when she sees him. Just the smallest rise of Harry’s shirt has her spiraling. 

She can’t help but notice the way his biceps bulge subtly as he puts his hands behind his head, and finds herself overwhelmed with the fact that this boy – an attractive boy – was just laying in her bed casually.

She knows it’s no big deal for Harry, he’s probably just in here because the living room stinks and he needs to clear his head. But for her, it’s a lot. She never has boys in her room, has never had a romantic interaction with a boy. Hasn’t even been kissed. It’s always just very friendly – getting notes from a guy in her class, joking around with some of Maddie’s friends. She’s never had a boy talk to her any more than that. 

Harry, though… Harry comes into her room and talks to her even when there’s a whole party going on outside. He kept her company when she was stranded at his apartment, he took her home and took care of her when she was drunk and emotional. It probably meant nothing to him, but the way he grabbed her ankle and told her to lie down when he was helping her into bed was one of the most tender things she’s ever experienced. He put his hand on her waist, and held her arm while she stumbled, he’d guided her through the door with his hand on the small of her waist. 

And when he saw her crying at the library, he came over and talked to her. Comforted her and let her rant about her classes. He’d let her into his room and helped her with her homework, murmured soft praises to her when she got a question right, his arm brushing against hers, or his chest rubbing against her shoulder. 

The stupidest little things, that are probably so insignificant for him, have been on her mind for days.

“Hey,” Harry says, snapping her out of her daydreams. She tears her eyes away from his ferns embarrassedly, hoping he didn’t notice. “What are you thinkin’ about?”

She averts her eyes, looking down at her bedsheet. “Um, nothing.”

He quirks his brows. “Nothing?”

“Mhm,” she nods her head innocently.

‘Really?” he asks again, his lip twitching with the slightest hint of amusement, sitting up on his elbows now. He raises himself up so that they’re face to face. He’s not an idiot.

She bites her lip nervously, and her heart stops when Harry’s eyes flicker down to watch. He stares at her with a strange look in his eye… a glimmer in them that she’s only ever read about in books. His eyebrows furrow as though he’s deep in thought, eyes still glued to her lips. 

She wonders if she’s hallucinating when he leans in. 

She thought she was being silly for starting to feel things for him – that she was just being classic y/n, crushing on a guy even though she knows she’s too shy to ever make a move. Now, with how close he is, she can see every freckle on his tan skin, every lash that frames his bright green eyes. She breathes with a tight chest, swallowing thickly as her eyes flicker between his, wide and curious. His eyes still haven’t left her lips.

Her heart stutters as his large hand makes its way to her thigh, his palm warm and smooth, gently grazing her skin. He unconsciously inches closer and closer, incapable of pulling his eyes away from her mouth. 

He wets his bottom lip with his tongue, a force of habit, and finally looks her in the eye. His irises have turned a dark green, pupils dilated, and his breathing has deepened. She has no idea what’s going on in his head, but he looks serious. Deep in thought. His hand still rests on her thigh, the contact sending sparks of electricity all over her body, especially when his fingers gently start to trail upwards. 

Her eyes flutter shut as she tries to take deep, calm breaths, but he’s gotten so close that she can feel the puff of his breathing against her lips, inhaling his every exhale. It makes her lightheaded. He’s so close… so, so close…

A loud pounding on the door makes y/n jump away from him. 

Her eyes are blown out when she jerks them open, her heart pounding harshly with anticipation that’s been left unsatisfied. “Who is it?” she calls out with a shaky voice. 

Harry hasn’t moved an inch. He sits there and stares at her, hand still on her thigh. 

“Is Harry in there?” Maddie yells. “Blake is ready to go.”

He brings a hand up and tugs on her bottom lip with his thumb, then watches it bounce back into place, hypnotizing himself with the sight. Y/n, unable to get any words out, sits there and watches him as he stares at her lips.

“Hellooo?” Maddie obnoxiously yells again.

Harry’s nose flares and he shuts his eyes, frustratedly pulling himself away from y/n. She says nothing, still in a daze, watching as he leaves her bed. He stands and runs a hair through his messy curls, before heading towards the door and opening it. Maddie stands in front of the door with her fist raised, ready to knock on the door again. 

“Calm down,” he says, eyeing her coldly. Maddie rolls her eyes and walks away to tell Blake that she found Harry.

He turns around for a moment and glances at y/n. “See ya,” he says. 

She blinks, her hand coming up to touch her lips, searching for some confirmation that this was real and she hadn’t imagined it. “Bye,” she nearly whispers, breathless. 

The door shuts with a click and she finds herself alone with her thoughts. Her math homework sits abandoned on her bed, and will probably remain untouched for the rest of the night.

˙· .° ｡  ˚ ｡  ° . · ˚ ˙ · . ° ｡ ˚ ｡  ° . · ˙ · .° ｡ ˚ ｡ °.  · ˙ ‧̍̊  

Finally, y/n has Harry all to herself.

She’d been dancing around him all night, constantly catching his eye from across the room in a game of cat and mouse. He watched her from the corner of the room he was stationed in with his dark eyes, a teasing smirk on his face. He knew what she was doing – trying to distract him. It was working. 

He watched her as she mingled and talked, watched as she sipped on her drink, watched as she weaved her way through the passes of people in her apartment, pushing past the hot bodies and sweaty skin until she disappeared in her room. 

He followed her in, less than a minute later.

She hears him walk into the room, the sound of him turning the lock and his heavy footsteps approaching her. A shiver runs down her spine when his hands grab her shoulders from behind, goosebumps rising on her arms almost instantaneously. His firm front pushes against her back, toned stomach pressed against the curve of spine. 

His fingers are warm and gentle on her shoulders, comforting yet teasing at the same time. He doesn’t hold her firmly – his featherlight touch more tantalizing than any other form of contact. These light, delicate brushes of his skin keep her on her toes, never knowing what to expect next. She holds her breath as his fingers travel from her shoulders, down the length of her arms. 

Suddenly, she feels his lips against her ear. She can’t help the soft, aroused breath that leaves her as his lips skim the shell of her ear. He chuckles, low and taunting, and she can feel the deep reverberations of his chest against her back.

“I’ve been waiting f’this,” he murmurs softly. His warm breath tickles her ear, sending waves of pleasure straight down to her core, and his hands have migrated from her arms to her hips now. He grips them, fingers digging into the soft flesh there, and pulls her back, grinding her into his front. She swallows a whimper down, eyes fluttering shut. A hard bulge presses against her ass, and she can’t resist the urge to press back on it, wriggle her hips even though Harry’s holding her still. “You’ve been teasing me…” he presses a kiss right underneath her earlobe. “Playing all innocent when I know you’re actually filthy.” Another kiss, and another kiss, trailing his lips down the curve of her neck.

She lets out a pathetic, shaky whimper, and it makes him chuckle tauntingly. “Your head is just filled with dirty thoughts, isn’t it?” Her knees go weak as he wraps a hand around her throat, tilting her head to the side so that he can look at her. “Bet you’re just dying for me to fuck you.” 

Her eyes are wide and round, and her entire body turns into jelly. The only reason she’s standing right now is because Harry’s holding her up. She can’t get any words out, pathetically wrapped around his finger. She looks up at him with a pleading gaze, begging him to do something… anything…

The sound of her 8 AM alarm yanks her straight out of dreamland.

Her eyes are bleary as she frantically looks around her bed, gathering her bearings. She has to triple check that Harry isn’t anywhere in her room – looking at every corner and patting around her sheets as well – before she can confirm that it was all a dream. 

Oh gosh. This is like the third time this week! 

She doesn’t mean to be having these dreams. It's a rather embarrassing situation for her and she honest to god would much rather just read a couple of steamy romance books about fictional vampires to get the horniness out of her system, instead of having repeated wet dreams about a very real Harry. 

They make her feel icky because, like– isn’t it a bit disrespectful to be having such dirty thoughts about someone who’s just been helping her with her math homework and potentially also kissing her had they not been interrupted? Like what are the boundaries there? You can’t really ask someone for consent to having wet dreams about them… but it’s not like she was consenting to those dreams either! She can’t control what her subconscious mind decides to stir up for her nightly dream! 

She tries to logic it out – how would she feel if Harry was having wet dreams about her? Well… actually the thought of it makes her a little bit excited, cos that would mean he likes her, right? Ugh, no, she’s getting distracted!

It’s all very typical horny virgin behavior. Ever since her almost kiss with Harry, her mind has been in shambles. Her first issue is trying to wrap her head around the entire thing – had Harry actually wanted to kiss her? She hadn’t made that up, right? 

She’s replayed the night a hundred times in her head. Remembers exactly how his hand felt on her thigh, how he’d stared at her lips, how their eyes had fluttered shut, how their noses brushed… all the things she’s read about in her books! All the ingredients for a first kiss! 

How tragic that it’d been interrupted. She thinks that’s why her brain has been overly active this past week – her subconscious has been trying to fulfill the insatisfaction she felt when she jumped away from Harry, just seconds before their lips touched. It feels like she’s been edged over and over again and been denied an orgasm five times – but the orgasm is her first kiss and she’s being edged by Maddie, who stole that kiss away by knocking on her door! 

She flops around in her bed frustratedly, smushing her face into her pillow with a sad groan. What if Harry doesn’t wanna kiss her the next time he sees her? What if this was a one time opportunity? She doesn’t want to sound desperate… but she really wanted to kiss Harry! She’d be really sad if it was just a whim of the moment kinda thing. 

But also… if it wasn’t just a one time thing… if he did actually want to kiss her… well how was she gonna end up in the situation to be kissed by him again? 

She’s thinking about this way too hard, way too early in the morning. And she’s uncomfortably wet from her dream.

She needs to get herself sorted out. 

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The chair in front of y/n screeches loudly as it’s pulled from under the table she’s sitting at. She jumps at the sound of it, having been too engrossed in her book to be aware of what’s going on around her. When she looks up, she finds Harry standing at her tiny table in the campus coffee shop.

“Can I sit here?” he asks, his jaw tight. He’s wearing a gray Kendrick Lamar hoodie with the words DAMN. written in bold font across the front, his curly hair messily hidden underneath. All the other tables in the shop were taken (it tends to get pretty busy at noonish when everyone needs somewhere to sit and study), and Harry needs somewhere to sit before his next lecture.

She nods, eyes wide like a baby sheep. It’s quite jarring to just randomly see the guy you’ve been having sexy dreams about – especially for someone like y/n who apparently can’t be normal about having a crush or having an almost first kiss. She hopes she’s acting normal enough to not raise any suspicion. 

Trying to not get distracted by his green eyes and pretty pink lips, y/n looks down at the table, but finds herself instead staring at Harry’s hands. He has nice hands, she thinks to herself. The cross tattoo on his left hand compliments his tan skin nicely, and he has these thick knuckles that she just wants to run her fingers over. In one of his hands he holds a coffee cup, and even though she and him both got a medium sized coffee, his drink looks smaller, dwarfed in his massive hands. His thumb is fingering the lid of his drink mindlessly, and she remembers how that same thumb had touched her lips just over a week ago… how he’d tugged on her bottom lip and hypnotized himself with the sight of it bouncing back into place. And while she’s on that train of thought, she can’t help but remember how his hands portrayed such a significant role in her dream last night. Hadn’t she imagined them being wrapped around her throat–?

Harry clears his throat. Y/n glows with heat. She has absolutely no capability of being normal around him. “Sorry, what?” She hadn’t heard a word he’d said in the past minute, too caught up in her own thoughts. 

He smirks. Is she always this distracted? “Just asked how it’s going.”

“Oh! Oh, yeah– good, I’m good,” she closes the book, folding the corner of the page she’s on as a bookmark. “How about you?”

He shrugs. “Just got out of class. Needed a coffee.”

“What’d you get?”

“Just a black coffee.”

She can’t stop herself from wrinkling her nose, “Ew.” 

 He quirks a brow, “Well what’d you get?” “Vanilla latte with oat milk.” Yeah. She would be an oat milk girl.

Considering their recent frequency in seeing each other and his newfound… fondness towards her, he doesn’t find it difficult to start picking and prodding at her, getting to know her. He realizes Blake was right – she wasn’t a super duper shy girl, she probably had just been scared of him. Once he started talking to her and smiling every once in a while, it seems like she loosened up. What used to be painfully awkward conversations have now become free flowing and casual.

He picks up the book she was reading and reads the cover. “Book Lovers by Emily Henry. Awfully fitting for you.”

She furrows her brow, already offended. She hates it when people make fun of her books – especially boys who make fun of her for reading romance. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You’re a book lover, aren’t you? Can never find you without your nose in a book.” 

She relaxes. “Oh… yeah,” a soft chuckle escapes her. “Yeah, I guess I’m a book lover.”

“You think I’d like this one?” he asks, flipping through the first few pages. 

“Um… maybe.” She can’t imagine Harry being a huge fan of her soft romance books. “Are you a reader?”

“God, no,” he puts the book down. “Not smart enough for that.”

Her jaw drops. “You are totally smart, Harry! Way smarter than me!” she exclaims.

“M’just good at math,” he shrugs, “You’re little miss smartie, with your color coded notes. Reading your books for fun.” 

She grows shy. Part of her thought that Harry thought she was stupid – not the over-emotional-girl-who-cries-too-much kind of stupid, but rather the kind of stupid that makes you wonder how she even got into this school because she’s doing so bad in math. 

It was a massive hit to her girlboss mentality when she had to ask Harry for help, and even though Harry never actually made her feel dumb when answering her questions… she just had this mean voice in the back of her head that constantly nagged her, convincing her that Harry thought she was a stupid girl who should just give up and drop out. And ignoring that voice is really hard, so…  it was just nice to hear that he didn’t think she was a stupid little baby. It made that mean voice in her head shut up. 

“Um… by the way. My next calc midterm is next Friday. I was wondering if, um…” she tucks her hair behind her ear nervously. 

He fills in the rest for her. “Do you want to revise together this weekend?” 

“If it’s not too much trouble,” she says bashfully. “Your tutoring is super helpful.” 

“You can come over on Saturday,” he sips on his coffee. “No trouble.”

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“Is this right?” Y/n shows her work to Harry, and he nods. They’re both on his bed, except Harry’s lying down with his head on a pillow, scrolling through tiktok, while y/n’s hunched over her ipad. She’s been doing practice problems for the past three hours, asking Harry for help every once in a while. That's how it’s been most of the night – her study session is mostly just him checking her work to make sure she’s not doing anything funky and giving her hints if she’s stuck. 

She’s studied a lot in the past two weeks and luckily doesn’t need Harry to be guiding her through every problem, which makes her really happy. And she’s only gotten a couple of the practice problems wrong! Some of them were particularly tricky and had her stumped, but that’s why she has Harry. He helped her out of roadblocks and kept her motivated. Without him here, she probably would’ve given up after the first question that she didn’t know how to solve.

“You should take a break,” he says.

She’d refused to take any breaks since she got here – determined to finish the practice test that her professor had posted while she had Harry next to her to help. Now that she finished all the problems, she locks her ipad and puts it on Harry’s bedside table. She leans back on one of Harry’s pillows and copies Harry, holding her phone above her face. Except instead of scrolling through tiktok, she opens up her kindle app and starts reading.

He sees the tiny font on her screen from the corner of his eye. “Reading?” he asks.

“Mhm,” she shuffles around on his bed, getting comfortable. 

He thinks it’s kind of cute that she’s always reading. “Is it the same one as last time? Book Lovers?”

“No, I finished that one yesterday! This is by the same author though. S’called Beach Read.”

“What’s it about?” he turns off his own phone and sits up, turning to look down at y/n. Her hair is splayed across his pillows, and her eyes glimmer softly in his bedroom lighting.

She feels a little shy describing one of her favorite books to Harry – she’s often been ridiculed by her friends for being so lovey dovey and reading her silly romance books. But he seemed genuine when he asked. “Um– there are these two writers. The girl writes romance and the guy writes like these serious fiction books. And they’re kinda rivals.” 

He hums. “Let me read a little bit,” he looks down at the screen of her phone. “I tightened my thighs around the sides of his body–” he reads aloud, before she yanks her phone out of his sight.

“No!” she yelps, turning her phone off and practically throwing it across the room. “You are not allowed to read it!” 

He laughs, a fully amused belly laugh, and the sound is beautiful but she doesn’t allow herself to revel in it due to her embarrassment. “What are you reading?” he giggles.

“Oh my gosh,” she hides her face in her hands. 

“Didn’t expect you to be reading such dirty stories,” he teases, “I thought you were a good girl.”

“It’s not all dirty!” she defends herself. “It’s– it’s sweet! It’s a love story… it’s romantic.” Her voice gets quiet near the end. 

Harry’s laughter bubbles down and he’s left with a smirk on his face, while y/n lays in front of him, an embarrassed pout on her face. “M’only teasing,” he says as he reaches a hand out to rest on her thigh, not wanting her to look so sad. “Read whatever you want. Seems like a cute book, maybe I should pick it up, hm?” 

Her mind goes a little blank when his hand meets her thigh, his palm warming her skin once more – just like that night he’d almost kissed her. “Y-yeah, you might like it,” she clears her throat. “S’one of my favorites.”

That same look glazes over Harry’s eyes – that dark look, as if he’s deep in thought. 

She swallows thickly. Could this be it? Her second chance at a kiss with Harry?

She pushes herself up on her elbows, more alert. Her palms feel sweaty and she finds her fingers nervously toying with his comforter. A million thoughts are racing in her head as she searches Harry’s eyes, flickering back and forth, trying to see what he might be thinking of. He’s so hard to read. She feels like she’s drowning in his eyes. 

Almost as if he can read her thoughts, he leans forwards. She hopes she doesn’t look like an over-eager puppy, but her eyes light up and practically beg him to come closer, to just kiss her! He smiles to himself a bit, and obliges. 

With y/n laying on his bed, propped up by her elbows, and Harry already having been sat up on the bed, he doesn’t need to move that much closer for their faces to be aligned. He’s leaning over her, one hand holding him up, while the other hand comes up to her cheek.

She gasps when his large palm comes up to cup her face, his palm on her jaw and fingers sliding into her hair. He inches closer and closer, his eyes fluttering shut when his nose brushes against hers ever so lightly. She can feel the puff of his breathing against her lips, breathing in each of his exhales as she tries to stay calm. She forces her eyes shut, her entire body alive with butterflies.

He wets his bottom lip with his tongue, a force of habit, and nudges his nose against hers. She tilts her head to the side. He teases her for a second, gives her the chance to pull away by just grazing their lips together teasingly, and feels her sharp intake of breath at the contact. He can’t help but smirk against her lips.

With her eyes closed, she’s hyper aware of how it feels. The way his curls brush against her face… the warmth of his palm as he tilts her head upwards… the wetness of his lips as he finally… connects them… in a kiss. 

This was it. Her first kiss. 

There’s not one thought in her head, a stark contrast to how she’d spent countless sleepless nights overthinking the mechanics of kissing someone. She’d always worried that she’d mess it up, that she’d freeze and wouldn’t know what to do. 

But falling into the gentle caress of Harry’s lips is easy. Her nerves spill, her muscles relax, and she just lets herself melt against Harry’s lips. He suckles on her bottom lip gently, folds their lips together, pulls away with soft clicks just to reattach a second later. She sighs dreamily into his mouth and lets herself fall back into the bed, her head against his pillow. He doesn’t let their lips disconnect, following her down and climbing on top of her so that one of his legs is stationed between her thighs. 

She wonders if all kisses are this magnificent, or if it’s just Harry. Is it normal to feel your heart stuttering in your chest, or feel electricity flowing through your veins at just the touch of someone’s lips? Would she always lean her face into the palm of his hand, and let herself relax in the bliss of feeling his lips against hers?

It’s wonderful – a head-spinning, heart-fluttering, electrifying kiss. 

Harry’s hand that isn’t holding himself up comes down to rest on her thigh, goosebumps rising under his touch. His kisses start to grow more pressured, inhaling sharply and breathing heavily against her, tongue licking at the seam of her lips eagerly. His nose bends against her face as he tilts his head to the side, eyebrows furrowed in concentration as he tastes the sweet chapstick on her lips. Her skin is warm and soft and plushy underneath his touch, and her lips are addictive. 

He uses his grip on her thigh to hike her leg up, fitting his hips between hers and sliding his hand up and down her leg tantalizingly. He can feel her losing her breath, so he forces himself off of her lips and starts kissing down her neck. He skims his lips down, presses wet, hot kisses on her throat, his every breath making her core clench. 

She squeezes her eyes shut, eyes rolling into the back of her head, and takes heavy breaths, chest rising and falling shakily. Her hands come up to grab onto him – just hold onto him in any way – and the first thing her hands land on are his biceps. His firm, toned biceps, that are flexing as he hovers above her. In an effort to feel more grounded, she squeezes her fingers, but it just ends up making her even more lightheaded because god he’s so strong and muscular and he’s kissing her right now! 

She’s overwhelmed and her head is spinning and it feels like she’s in a dream, an amazing dream that feels so good and that she never wants to end – she can smell his aftershave and his shampoo and his overall yummy boy smell, and her lips are tingling with the aftermath of his kiss. She’d always imagined what it would be like to have her neck kissed and sucked on by a boy and now that it’s happening it’s better than she could’ve ever imagined, and she’s so sensitive, and it’s just different to have a real person touching you and kissing you all over, especially someone that she’s majorly attracted to and–

Harry presses his hips into her center and, wow, if it isn't the most arousing thing she’s ever experienced. Excitement and anticipation fill her veins… but then a trickle of doubt starts to filter in. She’d only just had her first kiss, was she ready to go any further than that? 

‘H-Harry,” she says, but it’s more of a moan because his fingers squeeze her hips and he’s kissing right underneath her earlobe right now and it’s sending shivers down all over her body. “M-maybe we should stop.”

“Hm?” He pulls away from where he was buried in her neck, his eyes blown out and lips slicked with a mix of their spit. 

“I-I’m not ready to have sex with you, if that’s what you want.”

“That’s okay,” he says, licking his lips. “I could just eat you out.”

And, god, if that doesn’t make her whimper. “I– no, I um…” she stammers over herself.

He smiles. “What is it?” he murmurs, an amused lilt to his voice.

“I… I haven’t done any of… that.” She swallows, looking at him nervously. Her heart, which had once been racing with excitement, now pounds with apprehension. This is the first time she’s been in this position and she’s feeling so vulnerable. 

It’s extremely scary and nerve-wracking and Harry’s silence is not doing anything to help her feel better.

“You’re a virgin?” he asks after a beat.

She nods. She feels insecure under his gaze, and even though she’s fully clothed, she feels totally exposed.

He laughs. “Are you really?” he asks again.

Her eyes flash with hurt. She just shared something extremely intimate with him, shared her very first kiss with him… and he was laughing at her?

She feels her heart drop, and her cheeks flame with insecurity. 

“Um–" she swallows around the lump developing in her throat. "I should go,” she says, barely over a whisper. She puts her hands on his chest and pushes him away, sliding out from underneath him and climbing out of his bed. Grabbing her ipad, she shoves it into her backpack, along with her notes that were scattered along his desk and her phone lying at the foot of his bed. Her cheeks burn hot and her heart is aching in her chest.

“What?” He doesn’t challenge her when she pushes him away, but he stares at her with his eyebrows furrowed, confused at the sudden mood shift. “What happened?”

She doesn’t answer. Her throat is hurting, the painful lump a tell-tale sign of the tears getting ready to fall.

“Y/n?” he asks again, getting off his bed and walking towards her. All amusement has left his face, brows furrowed in a concerned manner. She shrugs him off when he approaches her.

“Don’t.” She feels embarrassed, her mind only filled with insecurity. He was making fun of her for being a virgin, teasing her. As if she wasn’t already embarrassed enough about it herself.

She’d planned on calling Maddie to come pick her up when she was ready to go, but it doesn’t matter anymore. She leaves his room hastily, before any of the tears can fall, and nearly runs out of his apartment. 

She’ll walk home. 

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OMG!!! HOPE U GUYS LIKED ITTTTTT HEHEHEHE :-) part 3 is up on my patreon already and will come to tumblr next saturday (augsut 5) pleeeeaaaase lmk what u think and give her a rb and a comment i LOVE U GUYS SO SO MUCH!!!!

sunshine (part 3) - in which y/n just wants to get this whole virginity thing out of the way, and Harry needs to grovel a bit before she forgives him.

sunshine masterlist

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It’s actually not even funny anymore 🫠

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AYO !!!!!! YOOOOOOOOOOOOOO WHAT THE FUCK ???!???!?!??!?? STOP THIS MADNESS JESUS FKIN CHRIST

I fear that with Harry’s absence, I have begun slipping back into my DWD era 👁️🫦👁️

[antiodote]

hey loves !

the update for she can’t finish and they fight is gonna be posted a bit later than i hoped since i went to the final show yesterday and need a bit more time than i thought to recover

all the love <3

- ve

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What I hate about writing is when I have to write so much before I finally get to the part I actually wanted to write.

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i am going to fucking hurt someone

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i am going to fucking hurt someone

[antiodote]

[antiodote]

thank you so much for the support on this one <3

she can't finish and they fight - part IV

warnings: strong language, somewhat disturbing imagery

“what could go wrong? except for absolutely everything?”

part I, II & III

/ / /

y/n opened and closed the door as quietly as she possibly could. her effort of not waking her temporary roommate was in vain though, as jane was happily munching down on some takeout while rewatching her favourite episodes of new girl. without turning away from the TV, jane spoke.

“11:02 pm, that’s a new record, girl! do they chain you to your damn desks or what?” 

her remark makes y/n chuckle, more out of frustration than amusement, though. coming home at this hour on a monday night was indeed a new record for her. without saying a word, she leaves her bag and coat at the door and moves to sit next to her friend. she steals a slice of her pizza and digs in without much thought, staring straight ahead and trying to catch up on what was happening on the episode. both of them were aware, however, that she was entirely elsewhere, mentally. so, jane stops the episode to gain her friend’s attention. 

“rough day?” 

y/n turns to face her friend and sighs in defeat.

“rough day, week or month? honestly, I can’t even tell anymore.” her shoulders slump and her gaze wanders as she searches for a way to describe her current emotional well-being or lack thereof. “I just feel exhausted, like, all the time.” 

a short pause makes the air thick between them before jane comments.

“y/n…”

the exhausted one looks up to her friend to find her concerned expression etched deeply into her pretty features. suddenly, she feels a warm hand graze its way upwards the length of her arm, stopping to softly grab her shoulder. 

“you’re burnt out, angel. maybe take some time off, hm? I’m sure you’ll benefit from it-“

“jane, I can’t. you know that I can’t.”

her friend was not having it. “why not, y/n?”

“jane, please. can we not do this right now?”

“you always say that. you never let me help you-“

“you’re helping more than you know already! if it wasn’t for you I’d be homeless.” 

jane took a deep breath to brace herself for what she was about to say.

“and why is that, y/n?”

the girl looked at her friend, puzzled. 

“what are you on about?”

“why are you in this situation, y/n?”

she groaned. “don’t fucking make me say it.”

before jane could interject, y/n put her hand up in protest. it was as if the bare notion of speaking about the recent happenings in her life made her physically ill. and honestly, it did. 

they say a broken heart can kill. what about a broken soul? what does that do to a person? y/n didn’t know. all she did know was that she felt like the life had been sucked out of her, and not in a good way. 

it was terrible. so, so truly terrible and horrifying.

y/n looked at her friend, who looked at her apologetically. she sighed, her walls slowly crumbling. 

“I am in this situation, my dearest jane, because…”

y/n got up instantaneously to fetch herself a drink from the tiny bar cart right across from where they were sitting because it just felt like that kind of night. the silence felt thick and heavy and goopy and greasy and it felt like drowning in a pool of tar. however, as soon as the bitter taste of alcohol hit her tongue and ran down her throat, things felt a little less thick and heavy and goopy and greasy and like drowning in a pool of tar.

so, y/n chuckled. 

“I am here because my lovely boyfriend kicked me out. wonderful, right? now, why did you make me say it?” 

y/n drowns her drink before pouring herself another one. 

“and why did he do that, hmm? what made your angel of your boyfriend treat you like that?” 

y/n turned around, facing jane. she was honestly offended at what she was insinuating.

“are you seriously trying to blame me for what happened?”

“oh, don’t you dare. you know damn well why I’m bringing this up, y/n.”

“please, enlighten me.”  she said, as the third drink was in the process of being consumed. 

jane sighed heavily, pinching the bridge of her nose with her index finger and thumb. 

“god, y/n. look, I know you’re miss independent, as you should be! you’re strong and capable and one of the most resilient and successful people I know. however, and this is a big one, with how you don’t let your loved ones help you with anything at all, and with how you put work over anything, you’re doing yourself more harm than good. no, it doesn’t make you weak to ask for help, and it doesn’t make you incompetent to take a few steps back from work. you need a life, y/n. an actual life, not one where you keep running away from your problems and pretend like you’re the only person you can count on. it makes me feel like you’re shutting me out, and it probably made harry feel helpless as well. I’m not saying what he did was right, god no. what I am saying, though, is that the longer you keep doing this to yourself, the higher the chance is that you will end up alone.” 

y/n doesn’t think she owns a knife sharp enough to cut the tension in the room. she looks at jane, who is red in the face with frustration, and tries to find some sort of flaw in her logic. she doesn’t know if this is some sort of fight for dominance, or just a friend expressing her concerns. y/n wonders if she lost the ability to trust anyone. 

she truly wasn’t up for this kind of conversation right now.

“jesus, jane. time-out, please. I know you mean well, but I really can’t do this right now.”

jane sighs, y/n can no longer face her friend, and things feel uncomfortable. 

“look, y/n, I get it. I really do. but don’t let your trauma stand in the way of what you truly deserve. you deserve a fulfilling career, not a soul-crushing one, and you deserve help, especially when the people who love you want to do nothing more. it doesn’t matter if you feel like you need it or not, because everyone needs it. you’re human, dude. try acting like one.”

and with that, jane got up from the couch and made her way to her room. she turned around halfway to say an earnest “I love you” to her friend, but she was staring straight at the bottom of her glass in misery. 

the tears started flowing before she could help it, but she was entirely silent. she missed the time when things weren’t this messy. she missed feeling strong and most of all, happy. 

and she also missed him, terribly so. and this time, she couldn’t help but stare straight at the obvious: she missed him more and more, every day.

she also missed the person that she was when they were together and was starting to wonder if she needed him to get her back. 

/ / /

monday, 9:02 am. 

harry had not seen y/n since their fight and he had honestly almost gotten used to her absence. it didn’t feel good to not have her around, but it didn’t drive him to a near overdose anymore. 

where once used to be a feeling of existential dread and depression, now lives an ongoing flow of anxiety and panic. because he has to face her, today. for the sake of his friends. at least that’s what he tells himself.

a sudden sickness overcomes him for the umpteenth time within the last few days which makes him stop mid-run.  

in through the nose. hold your breath. one. two. three. release through the mouth. repeat. 

just like she had taught him. 

god fucking dammit. 

harry was now aggravated, more than anything. but he knew, no matter how negative his emotions were today, he had to go through with it. for mitch and sarah. and himself. 

he arrived back home and took an icy shower. he thought it might help him be less of a wuss and prepare for the task at hand. but alas, his balls were still buried somewhere deep within him. so, time passes. 

11 am.

12 pm. 

1 pm.

2 pm. 

3 pm. 

4 pm. 

by the time 5 pm rolled around, he had to chuckle bitterly. any other person would’ve been on their way home by now. but his lovely y/n was probably still buried knee-deep in any kind of work that was given to her. it pained him to think about her in stress and exhaustion. it pained him even more that she probably didn’t even realise how she was working herself to death.

he fondly remembers the time when she was the epitome of a free spirit; when nothing could worry her and life was a gift that she happily embraced with open arms. now, it seemed, she was trapped in a vicious cycle of self-destruction. it felt like the walls around her were at an all-time high. harry didn’t know if he could be the one to save her, if that was even within the realm of what she could possibly want. and honestly, for now, that didn’t even matter. they had a wedding to attend. everything else could be resolved afterwards. 

as soon as that very thought came to him, harry wanted to punch himself in the face for how utterly stupid and selfish he sounded. well, if he’s lucky, y/n will do that job for him. at least then he could feel her touch again.

6 pm. 

enough is enough.

harry fought the urge to throw up once more before he left the house. he decided to purposefully ignore the mind-numbing screams inside of his brain telling him to not leave the house ever again; to stay in his bed until he starved, shrivelled up and died without anybody ever having to look at his miserable figure again. the anxiety that has been constantly bubbling at the back of his throat like a jacuzzi in the french alps told him to never speak to y/n again. that they hurt each other and that he was in no way capable of fixing anything. as a matter of fact, he was certainly only going to make it worse. nevertheless, he pushed through, he had to. for mitch and sarah, or whatever. 

he arrived at her office building at 6:23 pm. before he could think too much about it, he left his car, headed towards the building, greeted the intern at the front desk, got into the elevator and pressed number seven in it to get to y/n. easy enough, so far. 

or so he thought.

when the elevator dinged to signal his arrival on the 7th floor, the sliding doors opened to reveal maude, y/n’s sweet coworker, who was probably leaving for the day. she saw him and harry wished he had just waited in the car for two more minutes. 

“harry! sweet boy, how are you? it’s been ages! give me a hug you handsome thing!”

while harry’s neck was dragged down by maude’s short arms, panic rose in his gut as he became painfully aware of how y/n must’ve been alerted of his presence with how loud maude had just greeted him. matter of fact, the whole office must be aware now. 

“hi maude, good to see you. I’m actually looking for y/n, is she still at her desk?”

unbeknownst to him, y/n was definitely aware of his presence. just like he had suspected, she was made aware by maude’s overly excited greeting. the second she figured he was here she wanted to hide, run, possibly jump out of the window. she wanted to do whatever she could to not face him. not right now, not ever. she wasn’t ready. so, while maude kindly offered to walk harry to y/n’s desk and bombard him with small talk in the meantime, she took the initiative and ran, as unsuspecting as possible, to the bathroom to at least try and get some proper air in her lungs. hopefully, no one saw the sheer panic in her expression.

harry and maude came to y/n’s desk to find it empty. 

“oh, this is weird. I swear she was here just a moment ago.” maude said, looking around the room in a confused manner. harry had an inkling that his earlier suspicions were indeed correct. she knew he was here.

“I’m sure she just went to the bathroom, maude. I can wait here, thank you.”

before harry could interject, maude offered to wait with him. “I don’t always get the chance to have you all to myself, harry! need to use it, don’t I?” 

they both laughed at her attempted, slightly inappropriate joke. harry shrugged it off and blamed it on the fact that the woman is the same age as some of her aunts or her mother, even. lord knows, maybe she genuinely enjoyed his presence. 

while they continued their chitchat, y/n had yet to properly calm down. what was she going to do? does she face him? could she? was there an alternative? not really, she thought. she had to come out before it raised any suspicion. not that people cared, really. she just didn’t want to make a fuss. however, the thought of facing him right now made her want to rip her nails out, one by one.

her frantic back and forth through the office bathroom came to a halt when someone else came in. she tried to smooth over her anxiety by pretending to have just left a stall and make her way to the sinks in a calm and collected fashion, though, anybody could probably smell her nerves from miles and miles away. she washes her hands, rapidly, and takes a good look at herself afterwards. her hair was in place, her suit somewhat clean and her makeup looked good enough. to strangers and coworkers, she probably looked fine. she knew, however, that harry would probably see the pain in her. she wonders what would cross his mind when he lays his eyes on her. then she thinks again, a sudden rage aflame within her. she shouldn’t care what he thinks. after all, the bastard kicked her out! the newfound emotion was enough to carry her feet from her current position to her desk. purposeful strides, stiff back and high nose.

here goes nothing.

when she gets back to her desk, she finds maude telling harry some story about a comically large fruit she saw at the farmers market. harry seemed to listen to every word until he found y/n to be standing in front of them. they looked at each other for the first time since their fight but had no time to dwell on any emotions as maude filled the silence instantaneously. 

“there you are! your lovely beau is here to pick you up, lucky girl! do you know where you’ll be having dinner tonight? oh, there is this wonderful italian place that I went to recently, let me give you the address!”

maude rummaged through her handbag to retrieve her phone and look up said address, which gave harry and y/n enough time to exchange glances. harry knew that she did not want to involve her coworkers in her personal life, which meant that as of right now, she was probably going to lie. 

“yeah, I’m one lucky girl, huh? don’t worry about the address, though. I’m sure harry’s made reservations somewhere. thank you, though!”

he did know her too well. 

the smile and tone she put on were enough to fool the average person, so it was good enough for now. and honestly, he was glad she took the initiative, as he truly did not feel like having lovely maude know anything about them on a personal level. so, he played along.

“yes, I think we’re all set. we’ve been wanting to go there for a while, anyways. thank you so much, still!”

maude stopped looking for a phone and looked up at the supposed couple. “alright if you say so! I’ll just give y/n the address tomorrow so you lot can go there some other time. anyways, I’ll leave you two to it! have fun!” 

she bid her goodbye and walked towards the elevators once more. one last time she turns around with a devilish smile on her face as she practically shouts through the entire office: “also, I want to hear wedding bells for you two, soon! chop, chop!” 

she laughed as the pair went pale in the face and happily went on her merry way home. what she didn’t know was that the suggestion currently made both of them nauseous for a multitude of reasons that they, however, could not dwell on for too long. once maude left the building, the two of them forcefully faced each other.

y/n tried to look strong and determined. whatever happened, she wanted to stand her ground. harry had a goal that he was going to reach no matter what. 

“how are you?” he tried to ask carefully, but y/n wanted none of it.

“what are you doing here?” she asked, bitterness seething from her tone. 

harry knew the fight was pointless and wanted to get straight to his point. 

“look, I need to talk to you about something. it’s really important.” 

y/n first looked at him and then around to figure out her next move. a sudden need for fresh air made her speak up. 

“let’s go to the roof.”

/ / /

harry’s heart was practically beating in his throat. her presence made him utterly nervous and the stakes were really high, unfortunately. the quiet journey to their current location at the rooftop terrace of her office was tense enough, and he just hoped their conversation would be a little less so. he looked at a questioning y/n who had her arms crossed over her chest with her bum leaning on the railing. she looked unamused, so he had no time to waste.

“the wedding. mitch and sarah’s. it’s on friday.”

a sudden glimmer of surprise washed over her features. much to harry’s surprise, she had forgotten. in an instant, her face found purchase in her hands, a languid sigh leaving her mouth.

“fuck, I completely forgot. and the rehearsal dinner is-“

“tomorrow, yeah.” harry finished. 

“god, that’s why sarah called me. I thought it had something to do with you! I was supposed to get some things sorted out for-“

“I took care of it.” harry, once again, finished her sentence and chose to ignore the bad aftertaste of her statement.

her rushed rambling came to a halt and y/n gave harry a puzzled look. before she could ask, he explained himself.

“I figured that you might have some other shit to deal with, so I took care of it. you also took tomorrow off months ago, so don’t worry about it.”

she let his words linger. for some reason, she was more confused than before.

“uh, okay. thank you. why are you here then? you came all this way just to remind me?”

“well, no.” 

harry paused briefly, a sudden wave of anxiety hitting him. maybe this was too ridiculous but there was no going back now. he looked up and spoke.

“look… I know that things aren’t good between us at the moment, hell, I don’t even really know if an “us” exists right now. and I also know I’m not in the position to ask for any favours because-“

“-you kicked me out, correct.” 

once again, a defining silence hung in the air.

y/n looked at harry in way that somehow combined hurt, anger, disgust and maybe a tiny bit of longing, or so harry imagined. his own shame that is attached to the situation by thick, heavy chains pulled him down into a very specific sort of depression once more, almost knocking the air out of his lungs. he tries to move on, desperately.

“look, y/n-“

“say it. say that you kicked me out. then we can continue this conversation. say it first.” she demanded.

harry swallowed hard, the weight of y/n’s demand heavy in his heart. he understood that she needed him to acknowledge his actions, his mistake before he could ask anything of her. but even now, amidst all of the shame he felt, he was still hurt, himself. he was hurt by the fact that the woman he considered to be his forever didn’t trust him. he was hurt because she lied. he was hurt because she wouldn’t let him help her. he was hurt because apparently he was just another man to him, after everything. it made sense with her past, but the naive part in him thought they moved past it. alas, it seems like they haven’t. so, he says what she wants to hear. he closed his eyes for a brief moment, gathering his thoughts, and tried to summon the strength to confront the truth.

“yes, y/n. things went even more to shit between us after I kicked you out. after we fought because you lied to me and because we haven’t properly spoken in weeks. after I freaked out and did something that I will probably spend the rest of my life apologising to you for because it was an idiotic thing to do and truly, I am sorry. unbelievably so.”

y/n understood that she wasn’t the only one who was hurting. she was painfully aware of the fact that she had previously done some things to bring him to that point of mental and emotional torment. she knew that he wouldn't just treat her like that out of the blue or without reason, but even with all of that knowledge in her mind, it didn't make the situation any less painful. she looked at him with a look that could only be described as purely and utterly defeated. she thought about arguing with him, right then in there. she wanted to scream at him, to slap him right across his cheek and tell him to go to hell and to never speak to her again. but alas, she refrained from doing so. instead, she sighed, deeply, wiped away the flyaways that were stuck to her forehead and looked at him one more time.

“right. what is it that you wanted to talk about, harry? I really don’t have time for this.”

harry chose to ignore how her complete ignorance for his apology or her statement of utter disinterest stung him deep in his chest and continued.

“what I was going to say is that I know that I am in no position to ask her any favours because of-“ he paused and closed his eyes: “because of what happened. but I need us to ignore our personal drama for their sake. just for the rehearsal dinner and the wedding, that’s all.” 

y/n’s brows scrunched up in confusion. “what do you mean?”

harry felt more and more stupid as the conversation went on.

“look, they're some of my closest friends and they’ve been waiting for this wedding for too long. I know that sarah always acts like she’s whatever about anything and that mitch pretends he’s too cool to actually want a nice wedding, but I know that they both secretly deeply care about it, and I don't want to be the person to spoil it all. I don't want to be the person who draws the attention onto himself. I don't want our personal lives taking any attention away from them and potentially ruin it all for them, I could never live with myself if I or we did that to them. so, I guess what I'm trying to ask you is: do you think there is a possibility that we could press pause on this whole thing? the fight, I mean. I'm not saying that we need to do it for the entire week, only for the rehearsal dinner and for the wedding. let’s just try to be normal and grit our teeth the entire way through, if we have to. I’m only asking because I know that sarah would do everything in her power to figure out what was wrong, even if she was in the middle of that fucking dance floor and is supposed to be having the night or for life. I know that they will probably pull us aside and ask us a million questions because they've done it before, but I cannot do that to them. not on their wedding day. not when we should be giving them all of our attention. we might’ve spoiled this for us but I cannot and will not do even the slightest bit to spoil it for them.”

harry paused his rant to look at y/n, almost entirely sure to get rejected. however, he’s surprised to find her deep in thought. almost as if she was actually considering it.

“so, what do you say?” 

y/n knew how ridiculous this entire thing would probably end up being. she knew that if she even had to pretend for a second to hold his hand, or to laugh at his jokes, to dance with him or - god forbid - kiss him, she would end up either crying in pure agony, throw up in a random corner, or actually go clinically insane. but, despite it all, she understood where he was coming from and she was well aware that his request was rooted in place of sincerity. hell, the selfish part in her was even excited because this way she’d have two more days with him. two more days of pretending like everything was fine and nothing was bothering them. because realistically, it would all be over afterwards, anyway. so, she did the unthinkable-

“okay, I’m in.”

harry stared in disbelief. “really? you’re absolutely sure?” 

without missing a beat, she nodded. “I mean, you do have a point. I wouldn't want to spoil their wedding plans either. I'll try my best to suck it up for two days and we'll see where we’ll go from there, deal?” 

she stretched her hand out for him to shake. he looked at it hesitantly and decided that now was the best time to ask for the other pressing request on his mind. so, before shaking her hand, he continued.

“there is one more thing, y/n…” 

she pulled her hand back and nodded for him to go on.

“listen, you can absolutely say no to this, but I just wanted to put it on the table in case you were interested. I- I don’t even know where you’re staying right now. are you at jane’s?” 

she nodded once more, annoyed at how well he could calculate her moves.

“right. so, you know that our home-“

“your place.” she deadpanned. “I really don’t think I can refer to that place as ‘home’ right now, but go on.” 

once again her words stung but he tried his best to understand.

“right, uh, my place. you know it’s about two hours from the venue and getting there from jane’s apartment would make the journey almost 40 minutes longer. also, all your stuff is still at my place and I might need some help carrying all the things that sarah asked me to collect. also, we were supposed to help with the setup-“

“are you asking me to stay over?”

truthfully, he was asking her to come back, but he knew that it wasn’t going to be this easy. maybe, at this point, it was entirely impossible. but he tried his best, anyway.” 

“I’m just saying it would make everything run a bit more smoothly tomorrow. like I said, you can say no. I’ll just come and pick you up from jane’s or we can meet up at mine beforehand… whatever works for you.” 

once again, y/n’s selfish side overtook her mind. she suddenly became hyperaware of the fact that she could possibly share a bed with him tonight, have him wrap his strong arms around her sleeping figure and feel peaceful for the first time in what feels like forever. in another reality he might even fuck her senseless, and she wouldn’t even have to fake her orgasm. in another reality she wasn’t constantly stressed because of work and wasn’t constantly anxious because everything was falling apart around her. in another world it was just harry and her spending the night together in their shared home, doing all the things that couples do, before they help their friends with their rehearsal dinner. harry would never have to lock himself up in his studio for hours on end to finish a song or be on tour for months and months on end, and y/n wouldn’t have to stare at a screen until her eyes were dry and work on reports and samples until the early hours of the morning. it would just be them, together, and it would be blissful.

she knew that none of those things were actually going to happen, but the sheer possibility was enough for her to agree to his proposal.

“you’re right, it’ll be easier this way. let’s do it. I’ll just have to pick up my stuff from jane’s but I’ll head to yours after.”

harry didn’t want to show it but he was filled to the brim with hope. maybe they could resolve things after all. 

“well then, we have a deal, y/n.”

this time, he was the one stretching out his hand for her to shake. she looked at it momentarily before meeting him in the middle and intertwining her hand with his. and then, they just stood there. hands interlocked and gazes on one another. time stops for a moment, both of them focusing on the feeling of touching each other again. neither of them really wanted to let go but eventually, they had to. y/n was the first one going for release but before she could let go, harry squeezed her hand tighter. he spoke before she could interject. 

“for what it’s worth, y/n, I’m willing to fight for this. until the very end. I don’t care how corny I sound, either. I mean it and I want you to know.” he said, pure and raw honesty dripping from his voice like honey. 

she couldn’t say anything, she couldn’t even look at him. all she could do was to let go of his hand and shift her gaze towards the sky. it was way too beautiful outside for her insides to feel as stormy as they did. 

“you should go, I’ll meet you at yours later.” 

her response left harry feeling cold all over. it was okay, though. he just hoped that they could be better, one day.

“right, then. see you tonight.”

/ / /

shortly after harry had left, she decided that her work day was over, as well. it was getting close to 7 pm and she’d finished her work so she wanted to leave as fast as she could. everyone else was already gone, anyway. so, she collected her belongings and made her way to her boss’s office to officially sign out for the day.

she knocked softly and was met with a cold “yes?”

y/n opened the door to find her boss, cynthia, at her desk with a coffee in one hand and future designs in the other. as always, the woman looked uninterested, bored and arrogant. a true the devil wears prada type of villain. y/n walked into her office, set any and all reports down on to her desk and tried to make her way out again when cynthia called for her, again. 

“where do you think you're going?”

y/n turned around, dreading what was coming next. 

“excuse me?”

“you need to look over maude’s mood boards. they’re sloppy and entirely useless. I need them done by tonight.”

y/n had no energy left. usually that meant that she would wordlessly do the overtime. right now, however, she wished for nothing more than to be asleep next to harry with his scent surrounding her and his warmth embracing her. so, she did something that she hadn’t done before.

“I won’t be able to do that, cynthia. please, ask maude to rework them. I have tomorrow off and need to be up early and-“

“I didn't ask for your entire life story y/n. I just need you to redo maude’s work, that is all.”

it was as if she couldn’t possibly fathom that y/n had denied her request. so, she went again.

“cynthia, I'm going to go home now. I honestly don't care who finishes that work for you but it won't be me. have a good night.”

adrenaline rushed through her veins as she made her way to the door. unfortunately, before she could leave, cynthia made sure to leave a mark.

“you know I gave you that promotion because I thought you were capable of handling it, right? not because I thought that you were going to end up being lazy once you have it. I can take it away from you just as fast as I gave it to you. I want you to know that before you decide to go home now and enjoy your day off tomorrow. we'll see how long you stay at this company with this kind of attitude.”

y/n turned around, red in the face with rage. “you can call me a lot of things cynthia. you can call me an overachiever or you can call me a pushover or a perfectionist or a crippling workaholic; all those things are true. I know one thing though, I am not lazy. since the day I started working here I have worked my ass off to prove myself. I don’t need your excuse for recognition, but I demand some fucking respect.”

cynthia and y/n looked at each other like gladiators would look at one another in the colosseum, fighting for their lives.

“y/n, if you seriously expect me to kiss your forehead and give you a gold star for doing the work I expect you to get done here, then you have chosen the wrong company to work for. I would suggest you start to toughen up a little and look alive if you see yourself having a career in this industry. no go, do whatever you need to do. I’ll get someone else to do the work that you were too incapable to do.”

y/n wanted to pour that piping hot coffee over her head and watch her scream. she didn’t, though. instead, she was left to think about a moment that harry and her shared about a year ago; a fond memory. 

“dude, I swear to god, she just fired the girl out of nowhere just because she couldn't get her the damn bag from the other city of the city in like 10 minutes which is, oh I don’t know, physically impossible!? and before she fired her she basically verbally abused her in front of the entire team, and I just had to stand there and say nothing! what kind of a person does this kind of thing? like, is she crazy? is she actually the devil?” 

y/n shoved another spoonful of pasta into her mouth while harry gave her an amused look. he tried desperately not to laugh, but the rosy tint on her cheeks that she got out of sheer frustration was nothing short of adorable. luckily, y/n started chuckling pretty quickly herself. 

“and then, oh my god, and then the girl just started crying and we all thought she would be a puddle on the floor, but no! she starts throwing shit on the floor and literally called cynthia a ‘raging fucking nitwit of a cunt that deserved to rot the deepest pits of hell’ and suddenly the entire office was involved!” - another laugh - “soon enough, security comes barging in and literally carry the girl out while she’s flailing in steve’s arms like a hyperactive, very angry puppy, and god, harry, I felt so bad! but it was so funny! not the fact that she was getting fired, god, no! but the way she handled it was so iconic! I wanted to kiss the ground she walked on!”

by the end of y/n’s story, both her and harry were laughing until their tummies hurt. harry continued to listen to her crazy work stories during dinner, after dinner when he washed the dishes, on the couch with her laying on his chest and him playing with her hair, and ideally, for the rest of his damn life.

the memory made y/n giggle. 

“something funny, dear? do you need a cordial invitation to get out of my office?”

y/n just smiled. 

“good night, cynthia.”

with that, she was on her merry way. 

///

“and you’re absolutely sure that this is a good idea?” 

jane stood before her in her doorway. y/n had told her everything as soon as she got home and they ended up talking for hours. 

“honestly, no. but I have a gut feeling that this might be the right thing to do.”

concern is etched deeply into jane’s face. a heavy sigh and a shake of her head later, she replied.

“look, just be careful. and no matter what, you can always come back. you have a key and my bed always has an open space for you. no shame.”

y/n felt so much love for her concerned friend in that moment that she stopped the act of tying her shoes to give her a tight hug. “I know.” she mumbled into her shoulder. “thank you.” 

they detangle and y/n grabs her duffle off the floor. one last knowing look is exchanged before y/n takes the first stride towards her car. jane waves her goodbye. when she sees y/n leaving her driveway she grabs her phone in an instant to send a text to the one and only. two words, and nothing but sincerity behind them.

“good luck.”

/ / /

6.3k, not entirely proofread, lowercase intended

after a billion million years, here's part four. i know it's a bit of a filler but I have some nice stuff planned for the remainder of this story, so please bear with me.

thank you and all the love <3

-ve !!

[antiodote]

DO YOURSELF A FAVOUR AND READ THIS !!!!!!!!!

This little monster came out to 16.8K. Fair warming, it gets BDSM-y — but, c'est a BDSM love story ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Also, this is NOT Mega Scary Harry — this is tentative, experimental, first-scene-testing-the-waters-H, but he does show some teeth. I hope you enjoy, and if you do, I'd love a note!

PREVIOUS PARTS HERE

Under normal circumstances, when a stranger approaches you wearing a mask that looks like it's been curated as an exact replica of something straight out of The Purge, and it's not Halloween, you'd want to have one of those knife-knuckle things on you, or, at the very least, pepper spray.

It wouldn't matter if the pepper spray had little plant stickers all over its casing, or if the knife-knuckles had a Jonas Brothers decal, you'd still want to have it. The aim isn't to impress whoever's wearing the terrifying thing.

But this Purge imitation belongs to a staff member, because her name tag says staff (and probably a stage name), so when Isla's approached by the stranger two steps out of the lobby into the lounge, her fingers aren't quick to reach for her purse. Which has her plant-sticker-bedazzled pepper spray. Not that she has her purse on her, anyways. Personal belongings go in lockers in the lobby. Phones, for the sake of privacy and ultimate protection, a phone jail — it's juvenile, but it works.

"Hi. Peitho?"

Isla clears her throat and shows friendly teeth, "Hi. Hello."

"You have a particular admirer! Eros has expressed interest in setting up a negotiation with you tonight. I'm going to assume you've met?"

Isla doesn't suck in a breath. She doesn't balk. She's chill, cool, composed, nonchalant. She's Peitho.

She'd be lying to herself if she said she hadn't spent the prior week ruminating on their ...activities, hadn't thought of his words against her ear, his zippers, his purposeful touch. Hadn't clenched her thighs together beneath her desk as she'd pored through documents at work. She doesn't have a particular engagement calendared in the evening, but even if she did, Isla would be too eager to blow the whole thing off in lieu of pursuing a negotiation with Eros. He hadn't been the ring leader, but he'd become the star. He'd left an impression.

Apparently, she had as well.

It was unusual to be approached by a staff member for these kinds of things. The usual method entailed a dominant approaching a prospective submissive in the lounge for a negotiation, always post some sort of initial interaction and discussion, or vice versa. A staff member meant he'd mentioned her before she'd arrived — that, perhaps, he'd looked for her, but instead of settling for a different, familiar play partner, he'd had a conversation with a staff member to scope her out upon her entry. The thought makes Isla warm.

She clears her throat, "Yeah. We had a conversation. I think he participated in a scene last week out in the lounge with me, as well."

Before the staff member can question her wording, not that it's her business whether Isla knows or thinks, she motions to her face and clears her throat again, "Uh, blindfold. That's why ...think."

Okay. She was not quite in that suave Peitho headspace, yet. Well. She was, when she'd donned her mask in the privacy of a cubicle out in the lobby, but learning that a particular dominant she was particularly interested in playing with had beckoned a staff member to flag her down two steps into the lounge had knocked her off her game, a bit.

The employee smiles. Julia. That's what her tag reads.

"I'm interested, yes," Isla blows out a breath.

"Great! He's already looked over your paperwork and signed off. If you'd like, I can escort you over to the negotiation room and set you up with his consent forms?"

So Isla tails Julia to the negotiation room and sits one of the padded leather armchairs and stares at its parallel facsimile. Then, Julia leaves to grab his packet, and Isla digs her fingers into the arms of the chair and contemplates Eros sitting across from her in his own seat.

Negotiation. Discussion. Preemptive conversation for a scene. The thought excites her. And when she's faced with his paperwork on a clipboard, a pen, and a bid from Julia that she's to toggle the buzzer on the wall upon completion, her heart starts to hammer behind her ribcage, in a nice sort of way. As nice as nervous can get.

Limits. Soft limits, hard limits, likes, dislikes, interests. Her pupils wend and peruse and scope and she flips and flips and flips through the pages. Reading, research, grounding. This she can do. This she does every day.

Eros, she learns, is a sane man by her standards. If she were to quora aspects of his paperwork, maybe, and someone whose existence adhered to religious principles (possibly missionary intercourse with lights off post marriage, but she's not judging) stumbled upon the page, they'd both probably be deemed damned, but.

He's well rounded! Isla gauges that he's definitely open-minded from his short, albeit sane list of limits. Much of it coincides with her own; fire, needles, knives, blood, bathroom things... a cinch works between her brows at the irony of a soft limit - sharing. She makes notes where she must, signs, and by the time she stands to press the buzzer, the little white clock on the wall indicates that she's spent well over fifteen minutes in the chair. So then, she sits back down. She crosses her legs. She drums on the clipboard. She waits.

It all feels a bit like a doctor's appointment, that perceptual preamble where they call you up out of the waiting room, only to sit you in a room by yourself where you stare at the wall and contemplate your decisions and everything that's led up to this point. Like, was this annual check up really worth missing your nephew's birthday party? When you walk in, you're unsure if you should hop up on the exam table, but, ultimately, you opt for the chair in the corner so you don't botch the creped doctor roll. And then you stare at some picture of a painted foot or a wall of brochures on STDs or ogle a plant in the corner, wondering whether it's real or fake, restraining the urge to get up and touch the leaves, for roughly the next hour or so.

Isla doesn't have to wait long, though.

The door cracks open, and when she twists her neck back, she's met with the sight of Eros, zippers and gloves and business casual attire and all. She inhales.

He talks first, and just like the first time, his cadence catches her off guard, so pleasant and warm and friendly, "Hey."

Like they're old friends catching up over lunch and he didn't spend last Friday night toying her body into submission.

"Hii," Isla tells him, eyes following him as he makes his way from the doorway to the armchair across from her, his own respective clipboard in hand. It's her paperwork. The door clicks shut. It's a privacy that's appreciated, but it leaves her feeling jittery, in a pleasant sense. She clears her throat, "I'm inclined to believe that you were part of a scene with me last week, and I'm also inclined to tell you that I was really flattered to find that you were interested in a negotiation."

"Was I?" his gaze narrows playfully through the slit, and the leather of the chair creaks softly as he sits back in it. His tongue peeks out to glide over the plush of muted berry, "Part of a scene with you last week?"

Isla blinks and swallows. She doesn't have to think about it, despite his teasing, "Yes."

"The way I recall it, you had a blindfold, so you wouldn't know, really," Eros cocks his head at her, "would you?"

The corners of her mouth jolt, "Maybe if you didn't give away that you recall I had a blindfold."

"Maybe I recall from the audience," despite the obvious jest, his tone offers no inkling of it — deadpan in decibel. Sarcasm was a particular quality about him — that she'd already learned.

"You don't," Isla assures, certain in her suspicions, and she crumbles his stoic demeanor with flattery, "You recall because you were the star of the show."

There it goes — the stroking of his ego. Invisible feathers ruffle and emerge in a preen. Harry gives, and sits forward, forearms against splayed thighs, "I'm flattered, but I think you earned that title."

In the pause that follows, he imagines a ruddiness has teemed over the surface of Peitho's cheekbones. He can't exactly see through the dark lace, but the little cue of her lips parting and the inhale she takes certainly creates viable ground for his hypothesis.

Anyways.

"Yeah you," he clears his throat as he sits back, watching her through the unzipped slit over his eyes, "certainly had me interested for more after that taste."

She thinks of it, that taste last Friday; his hands, his voice, the way he'd willed her to tears before he'd given her the taste of his cock. And it was his, she knew.

His stretching her open, his gloved grasp on her thighs, his breathy grunts.

Isla swallows.

"And I'm inclined to tell you that I'm flattered you were interested in pursuing my request for a negotiation," the latex glistens beneath the buttery shone of the lamp beside him.

It's actually a cutesy little room for a negotiation; matching chairs, a rounded side table with a lamp, an overhanging light of gorgeous glass, a rug of mauve hues beneath their soles. If it weren't for the wall decor, the handcuffs hooked onto the drywall, in particular, she'd think she was in her therapist's office.

Tell me your deepest, darkest secrets. That's how it would go there, and she supposes that's how it always goes in here, too.

"I had to sign off on your form to play last week," Harry sets his clipboard onto the side table, "so I already had kind-of-sort-of, an idea going into your paperwork. But that was, like, bare bones kind of stuff. So, d'you have any questions for me?"

Her chair creaks as Peitho sits up a bit.

"Yes, actually. So — sharing, you indicated as a soft limit, but I was just a little confused because, well," she purses her lips, and then they melt into a soft simper, "The scene last week involved multiple parties."

"Right," He rubs over his mouth with a pleather clad forefinger, and now, in better lighting, she can make out that his lips are a ruddy pink, soft-looking. Harry levels with her then, sitting forward, shiny flecks of reflection dancing in his gaze like mischief, "I don't prefer to ...share my play partners, so I don't lead scenes with other doms involved. And I don't usually play in group-settings. If I'm being totally candid, you were the first in a while."

Peitho seems pleased by that, if the slight shift in her posture is any indication.

"Oh, well, I'm flattered."

Flattered seems to be the theme of the night.

"And," her features screw behind her disguise as she releases a laugh, "Sorry? To pull you out of your comfort zone?"

She wrests soft laughter from him at that, and across from her, he shakes his head down at his interlocked fingers, "Don't be. S'what we're here for, right? To consensually be pulled out of our comfort zones?"

"I guess you're right about that," she nods, grinning.

He tacks on, "makes it fun," and licks his lips, his gaze open for questioning and still somehow imposing in its upper hand.

Isla presses her lips together, "Yeah. Yes. I agree. I had another for you, if you don't mind."

"S'what I'm here for."

"You indicated that you enjoy, um, like, really powerplaying up the powerplay, I guess I could say," she notes, staring down at her papers, "Like you emphasized, here, brat taming. So, that's, like. You're not opposed to your partner bratting, then? That's the way I prefer to play, I'm sure you've noted."

"Y'know, now that you mention it," he pretends to ponder for a second, "I have noted that about you, yes," his grin showcases pearly, straight teeth, "And, yeah. I like obedience — obviously."

She watches his gloved palm move as he talks, pupils following the motion, "S'like, the whole point of submission. But, I prefer to get submission the hard way rather than the easy way."

"Rather than... so, how do you feel about struggling?"

"Depends," Eros teases, "Me or you."

"Me," she licks her lips, "struggling."

The smirk that plays over the ruddy plush is easy-going, "Kicking, screaming, crying," the eye contact he makes on the latter feels aimed. It probably is. "Feel free. I'll work with all of it."

Isla takes a deep breath and counts down from five; tries not to let it come out in a shudder to expose how wracked with want the statement's left her.

"Okay, cool, cool, ...cool, follow up question, this one is a little, um, ...just out of interest," she meets his eye through the lace, "Would you consider yourself a sadist?"

"Depends."

"On whether you're wielding the bullwhip or I am?" she simpers.

Harry digs his tongue against his cheek, and teases, "Bullwhip. Is that your implement of choice?" and then he tells her, in all seriousness, "Depends how far it goes."

"How far it goes?"

He pauses, and then splays his arms over the back of the armchair, "Do you enjoy stubbing your toe?"

The peculiar question wrings the corners of her mouth into buckling, "No."

"D'you get wet when you scrape your knee?"

"Can't say I do, no," Isla purses her lips to stifle her mirth.

"I don't like inflicting pain to inflict pain," he tells her, then, smiling like they're talking about their favorite movies, "the same way you don't enjoy the pain of pain. It has to be backed by something, right? And for a masochist, that's pleasure, whether it's derived from a combination of the pain and physical pleasure, or arousal from dirty talk, or, I dunno, endorphins. S'all stuff I'm sure you're very self aware of."

"Right," she tells him. He's right — the pain, the pleasure derived from pain, it's all a sort of graceful balance on a wire spindled from a concoction. "And for you?"

"For me?"

"What makes you enjoy inflicting the pain?"

"Your pleasure."

If Eros notices the minute shift in Isla's crossed thighs, the way they squeeze tighter at his words, he doesn't make it known.

"I mean, there's, like, more to it, obviously. S'the marks, the tears, the fear. But it's the trust, more than anything. The control of making my partner so simultaneously terrified and trusting to let me inflict that pain. But," the rasp to his cadence leaves her stomach coiling with familiar warmth, "to answer your question, I would consider myself a sadist, yeah."

If his explanation didn't leave her with a flurry of butterflies bouncing back and forth along the lining of her stomach, the look he gives her definitely would.

"Yeah, it's a beautiful thing," Isla concurs, "that kind of trust," she blinks down at her left leg. Her grip on it has become obnoxiously tight. His lips crook as his gaze follows her own. Isla swallows, "Okay, yeah, I mean," she unlatches the deathgrip of her fingertips to motion with her hand, "that's — great to hear, because I think that pairs really well with my interests."

Harry eyes the little crescents over her skin abaft her own touch, amused. "Good."

"Okay, yeah," she clears her throat then, as if to ground herself, and her chin dips a bit as if searching for more to ask. Evidently, she comes up short, because she looks up after a moment and says, with a sheepish note to her voice, "I think that's it for me, then. Your stuff was all pretty, like, self-explanatory."

"Sick. First half down," he seizes his own clipboard off the stand beside him as she chortles, and he flips through the print for his own handwritten scribbles of notes, "Second half," he grins and casts his gaze up at her to maintain what would be eye contact, "I had a few questions for you."

"Oh, goody."

The corners of his mouth jolt, and he peers down at the clipboard, "Any allergies not listed?"

"Nope," Peitho rocks forward slightly, and tells him, playfully, "Nothing but pineapple, so please do refrain."

"I'll keep that in mind," he eyes her through the slits in his disguise, wryly amused, and then purses his lips, "Any medical conditions I should be aware of?"

The young woman shakes her head, motioning from side to side, "Nothing."

"Brilliant," the papers rumple and ruffle a bit as he flips through, gaze downcast, and then he glances back up to her, "This is all very fun stuff, I know."

"So much."

"But now," Harry looks through to the next page, "We get to the actual fun stuff. I had a question, here," his pupils skim, and Peitho watches him, seemingly curious and open, "Yes, so," his brows twitch, "Caning is a soft limit, but it's underlined here and linked with fear play, which is listed as a particular interest. Can you expand on what that means to you?"

The actual fun stuff.

"Sure," Isla squeezes her knees with her palms, "It's closer to a hard limit, honestly, but I do really enjoy fear play. It's the only implement that's a hard limit, and introducing it into a scene as, like, a threat turns me on."

Harry purses his lips, the corners of his mouth buckling, "Not spiders, not snakes? Insects?"

"Well," Peitho laughs, "Yes — I'm not a fan of those either, but I'm not particularly keen on you introducing a jar of fire ants while I'm tied up."

Harry tuts, and tells her, tone void of humor, "Shame," and then he digs his tongue against his cheek and tells her, "Kidding."

His eyes scope over the paper again, and he clears his throat, "So, for clarification, it's a hard limit that you would not like to be used, you're simply interested in the threat of it."

"Yes. Exactly. I mean, if you wanted to hit me with it once, as, like, a follow-up to the fear play thing, just to take it a little further, I wouldn't be opposed. But," she lifts a finger for symbolism, "just once, please."

Please. He does quite like the way that syllable rolls off her tongue.

"I do have to warn you, it does really freak me out, and I know it's irrational," Isla waves with her arm, laughing a little, "but if you even, like, bring it over to me during a scene, I'm gonna cry."

"Good," Eros tells her, simply, and then blows out a huff that resembles a short laugh. Whether he means that the information is good to know, or that it's good that she cries at the threat of a big stick, or both, Isla's unsure. Possibly the latter — Probably the latter, and that leaves her nearly squirming in her seat.

She adds, "So, just don't be alarmed if I start, like, hysterically crying at the sight of it, it's just, like, reflex. I'm ...enjoying."

"You're enjoying," Eros parrots, dialect smooth and syrupy and tantalizing, and he teases, "Alright, crying," he cocks his head to embody a link between the two, "Enjoying. Got it."

"On the topic, actually, um," Isla sits up a little, "I really enjoy to cry. So, a lot of times, for me, it's the goal of the scene. And I'll cry from just about anything; pain, pleasure, I don't know. If I'm in the headspace, it's easy to get me there. I," she pauses, her smile teetering on abashed, "love endorphins."

Slowly, Eros cocks his head and then nods, pupils flitting back to the paperwork. There's hints of mirth in his cadence, "I'll keep that in mind." He casts his gaze back up to her,

"You've also got kissing as a limit."

"Yeah, um, just not on the mouth, it's too personal," Isla shifts in her seat, "Elsewhere is," she breathes, her shoulders rising and falling, "...fine."

He doesn't provide any sort of inkling of protest, just nodding and fixing his sight back onto the papers, "Got it."

A pause, then.

"Anal, here, is listed as a soft limit, as well," the man blinks at her, "I'm assuming that means you're open to toys, but not anal sex."

"Correct," Isla nods, pleased and enthused with not only his attention to detail, but his thorough understanding and imbibing of her needs, "Plugs, fingers, stuff like that is all good with me, but I'm kind of a virgin with that region, so. I don't really wanna lose it during play, ...if that makes sense."

"Perfect sense," Eros tells her, "Crystal."

For a moment, his eyes seem to search over the papers in hopes of tying any other loose end, but he seems to come up short, satisfied, as he flips the packet back to its title page.

"Any particular interests beyond the," he lifts the paperwork wedged in his colossal palm, "formalities?"

"I think," Isla licks her lips and tells him with a small voice, "Everything should be in there. Um," she swallows, "I like pain, spanking, spitting, praise, degradation, hair pulling, face slapping, um, oral — receiving and performing."

She nods a little, "I like that a lot. Ropes, gags, cuffs, toys. Like," the young woman motions, "you mentioned with the powerplay, I like that stuff. Putting up a fight and losing. And," her shoulders rise in a shrug. She giggles, "Just really hoping you'll make me cry."

"I will," Harry gives the packet one last flip through, searching for any notes he may have missed, and grins as he casts his gaze up to her, "definitely do that."

Her smile is quite pretty and she shows it, laughing softly with a jerky nod, "Awesome, cool," she motions with her hand and swallows before she speaks, "Some doms are so ...like. I don't know, some aren't into that stuff, which is fine, and some are but get scared that I'm, like, this fragile piece of china, or something. So it's always fun to play with someone that is into it and isn't scared about pushing limits."

"Safe, sane, and consensual, right?" his grin is wolfish, "S'what safewords are for."

"Right."

"While we're on the topic, this kind of goes without saying," Harry's brows pinch, "but you can never be too thorough, you know? Since the aim is to push limits, please don't refrain from using your safeword if anything becomes too much, if anything becomes uncomfortable, if anything goes too far, or if you'd like to take a pause."

"Because," he sits forward a bit, "I have played with you once before, but that was in a fairly controlled setting with another dom that knew you well and understood where that optimal line was right before your limits. I obviously got a taste, and I've been pretty thorough with the paperwork. I have guesses for how far I can push with certain things, but there's a lot that you'd like to do, that I'd like to do," he motions with his free hand, "that we didn't introduce during that scene. Like."

He waves his hand, signifying that he's culling an example, "With making you cry — if that's the goal of the scene, and it's particularly difficult to make you cry, if I'm spanking you with a paddle, I don't want to keep spanking you with the goal of making you cry just for you to be unable to and I'm just, like, genuinely hurting you the entire time."

"I don't want my guesses to become overestimations of how much you can take," Harry pauses and licks his lips behind his mask, "My interests are keeping your enjoyment, your safety, your comfort, and my own in mind, first and foremost, so it's very important that we're careful as we learn to, like, toe the line of each other's boundaries."

Something swoons in Isla's chest. She's in love. Yes. Definitely, she's definitely in love.

It's a crying shame that the man of her affections is wearing a latex hood and that she doesn't know him beyond the fictional details he's spun into his plot. She certainly appreciates his care, concern, and meticulousness. Yes, she's in love with that, Isla decides.

"Of course," she reminds him, "I'm not new to the whole pushing boundaries thing, since a lot of my kinks involve pain and that kind of stuff, so. I really appreciate that you're so thorough with everything, though," she sits back and tells him softly, with a little smile, "Makes me feel very safe and comfortable."

"Wonderful. Trust and safety are the most important aspects with this kind of play, so. Sick. I think we've," he sets the packet down onto the table beside him and claps his hands together, "covered all the bases."

"Yes, it looks like it," she exhales, smiley and buzzing.

There's a lewd foreboding to his words, "We're going to have a lot of fun, I think."

"Definitely," she laughs.

Again, his delicious arms splay over the back of the armchair, and her irises flit from those to his splayed thighs, all hugged by his fancy work attire. She wishes some expanse of skin and muscle was nude enough for her to bite into.

"I hope the formalities didn't take you out of your headspace, too much, because," Eros licks his lips, gold light flickering in his gaze like a dance around a fire, "I'd like to do a scene with you tonight."

Isla doesn't need convincing. The young woman takes only a second, half for composure and half to string him along, before she tells him, giggly and eager, "I'm so down."

His own chuckle is like sweet music to her eardrums, "Yeah? Anything in particular you'd like to avoid for tonight?"

Isla ruminates, "Hm... um, I'm not sure."

"Anything sore, anything you don't want me to touch, any toys you don't want me to use?" Eros prods, coaxing, and after another moment of lull, he half-jests, culling laughter from her, "You're opening dangerous doors, otherwise."

"Okay, okay, okay, um, don't tie me up upside down," she lifts her fingers as she counts off, "actually — no suspension, tonight. No anal play," Peitho squeezes her eyes shut behind the lace and bares her teeth as if pressured under a timer. She's not. Harry listens patiently.

"I think that's it," she tells him, finally.

"Still a lot of very dangerous doors," Harry teases, and when she huffs, like he's prompted her to wrack her brain, the corners of his mouth jolt, "Relax. M'playing. If you think of anything else, do feel free to make it known, or if I do something during the scene and that inspires you to remember, bring it up then. Otherwise, everything I've got planned should feel good," and then he tacks on, half facetious and half not, "If you're good."

Isla huffs, "Ohh, God."

He laughs, and then, for a moment, Eros just seems to watch her, eyes twinkling deviously. Then he asks, entirely nonchalant, "How d'you feel about deepthroating?"

Fuck. Her knees press together. How does she feel about deepthroating? What a casual, conversational topic. Isla swallows, and responds, totally cool, with her vocal chords totally unwavering, "I can do it. I like it. I like it more when the other person takes a little more ...control."

"What about having your mouth fucked?"

FUCK. She does her best to curb the aroused note in her voice when she replies, bordering on nervous laughter, "That's — yeah," she blows out a breath, "Definitely one way to get me wet."

"Good to know."

Isla follows him to the door, paperwork in hand. He opens the door and tells her, smirk dancing over his mouth, "Ladies first."

She looks up at him, and the hedonistic urge that slithers through him, the excitement of watching the upturned corners of her smiley mouth morph into a sobbing pout, much like it was last Friday, is beyond debauched, "Such a gentleman."

Dimples rise awake, concealed from her, as he holds the door for her, "Mm. M'happy to remind you that chivalry's not dead."

"A man who's willing to beat me into submission and holds the door?"

Harry bites into his cheek, "When's the wedding?"

Isla cranes her neck back with laughter. This man is willing, more than willing to beat her into submission. Her parents haven't had access to her finances since graduation. Thank God.

Harry tails her, the curl of his strawberry mouth somewhat self-assured. "Wedding bells aside," Peitho is still laughing, a little, "I'll go see about a room, if you'd like to mentally prepare in the lounge?"

Mentally prepare. Headspace, headspace, headspace. Yes, she definitely needs to do that. Yes.

"Yes, okay," Isla tells him, still smiley.

And when their paths divide into opposite prongs at the end of the hallway, Harry heads to see about a room, still hungry to sculpt that smiley mouth into sobs.

The White Room is called The White Room because it's white. But Isla kind of thinks that a more fitting sobriquet would be The Green Room.

Isla's played in it before. It's a pretty room, in an insane-asylum-eerie sort of way upon wall-to-floor first impressions, and she's sure that if the room weren't stuffed with verdant hues, she'd feel inclined to wear a straight jacket. The young woman kneels in the center of the room, commonplace practice, joints pressed to chilled linoleum in an uncomfortable way that has her buzzing.

The chair against the wall is hugged by vibrant, forest green faux leather. The bed is not white, either. It matches the chair. In the corner of the room behind her stands a jet X-cross, and the wall beside it has rows of hooks of bondage equipment. The chest beside the chair, she knows all too well, harbors toys. It shouldn't be The White Room, it just shouldn't. Her pupils flit over the textured patterns in the tile beneath her, explorative in her prolonged wait for Eros. Perhaps the whitest thing about the room is the set of LED light bulbs screwed into the ceiling, which cast milky light that bounces off marbled walls to marbled floors and back.

The door clicks open. She's facing the chair, which stands paralleled, and this time, Isla can't twist back to see, because that's impolite. It clicks shut. Then, a slow, purposeful pad of shoes against the tile.

"Look at you, already kneeling like a good girl."

She half expects Eros to ruffle her hair as he walks past her, but he doesn't. He winds around, hands to himself, and she hears him sit down before she sees it. If her gaze travels as far forward as it's able to, face downcast, she can make out his fancy dress shoes and the hems of his tailored trousers through swirling lace.

"You can look at me."

So she does. His thighs, again, splay in resolute assertion of power.

"My name is Eros," the masked male cocks his head a smidge at her, and, if only slightly through the shadow casts between the parted zipper, Isla catches sight of a smile tugging at his lips on the latter fragment of his statement, "But you already know that. I'd hope, anyways. We've had a chat. Or two."

His lips — his mouth. Isla ogles the latex through the peepholes of her own and wonders what shape the rest of his features take, what carves and forges his face, how his nose slopes, the assemblage of it all.

"I think I recall, vaguely," she teases.

"Mm. Vaguely. I'll take note of that. Well, although we are acquainted," Eros smooths his fingertips over the arm of the chair, a lavish facade of plastic masquerading. The latter fragment of his statement prompts the steady bump of her heart to spur behind her ribcage. "You will address me as Master."

Isla swallows. Despite her prior train of thought looping so intently on the tracks to decipher what she believes he'd look like beneath his mask, it's entirely derailed by the serious note in his previously light cadence. She wonders how a mere introduction manages to send such a thrilling rush rolling down her spine. Eros leans forward, forearms braced to his splayed thighs, almost as if to bend to her level.

"Or Sir. Master, Sir, it's all the same to me. Your preference."

Master, Sir. Her knees ache.

Isla inhales and tells him, on the exhale, "Alright."

His head tilts just a bit. "Pardon?"

Isla lifts her chin, her hands still obediently pressed to the tops of her thighs, "Yes, Sir."

If the small instance of insubordination rubs him the wrong way, as intended, he doesn't comment on it. He just sits back, seemingly satisfied.

"I'm Peitho. But you already know this," Isla meets his twinkling gaze, her own shimmery with the inside joke of sorts. The silence in which his eyes rove over her, calculating, nearly sends a shiver down her spine.

"Vaguely," he finally says, lobbing her own sass back at her, teasing, and his mouth quirks, "What's your safeword?"

"Red."

There's only a beat of lull before Harry motions at her with his chin and instructs, "Take your top off."

Her hands don't immediately reach for the clasps behind her back. When she speaks, rather than just complying, there's a challenging degree to her voice, "I want you to take it off, Sir."

For a second, Harry doesn't say anything. His gaze narrows and his tongue sticks to the inside of his cheek. He sees her mouth twitch, is the thing. She's playing a game.

He'll play it too.

His voice is deceivingly soft, but it still carries that note of control, "Take it off."

Peitho stays still for a moment, like she's mulling over her options, like she's deciding whether she'd like to keep pushing him, but eventually, her hands raise from her thighs and wind behind her to work on the clasps. He hears the click as the fabric falls open and and as her arms come back forward the cups slip off her tits. She removes the piece, entirely unabashed by her own nudity, and casts her gaze up to him in question.

"Just set it down next to you. Nicely," Eros supplies. So Isla does that, folding one cup into the opposite and laying it onto the marble. She watches the man watch her for a moment, and then her pupils chase his figure as he stands to amble over, slowly.

"D'you know," his cadence is soft and sultry and low as he looms over her, tracing a cheekbone over the lace with the back of a gloved fingertip, "I've been wanting to play with you for weeks."

Weeks? The sentiment has her pressing her thighs together as she stares up, neck craned back. He cranes it further when his fingers rake through from her temple and wring into her roots. Her mouth parts as she breathes.

"And you," he starts, tone nonchalant, his vision flitting to his other hand as he makes work of his zipper, "Only recall my name vaguely. That's a bit disheartening to hear, innit, pet?"

Pet. She casts her gaze to his pants, where deft fingers tug and open and free. His belt, first, with clinks of metal on metal, and then his button and zipper. Her eyes get kind of ache-y from the strain, but it's worth it, because when he draws his cock through the opening of the zipper, girthy and long, an angry blush painting the tip ruddy, she thinks the scenic view merits the ache.

There's a specific sort of power dynamic that is set by one party kneeling in knickers and the other staying fully clothed. It's undeniable; it's power. Every dominant Isla had ever played with was all too eager to remove articles and leave them pooled in a trail to the bed. Which was fine, Isla liked that. She liked the expanse of skin to scratch, the muscles to bite into. But unlike her prior scenes, Eros doesn't seem keen to remove his clothing. He doesn't finger at the buttons of his dress shirt, drawing them through as he makes his way over to her, doesn't tug his belt out and off through the loops in a swift movement. He keeps his shoes on, and his tailored slacks, and his fancy work shirt. And Eros, with his dick sticking through his zipper, looks like a business-casual sexual deviant. He looks like power.

"Isn't it?"

Isla doesn't have time to feel embarrassed over the strangled little sound that falls from her mouth on its own accord as he yanks at her hair with his fist in emphasis. In contrast to the harsh motion, his tone lacks hardness; it's almost impassive, contemplating, "Sad that you can only vaguely recall me when you were wailing my name last week."

She bites into her cheek as he tips over her a bit, casting his tone into one that drips of mockery, "Eros, Eros, please, Eros, please fuck me, Eros! Please, please, please!"

Her nostrils flare as she inhales, the taunts sending fiery warmth pulsing between her trembling thighs.

"Does that jog your memory a bit?" his teeth show as his lips curl, condescension slithering over each word, and he incites her to respond with another little jerk, "Hm?"

"Yes," Isla grits out, humiliation coiling within her and intermingling with desire when he really leans over her, his grip on her tight and his tone hard.

"Yes, what?"

"Yes, sir," the young woman breathes out, a fusion of relief and arousal spiking when he releases her roughly, nearly shoving her head away as his touch retracts. She tacks on, almost under her breath, loud enough for him to hear for blatant reasons, "It vaguely jogs my memory."

His mouth warps sardonically, all smiles, like the calm before the storm. When he reaches around and coaxes her forward by the back of her neck, triggers a gasp out of her, he's certain it's more out of surprise than anything else. He doesn't tug on her hair, just guides her, although not too gently. And when he steers his tip towards her mouth, that same mouth falls open, eager. Harry watches her tongue twitch, not quite emerging, amused. It's a pretty sight to witness; what had just been such a bold display of cheek melt in order to encompass ardor to feel his dick on her tongue. Despite the way his shaft pulses in his grip, he tuts, sliding his opposite palm around and tangling his fingers into the roots of her hairline.

"So eager," Harry croons, drawing the head against her bottom lip and leaving it slick in his wake, "Aren't you? Just for a taste?"

She doesn't reply, impudent in true fashion, just breathing wetly against him, and that's fine, he'll let that slide. He's let it all slide, actually, because he knows that, despite her seemingly unwavering lip, his leverage and authority is boundless. It's all sort of a game, right? She pushes, he pulls, and eventually, she'll topple. It's an unsaid hierarchy they're both well aware of. But not now, because the game would be no fun if he didn't grant his opponent the opportunity to put up a fight.

When she pokes her tongue against the flushed crown, Harry tuts again and pulls back, "Ah-ah-ah. Put that tongue away. As a matter of fact, go ahead and close your mouth for me."

Peitho obeys, at least for now, despite the initial squaring of her shoulders and the hesitancy behind the submission, the whine of protest he's certain she'll release (but doesn't), and he traces her lips with his tip, somewhat pleased. It's delicate footing, for now.

"Good girl," he can sense she glows beneath the praise, but she falters on the tailing words that wear a smirk, "M'beginning to learn I like you best when you're nice and quiet."

If she's glaring through the lace, the male can't see it, but the thought amuses him.

"Right? Mouth closed makes you nice and easy. S'a shame you'll have to open up, eventually," he sighs, feigning pity.

When her fingers twitch and reach out to latch onto the legs of his pants, gently, he discourages it, tone not so gentle, "Hands behind your back. Let's find a better use for that smart mouth."

And she obeys that, too, drawing the handsy limbs back and opting to cuff her touch palm to elbow, instead. The compliance, Harry learns, just as he'd suspected and expected, is short-lived. Because when he nudges at her strawberry mouth in finality, drawing her bottom lip down for a peep of teeth, and beckons, "open," Peitho doesn't instantly oblige. She just sits there for a minute, with her tongue quiet in docility, and her hands behind her back in submission, but her procrastination serves as symbolism that she's goading.

And he lets her do it, for a second, before he taps at her mouth with his tip, his words firm, "Open. If I have to ask a third time, you won't like it. I can promise you that."

The young woman does open, technically, but it's to spew cheeky retorts, and the whole notion doesn't exactly adhere to Harry's intentions.

"You told me to close my mouth, so I closed it."

She sounds so innocuous, too. Like a perfect little angel, flying through loopholes.

"Yeah? Did I ask for the backchat, too?" Harry entertains it, cocking his head down at her. He'll let this slide, too, he decides. His cock twitches in his clasp.

"I'm not talking back, Sir, you told me to keep my mouth closed," Peitho feigns innocence, her cadence deceptively sweet.

"Maybe," he sighs, narrowing his gaze down at her, "the miscommunication is my fault."

Isla's heartbeat thunders in the surreal, eerie calmness of his tone.

"You think I'm asking. So, how about we clarify this. M'not asking you to do anything. I'm telling you."

In response to his words, the young woman feels a shuddery thrill wrack down the knobs of her spine, and she nearly melts onto the marble then and there.

"And now," the fingers that'd loosened considerably on her hairline tighten into a fist again, inducing her heart to stutter at the flicker of pain, "I'm going to tell you to stick your tongue out, and you will do it, because you are told to do it. Let's try that. Open your mouth, and stick out your tongue."

His dialogue seems to make some footing, because she does it with ease post his little simplification. Harry tacks on, "As far as it will go."

At that, Peitho stretches the muscle and it slinks out a little further, pressing over her chin. Satisfied, he doesn't waste any time before he tucks his cock into her mouth and nudges in, nearly to the hilt. And instantly, she's sputtering around him in surprise. It's not nearly as rough as it can be, but he's not soft and slow about it either. It's a trial run, though. A hint, a preparation lacking preparation. Harry slides out, letting her cough over him in a desperation for air. As soon as he hears her siphon an inhale, he slips back in, a little further this time, and holds himself there for a moment. He feels her tongue flex against the underside of his shaft and her throat spasm around him, her posture lurching.

"S'alright if you gag," the male bites back a hiss, straining to keep his cadence even as warmth and wetness constricts over his tip, "I don't mind. I'll just go deeper."

And Isla does gag, but not by her own volition. It's reflexive, spurred by the combination of her own, stuck-out tongue and the way his cock twitches at the back of her throat. In turn, he follows through on his promise, and nudges further. It's only for another second before he pulls all the way out, but it's enough of a timespan for her lashes to flutter against the lace and for her irises to loll back. As he draws out, the young woman groans, panting, and the only thing that bars her face from turning towards the floor are his knuckles at her roots, seemingly insistent on keeping her head up.

"I'm going to fuck your mouth, and you're going to be beg me to breathe," Harry tells her, eyes half-lidded, and adds, nonchalantly, "and then I'll decide if you've deserved it."

"But how can I beg you when your dick is stuffed down my throat," Peitho questions, slumping a bit as his grip loosens, "Sir."

There's enough cheek behind her tone to indicate that the question has more motives in bratting than actually seeking suggestion, though. There's no inquiry to her words.

Harry digs his tongue against his cheek, and only allows her a moment of satisfaction at his silence before his mouth curls with traces of sadism, "You'll figure it out. Or," he shrugs, and then hauls her to sit up straight by her hair, culling a soft, pained sound he could certainly get used to hearing from that sweet, puffy mouth, "You won't. But then you won't breathe, I suppose," Harry motions with his chin, leaving no window for protest, "Tongue out."

As soon as her mouth falls open he thrusts forward, just halfway, pulls back, and stuffs himself to the brim. Isla screws her eyes shut behind the lace, her fingers trembling and jolting behind her back through the fight against gagging. Above her, Eros groans, and his verbal indication of satisfaction spawns warm wetness between her clasped thighs. The male pulls out all the way, once more, and propels forwards until Isla feels her nose dig against his trousers.

"Fuck, baby, just like that. Take it — just like that."

The praise incites fiery pride to coil within her, snaking through her system and settling in the trench of her tummy, and she squirms with her own arousal.

"Christ, wish I could see those pretty, little eyes looking up at me," he traces a fingertip at the lower seam of her mask, touch uncharacteristically sweet.

The young woman hums around him. Harry ogles the stretch of her mouth over his shaft, revels in the slither and slip of her tongue on the underside, waves of hunger rolling through him. Prompts her hum of agreement to morph into a little cut-off sound as he pumps forward, harder.

His jaw settles into a sturdy line as he bites back a moan, "But I'll have to settle on staring at that filthy, little mouth wrapped around my cock and that snug, little throat taking me down."

Isla's fingers twitch for a different reason, then.

"S'quite pretty, you know," The man grunts, utilizing both hands as his fingers slither and settle on either side of her head, weaving into loose strands, "F'only you could see what a wrecked slut you look, sweetheart."

Peitho moans over him as he plunges forward, and Harry presses his tongue against the back of his top front teeth, chasing the contraction of her throat and the subsequent slew of wordless pleas, "Show me. Show me how that pretty mouth takes cock. Show me how you beg for air."

And she does beg. After a while, despite the steady arousal that spikes and just keeps spiking with the funishment, eventually, it does get hard to breathe. When he really starts to pick up the pace, starts to ram against the back of her throat, clogging her airway, she can't help but to beg. It's wordless, muffled, incoherent hums and moans that strum and vibrate over his shaft, sending shuddery ignitions of pleasure through his being, but it's the best she can manage.

After the first few, wet and choke-y and increasing in desperation, his hips slow, and Harry muses, condescension dripping off his words, "What was that? I can't quite make out," his mouth quirks at an interruption, a frantic whine that melts off into whimpers that increase in decibel as he nudges forward, slowly, just resting at the back of her throat. "Are you trying to tell me something, darling?"

He lets her chest heave for a millisecond before he withdraws quickly, almost ripping a gag from her in the process. Peitho nearly falls forward then and there, bracing her palms against his thighs as she coughs and wheezes. Harry waits a good, long, patient moment, cautious of her state, and he lets her get close enough to composure before he guides her face up and nudges back in. This time, though, her palms stay planted to his thighs, not quite twisting at the fabric, but stationary.

After a little more of those harsh plunges forward, she's back to begging, throat bulging as she chokes around him. This time, though, he wrings it out a little longer, tutting and crooning, "I don't know what that means, pet, you're going to have to be a big girl and use your words."

Seeing beyond the lace detailing is complicated enough with an untainted gaze, but all hope is lost trying to decipher through the gloss of tears that coats her eyes. She feels them slip and trail, wetting the shrouding, and when Eros pummels forward, she taps against the sturdy muscle of his thighs wildly. Quickly, then, Eros pulls back, and his pleather-clad fingers slacken considerably, with one hand unwinding altogether. Isla coughs and sputters, leaning to brace her forehead against the back of one of the palms fixed to his legs. The pads of his digits transform into a comforting caress against her scalp rather than a cruel tug.

"Too much?" Isla hears overhead, but she focuses on gasping and panting for composure, blinking tears away and feeling them soak the fabric of her mask.

When she doesn't answer right away, a seed of worry buds in his chest. He lets her breathe against his thigh a little longer before he pats her cheek with his free hand, gentle, leaning over her a bit.

"Darling, I need you to tell me if you're alright."

Finally, she abides and sits up, reveling in the petting over her cheek and the scratching at her sore scalp, "S'too much? Do you need to safe?"

He's tempted to suggest they take a break from this particular activity altogether for the night, then. And when she tilts her head into his touch and says her derisive words in a tone dripping with such sugar, he nearly grits his teeth and bends her over the bed to whip her then and there.

She clears her throat, and the statement plucks from raspy, strained vocal chords, but it's just as out of line as it would be without her throat bruised, "Don't worry. I don't safeword for mediocre performances."

Harry's mouth sets into a hard line. He'd be lying if her defiance, albeit entirely jesting, doesn't catch him off guard. And quickly, caution and intent to nurture mutates into something much darker.

"I think you're forgetting," he tells her, cadence chillingly calm, and despite his intentions, his touch stays deceivingly gentle; he even caresses her cheek a little while longer, "Which of us has the degradation kink, love."

For a moment, something squeezes in her chest, a worry that she's genuinely offended him, and Isla backtracks, "Wait — I'm sorry." Her voice cracks and his eyes flash dangerously, "I didn't mean to," she chews on her lip, "I wasn't trying to hurt your feelings, I didn't mean it like that. I was just playing."

She hasn't — hurt his feelings, that is. But Harry would be lying if he said he wasn't rightfully irate that she'd prolonged telling him that she wasn't aching for an oxygen tank and played it off with snide backchat. Especially in their first scene.

"Just playing," Eros laughs, void of humor, and suddenly that worry in Isla's chest grows tri-fold into a different direction. He states, deadpan, "So you're fine. You don't need to safe."

"No," she bites into her cheek, the pang flesh between her teeth grounding as shame sprouts, "I'm okay. Sorry. I'm sorry."

Sorry. Yes. That, she certainly will be, Harry decides.

Eros cocks his head down at her, and as his touch falls away and he makes work of tucking his cock, still hard and straining, back into his pants, Isla bites into her cheek harder with a fresh layer of tears glazing her sight. She hadn't meant to, like, insult his manhood. Isla eyes him through the mask, bridling her pout. At least she hadn't made him soft. Her gaze flits to the floor in discomfort.

"S'funny," Harry starts over her, forcing her face up with his hand on her chin, "How such a sweet, pretty girl spews such filth."

Isla's mouth twitches and the corners turn down a bit.

"Stand up," he orders, tone biting. Isla blinks the wetness away, stupefied for only a second before he reaches for her elbow and lugs at it harshly, "Stand up, I said."

So she does, her joints aching from the prior, drawn-out kneel. And she doesn't have time to stretch her limbs before the male guides her towards the bed with a firm grip on her forearm.

"I have put up with a lot from you tonight, darling," the way his mouth curls over the pet name with a sharp edge rather than with praise leaves Isla doused in shame for all the wrong reasons. It sends hunger flooding through her. "But I think it's quite time you learn what proper discipline really is, right?"

"Not just," Harry tells her as the mattress dips beneath his weight, as he yanks her forward over his lap, "fun and games, choking on cock."

He jerks her lacy underwear down over the curve of her backside unceremoniously, pleased with the glinting remnants of arousal on the fabric, "Though I'd be pleased to bruise your throat enough for you to lose your voice," he huffs in wry mirth, "Maybe then you'd finally shut the fuck up."

Isla stares ahead, a furious blush working over her face and warming her cheekbones. Her fingertips burrow into the comforter, but it's tucked and tight and neat, so there's not much give for her digits to twist into it.

"For a first scene," her ankles cross as she feels his hand stroke over the globe of one cheek, "pushing boundaries can be tricky, right? S'like, you want to satisfy, but you don't want to push too much. And when I'm asking you," the young woman gasps when his hand suddenly comes down, hard — harder than she'd expect for a first strike, "If you're okay after I've not let you breathe," she jolts forward when another blow is delivered, right on top of the first, "and you decide to lob some cutesy, little comment at me, it's careless and beyond insufferable."

She blinks down at the mossy green, pointing her toes and releasing a high, little unph when he smacks her again.

"If you're going to be a little brat, that's fine by me," another strike, a loud one that bounces off the walls, "because I will show you how I treat brats." Isla bites into her lip as two land in rapid succession and she squirms a bit. The young woman inhales sharply through her nose when, as she braces for another impact, instead she finds him digging his fingers into the reddened skin, pinching harshly.

"I get it," Harry watches her, the sadistic streak within him thriving, beaming, glowing at the squeak he incites as he squeezes over her curves sharply. He clears his throat, "You play with a new dom, you wanna push the limits, right? You wanna see how much you can get away with, what slides. Unfortunately," he bites back a smirk as he smacks her and coaxes a loud cry in the process, "You will quickly learn that my limits don't have much give."

His voice is suddenly dark and serious, no traces of play to his warning, and Isla wonders how can shift so seamlessly from easygoing rumination to stern disciplinarian, "Because I think, typically, you get spanked, you stomp your little foot, you whine, and then you go right back to being cheeky because the lesson didn't stick. I will assure you, this will stick."

Isla gnaws on her cheek.

"But I suppose actions speak louder than words, right, sweetheart?" he punctuates the rhetorical question with another blow that culls a breathy, girlish grunt from her, "So, I'm going to give you a taste of what it will be like if you keep pulling little stunts like that."

He can feel her shudder over his lap, and Harry pets over her curves, satisfaction flourishing at the ruby hues that bloom post his touch. For the first time tonight, she doesn't protest with a slick, unwarranted opinion. She's not impish, or playful, doesn't poke at him. For the first time, she's proper docile.

"You will absolutely not make snide little jabs when I'm concerned over the safety of our play, and if we are going to play," three more hits have her stretching forward, "this is going to be nipped," he punctuates, "in the bud," each word, "now," with a smack.

Isla presses her cheek to her arm, chills spreading over the expanse of her skin at his words almost as rapidly as an uncomfortable shame spreads through her chest.

"And later, if you are just aching for a reminder, I'm always happy to oblige. Perhaps next time I'll put pretty stripes all across the backs of your thighs with the cane that you've expressed you love oh-so-much," his blow is tailed by Isla's squeak, "How's that sound? I think marks would be a pretty solid reminder."

When she doesn't respond, he can tell that she's sensed there's genuine disappointment there, despite his cruel teasing. He digs his touch into her flesh, culling sweet little sounds from her mouth and siphoning warmth to her skin with each harsh fondle.

"This will serve as your warm up," Harry clears his throat after a little while. "I've learned that you apparently don't need me to check in with you. So I won't be."

Isla shifts over his thighs, and holds her breath when she feels the fabric of his pants brush against her calves as he throws his leg over the both of her own.

"Kick, scream, cry," her face burns as he talks, "I don't particularly give a fuck. Your safe word is there. Safe out if you need to. Otherwise, you can shut the fuck up and take it. If you behave like a brat, you will take the consequences that brats get from me."

When he starts really spanking her, Isla learns the blows she'd received during his scolding had truly served only as a warm up. A handful of smacks, dispersed by his words, solely for the purpose of drawing heat to the skin, as loud and as hard as they had been, don't even come close to her actual consequences. Because the warm-ups had breaks, they were distributed, he hadn't honed his focus on one particular spot and smacked her there over and over and over and over with no hint of give, like he does now. Hadn't propped up her hips to fixate on her sit spots again and again and again. And the thing with pain play and masochism was that, in spite of the eventual release of endorphins, there was always that initial little window of fuck, this sucks, why did I ever sign up for this?

It's sort of like getting into a cold pool, right? You tread from dry land to ankle, to shin, to knee, to hip (where you lungs lock up and lose function for a moment at the chill), and at first, it fucking sucks a little. But eventually, you adapt. Of course, a cold pool doesn't necessarily equate to a release of endorphins that leave you floaty and agreeable, nor does it entail screwing your eyes shut and digging your teeth into the back of your hand as someone hits you over and over, but. Same sort of difference.

Isla finds herself stuck in that fuck, this sucks purgatory period a bit longer than usual, twisting and writhing over him. And she knows that ultimately, she'll succumb to a haywire release, like she always does, hormones and chemical reactions that override her response to the pain entirely, but for now, God, it fucking sucks.

True to his word, Harry doesn't check in.

He doesn't even make any sarcastic digs at her, despite any urges to do so, muzzling the "having fun?" that sits on the tip of his tongue as Peitho squirms over his lap. He doesn't want to give her any clearance to make digs of her own. Though, Harry's sure that she's not exactly keen to do so in her vulnerable predicament. And even though the punishment is meant to correct behavior, the goal isn't to make her safeword, so he does take special care to differentiate her whines and the genuine sounds of pain, listening in and focusing on particular spots testingly. He doesn't exactly ease up when he strums a sound of discomfort from her, but he only directs his attention there for a short while before his concentration shifts towards other areas. He's a sadist, but that doesn't mean he isn't considerate. And he's still painfully hard beneath her, is the thing; every time a pretty cry spills from her mouth, every time she squirms, every time she kicks out with her foot, he can feel his cock pulse against its constraints. Despite this, he doesn't directly chase a note of pain once he's harvested it.

She stretches one of her arms out, kicking her feet up off the floor when he centers his palm over her backside and fixes a smattering of blows over the same area again and again and again. It leaves her skin burning, sparks of pain zapping like fireworks over the surface of her flesh with each strike, and each strike, driven with purpose, comes down like the aim is to tattoo the sparks into her. He's making it stick, true to his word.

Isla reaches her hand back in a half-hearted attempt, crying out, a sheen of familiar tears over her eyes, "Sorry, I'm sorry, please, please."

When he grapples for her wrist, interlocking their fingers and binding the stray limb to her back with his grip, she feels that shift. The teeter of pain into pleasure. It's slight, it still hurts, she's still sort in that fuck, this sucks headspace, but she feels herself starting to roll into it. It's kind of a snowball process. Everything gets fuzzy, tinges of pleasure intermingling with the pain, and then her body starts to buzz and her brain sort of resets and circumvents.

Harry tuts, tongue clicking against his teeth, and tells her, with no signs of give, "I don't know what that means. Are you asking for more?"

She just sort of groans for a moment, burying her forehead against her hand, nipping at the blanket with her teeth, and then he draws a squeal out of her and she lurches forward, "No, please, no more, I'll behave."

"I don't think you've quite gotten the message," the male shakes his head, her whines and whimpers satiating something wicked and vicious in him.

"I have! Yes I have," Peitho gripes, "I'll behave!"

He gives her five more before he turns his head around towards her, gaze cast against the back of her head, "Will you? Behave yourself?"

"Yes," Peitho tells him, but he can see that she's started picking at her nails and that there's an unsavory note of defiance latched onto her cadence.

"Yes, what?" he prompts, but his tone is neither hard nor gentle. It's apathetic with testing.

She takes a moment too long to respond, shifting on her tiptoes, and Harry sighs and smacks her again. The young woman squeaks, going lax and planting her face into her arms. Her next statement is muffled, "Yes, I'll behave."

"That's not what I'm looking for," he trails pleather sheathed pads over her heated skin for a second, wallowing in her hum and the white tracks that accompany his touch.

When she doesn't eagerly correct herself and take advantage of the opportunity, Harry gives her the benefit of the doubt and tells her, hinting firmly, "Yes, Sir. Say it."

He watches her back move as she inhales and huffs into the mattress, sighing, "Yes..." and then her voice just trails off, like paint off a brush dragged down the expanse of a canvas. Dot, dot, dot. Just like that. Harry waits. Peitho wriggles. He sighs. She sighs, too.

O-kay.

Learning limits, that's what tonight is about — for the both of them, apparently.

"I had higher hopes," the man practically snorts before he manhandles her hips back over his lap and starts striking over the peachy flesh. The protests, unlike her willingness to obey, come instantly. And first they come in whiney wails and stray hands, and then they come in shattered whimpers.

"I'll behave, Sir! I'll behave, please, please —" he shakes his head as he locks that wandering hand back over her back, just as he'd done before. It's appalling, honestly, how pliant and agreeable she gets under his palm and how quickly she snaps back into her prior tactics when he takes any sort of pause.

"You won't behave, and now that I know you won't behave I'm not going to be so generous."

"Yes I will, I promise I will — ouch! Please—"

"Your promises don't mean much to me, unfortunately. We can spend the whole scene like this, if that's what you'd like. S'shame, I had so much planned, too."

Despite the pain from his hand, her body betrays her, as it always does, fiery want licking along her nervous system and pulsing off her nerve endings each time he strikes. Isla knows she's gushing, knows he'll see, because she aches with need between her legs. And despite all of this, it still fucking hurts.

"And y'know," he tells her, his scoff incredulous over her sharp cry, "the saddest part is that I'm being so nice to you right now. Because I'm accommodating and reasonable. And what are you? Hm? An ungrateful, little slut."

The coarseness of his words, his tone, that does something. It sends an erotic wave of hunger rolling through her, and Isla groans before melting off into practically incoherent thank you's that mesh with shrill, breathy moans and gasps and pleads and Sir's. And then ...something just clicks. Something magnificent clicks, like two gears that wedge together just right, and her moans and gasps and pleads morph into sobs.

And that's where Harry wants her, he learns. That's the breaking point, the sweet spot. Because then, she gets pliant, and sniffle-y, and docile, and she just sort of takes what he gives her with the occasional, soft "please." He learns it when he pauses to shake out his cramping hand, fully intent on going right back to it, when he picks up on her whimpers, even as he's withdrawn, and his face pivots to drink in the sight of her, sprawled and docious. His gaze is curiously calculating for a moment, and he smooths his hand over her backside in lieu of smacking deeper hues out. Peitho sniffles in response.

His voice carries a purposeful degree of firmness when he asks, again, "Are you going to behave yourself?"

There's a soft breath, a sluggish shift in her muscles, another sniffle. And then, a small, unmistakable, "Yes, Sir."

This is the push and pull — this is the topple. Harry draws his hand over her bare back, palm drifting gently, and he takes his leg off the both of her own. Her calves twitch and tendons protrude as she stretches.

"There's a good girl."

He lets her bask in his touch for a moment, using his opposite palm to stroke over her backside, and he eyes the pretty artwork he's left inscribed over her skin with a cruel sense of pride coiling at the colors left behind. His fingers drift lower, prodding, and she stiffens upon the explorational touch. The corners of his mouth crook when his hand withdraws and arousal glints and emphasizes the jet tips of his gloves.

"Poor baby," he coos, the softness in his tone contrary to the harsh edge it'd previously exhibited. The man leans over her a bit, using his other hand to tug up on one of her bruised cheeks, and he pries a subdued little hngh from her in the process, "S'it hurting?"

Isla's unsure whether he's referring to her backside or her cunt. It's all starting to get a little foggy, if she's being honest. But, yes, she decides. Yes, to both. So she answers, minding her manners with no hesitation (for the first time in the night), "Yes, Sir."

Eros tuts.

"Poor, little, soppy cunt," — her cunt, she deduces, he'd meant — and her digits scrabble for purchase at the sheets when she feels him spread her and spit. It's sacrilegious, he's — he's a sex demon, Isla decides, then and there. The mirthy, devious, little hum Eros releases over her as his gloved fingers brush between her legs, parting her to spread the saliva has her simultaneously rocking back into it and spreading her legs.

And he obliges, middle and index running along either side of her clit in a delicious 'V' that pointedly avoids exactly where she needs him most. Sex! Demon! He's self-aware, too, is the thing, laughter soft as her hips shift and grind against his lap, against his fingers, and then his touch retracts altogether, only to come prodding into her, and that's, just. That's — Christ.

"Christ, you're a snug little thing," has her writhing as his digit sinks in, to the hilt, "Gonna squeeze over my cock like that?" his head twists to find that her cheek is pressed to the comforter and her mouth has fallen open, "Hm?"

Harry indulges in those sweet noises she makes as he slides his finger out to the first knuckle and stuffs it back in, revels in the tremble of her thighs. A sly smirk stretches over pillowy rose as he thumbs at the bundle of nerves and a shiver tumbles over Peitho's shoulders. Then, in true, evil fashion, he slips the finger out and removes his palms altogether, fixing his touch onto her hips and squeezing as a cue that he'd like her to move. The young woman shuffles her feet, the beginnings of a whine working its way through her vocal chords, but Harry stifles that with another smack, and that seems to do the trick. With no lingering objection this time, Peitho lifts her head and cards a hand through her hair before she plants her palms against the mattress and pushes herself up.

It's not her mewls that remind Harry of his own arousal. It's not her squirmy hips, her taut muscles, her cunt spasming around his finger — though, those certainly add to it. It's her face as she stands and slots, body language abashed, between his splayed thighs. Her skin is flushed, and tracks of her tears shimmer in the light, no doubt from the movement of the lace as she'd burrowed into the sheets. It's her mouth, swollen from nippy teeth, wet with the sobs she'd expelled over his knee. He can't see her nose or her eyes, but he yearns to, more than anything in that moment, certain that her lashes are clumped and that the whites around her irises are bloodshot. It's that thought that reminds him that he's still so painfully hard.

He reaches out to thumb at her mouth, pleased in the way she just lets him smush over her lips, lets him draw her bottom lip down. The opposite hand rests on the small of her back. He takes a slow controlled inhale, slinking his palm to her tender backside and squeezing. Harry's cock jolts at the pained sound that escapes her, and after a moment, he taps on Peitho's hip in decisive finality, coaxing her to take a step back and allow him room to stand.

"On your back."

He doesn't watch her to make sure she follows his instructions before he winds around her to the wall with hooks of ropes and ties and cuffs, but Harry does hear the bed sink, so he assumes she's wise enough to comply. A braided black cable runs over his palm as he examines, contemplatively.

Isla's heartbeat had managed to slow considerably post his rough touch, but watching him muse over the plethora of bondage equipment through the lace causes the muscle to hammer away, just a smidge faster. She's flat on her back in the center of the mattress, just as Eros had directed, and her desire spikes as he seems to settle on his choice, starting to work on unwinding a series of thick, dark cords. These are shorter in length, an indication that he's interested in fastening numerous body parts down rather than weaving shibari patterns over her skin, and the notion has her squeezing her thighs together.

When he makes his way to the foot of the bed, binds in hand and gaze dark, he really does look the part of The Executioner. And when he sets the ropes down and his eyes rove over her, her heartbeat spikes in worry that she's done something more to displease him. Instead, his pleather clasp hooks onto her ankles, gently. The shift from the gentle grasp to the rough drag as he jostles her towards him has Isla gasping sharply. Eros yanks her to the foot of the bed, forcing her knees up, and standing between her parted legs. The way his pants brush against her tender thighs leave her aching with another flood of craving. Wordlessly, he takes one of the ropes and winds it about one of her ankles, working to secure knots with deft fingers that she's sure have done this time and time again. Her evidence is the length of the process, the strength of the bonds, the way, after he's bound one taut to a column on the four-poster bed, she tugs with her leg experimentally and there's absolutely no give. The dominant makes quick work of the other, pausing before moving on to her hands to drink in the view. Isla squirms under his gaze, and when her knees fruitlessly attempt to clasp, suspended and fastened, his mouth crooks.

Harry tilts his head a bit, "Thought you liked being ogled."

She doesn't respond, biting into her lip, and her cheek turns away against the mattress. Harry huffs, amused. He makes quick work of her hands, kneeing his way onto the mattress at her side. Binding those together, he loops the cord through the vale in between the two with consideration before he sets her arms up over her head, providing just enough give for her elbows to bend a smidge and making sure that her circulation isn't being cut off. He's intent on hurting her, but not like that. Once the other end of the rope is secured to a bar in the headboard (he's never been more pleased that a bed offers so many points to secure a rope), he sits back, satisfied.

"Try to get out," he demands, voice hard.

Peitho tugs at the restraints, and the half-hearted attempt has him narrowing his eyes.

"Really try," his mouth purses as she wriggles, "Come on, darling. Should I get the cane? Really make you kick and scream to see if these are," he grapples onto the tensed cord secured to her arms, inducing a gasp as he jostles over it roughly, "suitable?"

The implication sends a shudder through her, and Eros seems to be content as her limbs thrash to no avail.

"Lovely," he exhales, standing and palming over his bulge. For a moment, a spark of terror ignites within Isla as she watches him head off towards the wall of implements, but he simply squats in front of the chest and rummages through it.

When he withdraws a set of nipple clamps linked by a chain and a corded vibrating wand, she swallows. The dominant blows out a breath before standing back up with his collected items, and he swings the chain around his finger as he makes his way over, lackadaisical. He pauses as he passes over a bowl of condoms standing on a (probably) decorative dresser (Isla's unsure, she's never actually perused through the drawers of those things), and he backtracks, literally taking a few, slow steps backwards to retrieve a couple of condoms.

"It's only fair, right?" Eros tells her as he slots between her thighs and sets the clamps, the wand, and the condoms beside her on the bed, "I've made your throat sore, your arse, I'm about to make your cunt sore."

Isla's hands tighten into fists.

His mouth quirks and he motions with his chin, his touch on her thighs deceptively soft, "Last piece of the puzzle is those pretty tits."

One of his hands stretches over her to tweak a nipple, and she stays impressively still. Then, he pulls back and leans over to retrieve (she assumes) an extension cord for the wand from just beneath the foot of the bed. Her hunch is proven correct when he unravels the cord of the toy and slips the plug into one of the sockets. Then, he plucks one of the condom packets and tears it open with his teeth, extracting lube-y latex with his digits.

"Hm. Banana," he says thoughtfully, sight flicking over the label, and he casts his gaze up to her face, somewhat teasing, "Want a taste?"

It's mercurial, the way he switches from discussing his agenda to abuse her tits to jesting whether she'd like to sample a banana flavored condom.

"What's the other one, Sir?" her voice is small.

"S'plain."

He stretches the condom over the bulbous head of the wand, rolling it over the silicone, and once that's done, he picks up the clamps. Isla takes a deep inhale for courage. Eros pinches at one of her nipples, rolling the bud between his fingers, and the other hand opens a clamp. She blows the breath out.

"Deep breath," Harry encourages, waiting to hear her comply before closing one of the clasps over the same nipple he'd caressed into hardness. As Peitho throws her head back, wincing, he opens the opposite clamp, brows pinched and tone concentrated, "Very good."

"Fuck," Isla groans, the pain that radiates from the sensitive bud sending her endorphins into overdrive. She'll never quite get used to that sensation, and before Isla has time to gather her composure over the one, the man is already focused on the opposite, rolling it between his index and thumb.

"One more for me," Eros instructs, and when the second clamp closes over the opposite nipple, Isla's grunt slips through cracks of gritted teeth. Her exhale is choppy.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck."

"S'hurting?" the male runs his palm over her stomach, aimed to be comforting and somehow falling into the category of anything but soothing. Isla nods jerkily in response.

"Yes, fuck."

When he toys with the chain — the chain, she'd forgotten all about that God awful chain — tugging lightly, Isla arches into it just to curb the pain the motion incites.

"Wonderful."

At least when he focuses on his zipper he redirects his attention from that horrid chain. He tugs himself free, then, through the zipper, and strokes over his cock with one hand while the other recovers the second condom — the plain one. Again, he tears the packet open with his teeth, and proceeds to roll it over himself.

"Still hurting?" he questions after a moment, and it is, Isla thinks, but not in the same, biting way the initial pinprick of metal pinching had been. Now, the sensation's dulled into an irritating ache.

"It's — tolerable, kind of," she grits her teeth as he uses one hand to guide his cock towards her entrance and the other to wring the goddamn chain.

"Yeah?" The man's previously stable cadence wavers as he dips himself in, just the tip, and whether her mouth falls open at the intrusion or the subtle, upwards tug on the clamps, he's unsure. Once Harry's able to free the hand that'd guided his cock, he picks up the wand and tells her, "Let's see if this makes it a little more tolerable."

When the vibrator presses to her clit, even flicked onto the lowest setting, all apprehensions regarding the unpleasant twinges that bloom from her chest are out the window. The young woman throws her head back, mewling as Eros rocks forward shallowly.

"Is that better?" Harry's jaw clenches, and Peitho's nodding frantically, even as he tugs on the chain. He slides forward slowly and pulls back out in an impressive feat of self control, bit by bit, rewarding her and himself more and more with each pump forward, until he's bottomed out and the chain is wrapped around gloved knuckles, tense in its pull. A groan slips from his strawberry mouth, accompanying her own as the clamps jerk in his grip and the toy vibrates where she's needed it most.

"Christ, baby. Missed this sweet, little pussy all week long."

His confession culls a moan from her and he grinds forward, spewing pornographic filth that sends her spiraling towards an impending climax, "Fuck — Thought about how tight and warm and wet it was. The way it pulsed around my dick, just like it is now, the way it milked my cum out so well."

His next statement has her whining as he picks up the pace and toggles the wand onto the next tier of intensity, "Thought about what a good girl you were, thought about those pretty little cries, the way you begged me to fuck you. To hurt you."

"All," he punctuates his words with his thrusts, "week," Isla keens, "long. Been aching to fuck you," his hips swivel, his voice smooth and slow as molasses, tantalizing to her ears, "just like this."

She writhes beneath his attention, his admissions, whining as he pummels forward, punching stuttered little breaths from her, and smut spills from him as his jaw clinches, "Give it to you nice and hard, sweetheart, just the way you need."

Harry revels in the tremble of her thighs, the view of her tits bouncing with each rock forward, his mouth fondling over a soundless moan at the sight before he goads, "Right? Nice and rough?"

"Yes," Isla gasps, crying out at he jerks the chain, and her pleasure pours out as a seamless mantra, "Yesyesyesyes, fuck! Fuck!"

As the tempo of his hips grows harsher, faster, and the toy buzzes incessantly at her core, she feels her stability chipping away, crumbling with the loom of imminent crest as pleasure weaves through the cracks.

"Sir!" Peitho moans helplessly, just Sir, for now, and then, "Please, I'm gonna, please—" As Harry retires the wand altogether and still within her, flush to her entrance, her pleads thaw off into a mewl.

"No, you're not," he tells her, somewhat breathlessly, twisting at one of the clamps and drawing a loud cry that leaves him with an open-mouthed grin.

She clenches over him, frantically, when he resorts back to the chain and tugs up, slowly, until she's forced to arch her back up into the torture, hissing, cadence pathetic and a smidge hysterical, "Please, please, I'm good, I'm good—"

"You are good," Harry underlines his words by jerking at one of the clamps, and the motion tears a sharp cry from her as a clamp detaches from one of the buds roughly. He praises over her wail, "Such a good girl for me. Such a good, willing, little whore."

"And you are, aren't you?" he leans over her to palm over her face, over her cheeks, over her mouth, and her spongy walls spasm around him deliciously, "Willing?"

He doesn't wait for a verbal indication of agreement before his voice dips into quieter territory, softer, gentler, a stark contrast to the cruel ministrations, "Willing to let me do anything I want to you, baby?"

He hears her moan whelmed against his hand, feels it, feels her core squeeze over him at the words. Yes, she is.

"Yes, please — Sir!" she grunts when he stands back and, with no warning, yanks the opposite clamp off. The pain is — it's indescribable. It's profound, it's fuck, this sucks, it's extraordinary. It sends all the wrong signals hurtling through her nervous system, as if misfiring, and ripples of pleasure coil over and enmesh with the bite. Her "oh, God," spills as a sob.

Harry eases his palm down the center of her sternum comfortingly, just below her tender breasts, and pulls out just a smidge to rock back into her, the left corner of his mouth twitching wickedly, "Still gonna cum?"

The way Peitho's response comes with no hesitation wrests laughter from him, "Yes."

And the way he reattaches one of the clamps has Peitho's own laughter faltering into a whine. That whine grows in decibel as he reaffixes the second, and that same whine pares down into a high, pretty moan when he replaces the vibrator back to her core on the highest course of intensity. It buzzes alive, buzzes something through her, makes her buzz. Her head falls back as he starts fucking her with a fervor.

"Feels good? You feel good, all tied up, just bouncing helplessly on my cock?" Harry grits out, opting to surprise her by redirecting his attention to her breast rather than the clamps, fondling over one harshly. Her response is a garbled concurrence and he curses, relishing the tight squeeze over his shaft as he plows into her.

Isla feels the tears glazing over her eyes, a sought-after, welcomed twinge of burning, and she feels herself slipping off into that coveted headspace of worriless enjoyment, the kind she gets from a really good scene that just hits something right, the kind that she gets from being fucked well. The kind where her inhibitions spill over and leave her an unrestrained vessel. The kind where she just sort of lays moonily over sheets post the scene, savoring soft touches and soft words. The kind that typically leaves her body racking with sobs. Eros slows in his pace, but he keeps fucking into her.

"Smile!" he digs his thumbs into the corners of her mouth and tugs up, "There you go! You're happy."

Isla is going to die, she decides. She's simply going to combust.

He withdraws the digits and when the corners of her mouth dip he tugs on the chain slowly, still fixed to one of the buds, his tone hard, and nearly slows to an entire stall, "Smile."

And she does, teary-eyed behind the lace, her lips trembling. The toy rumbles loudly.

"Pretty girl with a pretty smile. So happy to have those gorgeous tits played with, aren't you?" He yanks on her hair, "Aren't you?"

"Yes," she chirps, all smiley, her lips shuddering and fighting against curving down into a reflexive sob, and he rewards her by picking the pace back up with a hiss.

When Eros jerks the opposite clamp off, that — well, that. It does something, triggers something, and she feels herself absolutely overflow. Her whimper is cut off by a jagged inhale and she squeezes her eyes shut, the tears flowing freely and leaking against the lace.

She's crying now, definitely, Harry thinks, if the tremble of her pillowy lips is an indication, the shudder that falls over her shoulders as she coils in on herself as best she can with the bindings. But Harry doesn't have many thoughts, right now, there's sort of no room for them behind his skull, because the tissue is all kind of a haze of need, need, need. Need to chase his looming orgasm, need to forge her own. It's all a blur of basic, biological urges and Peitho keening beneath him, Peitho squirming in the binds, Peitho clenching over his dick.

But the crying, that definitely helps.

"Fuck — fucking, Christ," he groans, driving himself into her over and over and over.

Her hands just open and close, open and close, and she breathes through it all, whimpering pathetically, until she's —

"Oh, oh, please, can I — please —"

"May I," Harry grits out in correction, tone hard, "May I."

Her toes curl in futile attempts of restraint, "May I, Sir, may I cum? Fuck — I'm gonna — please!"

Harry digs his fingers into the back of her thigh, a growl emanating from his chest, absolutely primal, and his other hand holds the vibrator to her cunt when he coaxes, loudly, "Cum, cum — fuck. Gush all over that cock, baby, go on."

So she does. She lets herself topple over the precipice, and warmth envelops her as she spirals, spasming over him the entire way as he pounds into her. A shudder works its way from the roots of her hair to the tips of her toes as the crest abates and dwindles.

Harry follows, tailing close by and tumbling along only shortly after, his heart hammering, his muscles rippling and clenching with nearly incoherent grunts and curses streaming from his mouth as he spurts ribbon after ribbon into the condom. He takes a few, lazy, drawling pumps as the wave of his climax ebbs and then stretches over her, his touch on her a stark divergence from what it had been only moments prior. Her breaths are hiccupy beneath him, and she's still crying softly.

His hand is soft, kind, nurturing, now. It cascades over her cheek and palms at the flesh gently, and the other tucks frizzed, haywire strands behind her ear. He coos, cadence prideful, "Such a good girl, Peitho. Such a sweet girl."

He stays over her like that, whispering and stroking until the jerk of her shoulders settles and all that's left behind are soft sniffles.

"Made me very happy tonight, darling," Eros tells her, and there's a genuine quality to his cadence that leaves her basking in bliss

Her exhale, despite its shaky quality, is satisfied, especially as she feels his thumb drift along her puffy mouth. There's a comfort to his warm weight against her, a comfort to the pads of pleather clad digits scratching at her scalp.

"M'going to undo the knots, and then we can have a cuddle, alright?"

She's in that fuzzy, warm limbo as his praises spill over her, and it gets chilly once she feels his body heat escape her, once that soft touch retracts as he withdraws to ease out. Isla bites into her bottom lip, shifting in the binds and searching ahead of her, only to discover him discarding the condom he'd worn and tucking it into its mangled wrapper.

She feels a pout tugging at her mouth, but then he turns and tells her, softly, "Put that lip away."

And then his touch is at her side. He works on her wrists first, the order backwards from the initial pattern, and once those are freed from the binds he tosses the rope off and towards the headboard and rubs the joints in his palms.

"Are these sore?" he ponders, thumbing along from her wrist to her palm and following through with the opposite, as well.

They are, Isla decides, but in the same pleasant ache-y sort of way they always are when she's bound. It's the type of ache she relishes in the next day, spotty, euphoric reminders as she goes about errands and responsibilities.

"In — in a nice way, Sir."

His hum is somewhat amused, and Eros sets those down as he winds around to work on her ankles. He undoes the right first, briefly massaging over the joint just as he'd done to her wrists before setting it down and directing his attention on the opposite. Once both are freed, he picks one of her legs up and kneads and strokes from her ankle to her thigh for a while longer than he'd done in the ongoing process of unbinding her. He mirrors the action on the other, taking special care with his hands over her muscles.

Harry pauses his ministrations as her teeth chatter, and his mouth twitches. "Cold?"

Her hands have pasted themselves onto either side of her, glued to the bed, which is silly, she thinks, all things considered, and once he verbally reminds her that she's cold, it's like the trance snaps. She wraps her arms about herself, shivering. She's not too floaty, anymore, she realizes, because she's able to make out a jab.

"Maybe a little. God, what do they keep the AC at in here?"

Wordlessly, Eros sets the leg he'd been tenderly caressing onto the mattress softly, and he winds around her. She's not sure of what exactly he's doing until she feels herself jerk, and then she realizes that he's untucking the corners of the blanket that'd been folded in so tightly.

"Comfortably frost-bound," the male snorts, and the way the blanket unceremoniously falls over her, at first, has her brows pinching in mock indignation.

"Hey, keep TLC-ing me," Isla pouts.

"Keep TLC-ing you?" There's an amused note to his cadence as he makes his way to the conveniently situated, electric water dispenser. He discards the wrapper with the condom tucked away into the bin beside the dispenser first, and then he takes a couple cups off the top of the broad, plastic container. The man grins down at the slow pour as the bubbling of the jug infiltrates his hearing. When the first little plastic cup is filled to the brim, he sets it aside and reaches for the second.

She groans over the electric grinding, in true incorrigible fashion, and tells him, jesting, "Well, yes, after I've been manhandled and beat up, I prefer to be TLC-ed."

"I will TLC you to your heart's content," Harry promises, turning to make his way over with that exact purpose in mind.

She's rolled onto her side and rests in the fetal position with one end of the blanket haphazardly tucked over the upper portion of her body. As he takes a slow sip from his cup, the other (intended for her) in hand, Harry catches an eyeful of her bruised backside, painted in pleasant tints of pinky reds. When he makes his way over, setting the cups onto a side table first and foremost, he knees his way onto the bed and runs his palm over the skin softly, wincing. He can feel her stiffen up at the touch.

"Ouch — what arsehole did that to you?"

When she meets his eyes, peeking up with her own from under the makeshift comforter cocoon, they're soft and playful.

She sighs, feigning woe, and shifts beneath the fluffy sheet, "A very mean man."

"Mm. Well," Isla feels herself being jostled, and lets him manhandle her again into being TLC-ed — it's gentle, this time, "I'm sure he had his reasons."

She slots between his parted thighs as he settles against the headboard and cradles her, still in the blanket cocoon, with her legs lifting to lay over one of his thighs. The young woman lays her cheek against his shoulder and huffs as he tucks the blanket tighter around her, "Maybe something like that."

Again, she's jostled when he reaches over to the stand and brings a cup to her mouth. "Drink, please."

"'Please,' look at that," Isla jokes, raising her eyebrows behind the lace, "Look at how the tables turn..."

Harry just tuts and smushes the lip of the cup to her smiley mouth, pleased she's got it in her to joke around. She complies, taking a few sips, until her hands untuck for the blanket to hold onto the cup.

"I reckon the mean man's a pretty decent guy, otherwise," He grins lewdly after he's handed the refreshment off, "He did reward you for your trials and tribulations with a pretty earth-shattering orgasm, I think."

"Earth-shattering, was it?" a smile tugs at Isla's mouth at the haughtiness of his statement, and she presses back to his shoulder.

"Well," he smooths a hand over her cheek softly, teasing, "by the way you were crying, as I recall, I think it certainly did something for you."

"Oh, you recall?"

"I do, you don't?"

"Mm," she hums, and then her voice succumbs to a peal of giggles, "Vaguely." They only increase as he sighs.

Once her laughters settled, he thumbs at her cheek as cue that he'd like her to lift her head. And when she does, despite the view of his obnoxiously terrifying, hardcore-BDSM latex hood, she can tell that his expression is soft behind it, "Tell me more about the crying."

He'd been with criers before — they were his favorite, in a way (for unsavory purposes the average bystander would probably frown at him for), and he understood the general basis. The endorphins, the release. Some girls just cried during sex, whether in moments of rapturous pleasure or as a receptivity to pain. Some girls didn't cry at all. But the thing with criers like Isla — the ones who specifically craved to cry, there was a dangerous sort of precipice to dance along. Because, even with safewords, that kind of stuff could get a little ...murky. There's an aspect of assessment that comes with experience, and he's pleased she's trusted him to test those boundaries, but there's also a specific aspect of divergence between experience with kink and experience with a specific partner. Where the shift is. How it goes. When play treks into dangerous territory. When to turn around.

He supposes that kind of stuff just comes with time.

Isla shrugs, her mouth settling into a wordless line and breaking as she expels an abashed breath, "I don't know. I've always — it's always been kind of a thing for me. Like, it's cathartic, and it," her brows furrow, "It happens when I'm overwhelmed with anything."

"It's intense," he tells her in a smile, nodding, but there's no judgment to his tone, no mockery, "And, for me, too. Because that kind of play can be tricky. Honestly, I just want to make sure I didn't break you too bad."

Isla curbs her snort.

He licks his lips, "That everything was all good, in the scene."

She simpers a little, burrowing back against his button-up, and hums. "Yes, yeah. Everything was good. Splendid, in fact."

She can hear that his exhale wears a grin, "Good."

"Mm," her voice is soft, "I'd do it all over again, if I could."

"Would you?" He tucks her hair behind her ear, rubbing along her scalp with the pads of his digits in a way that has her eyes slipping shut and her leg nearly kicking like a well-scratched dog, "What about next Friday?"

Isla blinks her eyes open, a note of delighted surprise plucking at her vocal chords, "With —with you?"

"Mm. With the very horrible, mean man," his mouth sets into a line that breaks as soon she lifts her head and he imagines the indignant look behind her mask.

"O-kay, now you're just putting words in my mouth, I said mean man, I never used the word horrible."

He hums in mock-understanding, rubbing against her arm over the blanket.

"Yes," he squeezes at her tricep, the sensation muffled by the comforter, "With me. Next Friday."

Isla pretends to contemplate.

"Let me smack you around a bit more next week," he teases softly, his tongue peeking out to graze over his pillowy, pink lips, but there's a dirty, familiar connotation to his words that sends a shudder down the knobs of her spine, "I'll make it worth your while."

"I'll have to check my schedule," the young woman feigns indifference, lifting her shoulders in a shrug that's somewhat restrained (how familiar, truly) by his arm cradling her, "You know, there's lots of people interested in smacking me around."

Harry's brows furrow behind the latex and his mouth parts as he looks to the side contemplatively, "Y'know," he bridles a laugh, "I can't say that surprises me, darling."

"Hey," she whines after a moment of introspective lull, and his chest rumbles with laughter. The corners of her mouth buckle, and after a while she tells him, "Yeah. Smack me around again next Friday."

"Yeah? You want that?" the hand that'd been glued to her hair slips to the bare side of her calf that peeks from the blanket cocoon.

"Yes," she exhales, and when he prods, after a second, "Yes, what?" a devious glint to his eyes, she feels warmth coiling in her tummy.

"Yes, Sir."

Yeah. He likes the prospect of hearing more of that.

"Let me know when you're proper TLC-ed," Harry tells her after a beat, his mouth slipping into a soft smirk, "Need you to flip over, after. Wanna see that gorgeous color a little longer."

TDIAG MASTERLIST HERE

[antiodote]

harry styles

[antiodote]

i am, truly, nothing but a hole <3

Mutually Beneficial | 1

Summary: Y/N finds life difficult and Harry just wants to make her feel good. | smut , a Harry to make you swoon A/N: NEW FIC! :O i told myself i wouldn’t post until i’d finished the whole thing but i’m just too excited :D Words: 10k

This is not what Y/N had planned for the evening.

This is not what Y/N had ever planned for any evening but, of course, Niall had to go and make her feel all sad for him because he had no one to go out with. And, of course, he persuaded her to dress up all pretty in her cutest mini dress—white with embroidered strawberries—that moulded to her body perfectly, in case someone caught her eye.

(When Niall had specified that, Y/N rolled her eyes so hard they might have truly become stuck in the back of her skull.)

Y/N loves dressing pretty, she really does, but in the context of doing so to have heads turn her way makes her chest tighten unpleasantly. Speaking to just one person at a time was enough to stress her out, let alone a whole roomful of people that may potentially be eyeing her up.

And she’s hardly kind enough about herself to believe anyone would be enamoured by her in the first place, so Y/N had to bite her tongue in order to stop herself from telling Niall that she would go only for him and that she needn’t worry about attracting attention.

What Niall had failed to mention in his—elaborate but still vastly lacking—party plan is that he was setting up a cruel and targeted ambush. That’s what it feels like, anyway, when they step foot inside the sweaty, vibrating, and garishly fluorescent club. Now, Y/N had prepared herself for this moment, sure. Tried to hype herself up and slip into the headspace where she’d be less overwhelmed in this environment.

What she hadn’t prepared herself for is the immediate introduction to perhaps the most attractive man she’s ever seen in her life.

Y/N is a reserved woman. Always has been and probably always will be. She thinks Niall might be her only proper friend and maybe even the first she’s ever had (not including her ex boyfriend but Y/N likes to ignore the fact of his existence) after starting as the receptionist for the office he works at. He took her under his wing and wasn’t deterred by her shy nature—which has been her downfall in the past—unbeknownst to Y/N as she was never bothered by her lonesomeness. But he stuck with her, and taught Y/N to open up; to accept that he liked her and wanted to be her friend.

And she’s grateful for him—she really is. But perhaps this occasion won’t look too good on his Friend of the Year application.

“Harry!” Niall grins, hurrying over to where the man (angel, Y/N thinks) sits at a circular table in a slightly less crowded part of the club.

“Good to see you, Niall,” Harry smiles, accepting his friend’s bear hug.

As soon as they pull away, Niall is motioning Y/N to step closer. She’s sure her heart stutters when she looks up timidly and is met with piercing green and hard brows. “Harry, this is Y/N. Y/N, this is Harry,” Niall says before leaning closer to whisper in her ear (purposefully loud enough for Harry to hear him). “He’s got that psychopath vibe about him because he’s a big, mean businessman.”

Y/N doesn’t quite react. Can’t giggle because that would be rude, and can’t smile because that might be seen as her agreeing with Niall and his perpetuating stereotype.

But Harry just rolls his eyes, “Sod off, mate. That’s no way to introduce me, is it? It’s lovely to meet you, Y/N.” He holds out his hand—his large hand—and Y/N rushes to bring her own up as they slot together in a firm shake. (Harry does the shaking, Y/N can only concentrate on the feel of his fingers swallowing hers.)

“And you,” she replies, far too quietly for the inside of such a place but Harry doesn’t ask her to repeat herself.

From beside her, as Y/N regretfully lets her hand fall away, Niall gasps and Y/N immediately sees where his eyes are directed. “I’ll be back!” he exclaims before Y/N can even open her mouth. And then he’s hurrying off towards a group of beautiful, tall women and Y/N is left to surely set herself on fire from the heat of her cheeks alone.

“You want to sit?” Harry gestures to the stool opposite him, very aware of the girl’s discomfort—it was practically rolling off her in waves—but hoping to quell it.

Y/N looks at him, and then looks away, scanning the club for something…anything. But no immediate distractions arise. So clumsily, she hoists herself up… and, oh God. Sitting in front of him, the full of his face completely available to gaze upon, Y/N feels her stomach drop.

He’s beautiful.

Before, when she’d been standing by the table, he’d been at an angle and had shadows obscuring the definition of his features. But now, she can see that he’s all hard lines. Strong jaw, sharp cheekbones, perfect nose. Contrasted by his pillowy lips that are framed by a subtle stubble. His hair sits fluffy atop his head, short enough to maintain shape but long enough to start to hint at curling around the edges.

And his eyes. Intense and unwavering but captivating all the same; made to hypnotise with every flutter of his pretty lashes. She feels like prey underneath his stare.

Y/N is stunned. And makes it obvious by her blatant ogling. She knows it’s rude, deep down in the murky depths of her ignoring subconscious, but she’s not sure she’s ever been favoured enough in life to witness anyone as perfectly sculpted as him. They don’t teach you how to talk to pretty people in school.

“Y/N?” Harry’s voice breaks through her foggy head. His lips are upturned. “Have I got something on my face?” He swipes at the corner of his mouth with a thumb.

Her cheeks burn, eyes zeroing in on the way his tongue peeks out to wet the digit in order to clean the nonexistent stain, “No! Nothing, I— sorry,” she looks down, fidgeting in her seat.

He makes a noncommittal noise that suggests he’s not bothered in the slightest and leans forward on his forearms. If Y/N’s eyes could speak, they’d be begging and pleading with her to look at the way they flex under his weight, and bulge at the inside of his elbows. Where his shirt has been rolled up—tactically, Y/N is sure. 

“What’s a sweet girl like you doing talking to me, hm?” Harry drawls. And logically, Y/N knows he’s teasing, but there’s something about him (his intimidatingly beautiful face and assured demeanour, most likely) that has her all flustered and panicked, words flying out of her mouth.

“Oh! I’m sorry, Niall just brought me over and—” 

A warm hand is placed on her forearm when she moves to stand. “I’m joking,” Harry smiles—and Y/N’s tummy flips. She relaxes on her stool some but her body flushes with embarrassment. “You’re ever so nervous,” he observes, “would you like to get a drink?” nodding towards the bar.

Y/N hesitates, knowing she doesn’t handle her alcohol very well but yes, she supposes she does want one. Anything to loosen her up a little and make herself seem less moronic around him.

“Yes, please—” she pauses. How could she politely ask that he doesn’t meddle with her drink? Oh well, you’re a man so I’m automatically untrusting of you, I’m sorry, that’s just how it is! And Y/N finds this to be true nearly one hundred percent of the time but she’d rather not put Harry off. If not because she wants to stay sitting with him then because she doesn’t want to be left alone in a club.

It seems, however, that she needn’t worry. “You can come with me.” He stands, offering a hand to help her step down. “I feel it important to tell you,” he leans down to her level as they walk over to the bar, “that I don’t engage in those activities.” Y/N feels herself believing him, no matter how much of a stranger he still is. Something about the way he commands himself stirs up a want to listen and nod along; respect him undoubtingly.

So Y/N does. She nods but Harry isn’t looking—is already ordering. “I’ll have a G&T and—” he turns to her, “what would you like?”

This panics Y/N some because she hadn’t been prepared for him to place their orders together. For him to buy her drink. But she doesn’t argue, looks up at Harry with a polite smile. “A passionfruit martini, please.”

“And a passionfruit martini. Thanks.”

Y/N feels it necessary to apologise once they’re sitting back down. For not offering to pay.

Harry simply shakes his head, “It’s not a problem, I like paying on the first date.”

Y/N blanches—she malfunctions, she can’t help it—she asks, “Date?”

The man opposite her demonstrates his self-assurance by not seeming even an ounce embarrassed. “Niall didn’t tell you?” Y/N shakes her head, and then takes a sip from her drink to distract herself. “I see.”

Niall had done it on purpose; set them up like this and not tell Y/N, Harry understands. Clearly hadn’t wanted to overwhelm the poor thing, who had already been flustered before they’d even locked eyes.

So Harry withholds some details. He doesn’t mind. Knows that Niall had done this for Y/N’s good more than Harry’s, (after the conversation they’d had a few weeks prior) and Harry likes to think of himself as a nice person. Weaves his way around the matter in a way that doesn’t have her head spinning.

“He’s a sneaky bastard, that one.”

Y/N doesn’t know what to say. Date? So it really had been a targeted ambush. Niall couldn’t have picked someone even a little bit in her league?

“I hope I haven’t made you uncomfortable.”

“No!” She rushes, much less worried about how it may look, because she’s rather relieved (that Harry was prepared for this if not her, and that Niall must’ve made her sound worthy enough to go on a date with)—she supposes—and relief always makes her a little hyper. “Not at all, you’re the opposite of uncomfortable.”

“Comfortable?”

“Yes, you’re— I am very comfortable.”

“Well, that’s good.” Harry smiles and Y/N can’t help but return it, undeniably bashful. “Would you stay?”

ㅤㅤ

Y/N finds that her drink helps her considerably—holds her hand and strokes its thumb across the back in soothing motions. She’s hardly tipsy, and maybe it’s just the knowledge of having ingested alcohol that is boosting her confidence, but she can actually hold Harry’s gaze for longer than a couple seconds without her face heating up and having to look away.

Don’t get her wrong, her heart is still beating rapidly and she can feel the way her body yearns to connect with his—a magnetic pull that only gets stronger the harder she tries to resist.

But she is visibly engaged in the conversation and able to reciprocate without stuttering and fumbling like a fool… and Harry had liked her before they’d even exchanged words but now he was practically on the edge of his seat. He knows his stare is intense but he refuses to look away even for a second. Eyes trailing over her lips that she wettens with her tongue after every sip of her cocktail and then down her neck as she swallows the sweet liquid.

If Y/N notices then she doesn’t say anything.

(And she thinks she does but she’s still not convinced that he’s even attracted to her as obviously as she is him so the observation doesn’t plant itself very deeply in her mind.)

“—doesn’t the life of a receptionist just thrill you?” Harry realises he hasn’t really been listening to her answer—which is undeniably rude considering he’d asked her a question in the first place—but it matters none, as Y/N rests her chin in her palm and swirls the straw around her now empty glass. She sighs. “I know it’s not very progressive of me but… I think I’d just love to cook, and clean, and garden, and never work ever again,” and then she laughs, as if she wasn’t serious but they both know, “I’m a poor excuse for a feminist.”

Harry shakes his head, “Not everyone has to have grand work ambitions.”

“You don’t think it’s weird? O-or regressive?” Y/N looks up at him.

“Not at all. If that is how you want to live, and you are able to decide that for yourself—you’re not forced in some sort of coercive relationship—then I don’t see the problem... And there are no rules that state feminists must hate cleaning.” He smiles.

Y/N sighs again. “I suppose… I don’t have the money unfortunately but… I’ve tried so many things, Harry,” and then she clears her throat. “I’m sorry! I’m such a buzzkill. What is it that you do?”

He smiles at her reassuringly, “I work in finance. I’m… a CEO, actually.” He hates to say it, but he hates lying by omission more.

I like paying on the first date, Y/N recalls his earlier words, surely understanding what he had truly meant now. I have far too much money to comfortably let anyone else pay for anything. “A CEO? Oh. That— That’s very impressive,” she admires. Then she scoffs, “and here I am complaining about having no ambitions, how mortifying.”

“You think I was wishing to own a finance company when I was a little boy?” Harry asks, nudging Y/N’s shin with his foot under the table.

“I don’t know!” she laughs, “Everyone has a dream! Well…except me,” she smiles at him.

Harry leans forward, “You know, in the spirit of being honest—”

“—Y/N!” Niall appears seemingly out of nowhere, drunken grin, mussed hair, and a hint of smudged lipstick across his jaw. Harry pulls back, bemused by their friend. “Is Harry being nice?”

“Yes,” she laughs, half embarrassed and half entertained.

“Nice enough to take you home?” Niall opens his eyes to plead and then leans forward to whisper-shout. “Think I’m gonna have the night of my life with those two redheads,” she follows the direction of his finger when he points. “Threesome!” he unnecessarily adds and Y/N chokes in surprise.

“That’s lovely, Niall, I’m really happy for you. B-but I can’t ask Harry—”

“It’s no bother,” Harry interjects. “Really. Drink ‘s worn off by now.”

“I—”

“Come on, babe, he says he’s happy to. Please.”

And Y/N is a people pleaser. So, it goes without saying that she would do anything to make Niall happy. “I hope you have a really good night, Niall.”

“Thank you! I love you! Be safe!” He beams, smothering her cheek with a wet kiss before hurrying back to his business.

“Love you too…” Y/N replies, but Niall is already too far away to hear. “I’m sorry,” she cringes, turning back to Harry who is looking at her with a knowing smile.

“It’s alright, darlin’.” His words sizzle inside her—convinced she isn’t making up the way his voice drops, velvety and smooth, with the pet name. “You wanna go now?”

Silently, Y/N nods, guilt nibbling away at her as she follows Harry out of the club. The late night chill has goosebumps forming on her arms and Harry is quick to notice.

“C’mon, I’ll get it nice ‘n’ warm f’you in the car.” How was he so observant? Y/N had barely registered she was cold before he’d pointed it out, resting a hand on her back for a second.

And Y/N doesn’t know much about cars, but she can tell that this one is expensive. So much so that she feels too scared to get in it—worried she’ll scratch or dent it. “In y’get then,” Harry holds the door open for her.

It’s quiet as they drive. But not uncomfortably so. Harry has gentle music playing, nearly inaudibly, and he only speaks to check with Y/N that she’s a good temperature and to put her address into his satnav.

She spends the journey trying not to stare at his hands, and his forearms, and his biceps, and his jaw… Turning away to look out her window is the only thing that works. And closing her eyes to inhale the deep, rich musk that has been subtly emanating off Harry—that Y/N is now bathing in—and she truly wishes she could. Wants to go to Lush or The Body Shop and peruse the shelves; open the caps and be transported via smell until she finds the closest creme that matches the scent of his car. Y/N shrinks in her seat some. Creep, she thinks, cheeks scalding. Harry smiles to himself as he notes her body language out of the corner of his eye. Cute, he thinks.

He’d been about to admit more about himself before Niall had come barging over. Y/N hadn’t been even a little subtle with her glances the whole night and Harry is just itching to kiss her but he doesn’t know how to bring it up; the detailed version of his and Niall’s conversation.

ㅤㅤ

“You’re not seeing anyone at the moment, are you?”

Harry shakes his head, running a hand through his hair as he sits across from Niall, nursing a pint in their favourite pub.

“My friend, Y/N…” Niall sighs, “I think she would benefit from someone of your…expertise.”

Harry laughs, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You know…your…sex stuff.” He quietens his voice, lips stretching over the last two words in an over exaggerated manner.

Harry cares not to lower his tone, “It’s not just about sex, Niall.”

“Okay, well she could benefit from the whole package. She’s really unhappy but she’d never admit it and I’m the only one that really sees it, I think. Hates work, has no idea what she wants to do with her life long term—is so stressed all the time. I worry about her. Doesn’t take proper care of herself, you know? Would you let me set you up on a date? Even if it’s just to give her something pretty to look at for a couple hours.”

Harry ignores Niall’s last sentence. “Sure, sounds like she needs to get out of her head for a bit.”

“Thank you. She’s real lovely, I promise. And cute.”

ㅤㅤ

And cute she was; trying so hard not to gawk at him with no success, clad in a sweet little dress, and quick to open up to him—in perhaps a way that suggests she’s not close with many people. Niall had hinted that.

She sits with her hands in her lap, absentmindedly fiddling with her fingers, not even noticing when Harry starts to slow to a stop. “We’re here, love.”

“Oh!” Y/N turns to him, whipping her head round a little fast. He smiles. “Thank you so much, Harry.”

“Let me walk you up,” and Y/N goes to assure him it’s okay but he just raises his eyebrows and she shuts her mouth. Supposes she’d really love him to do that, actually. Doesn’t want to say goodnight yet.

Her nerves start to get the better of her again now, with Harry so close behind her. Enough to catch her foot on a step and gasp as she prepares to fall, only to have Harry’s warm hands grab her around her waist.

“Are you always this jittery, love?” he asks.

Y/N’s face burns, “Um…think so. Sorry,” voice small.

Harry looks thoughtful for a moment, giving her a delicate look that doesn’t quite reach his eyes; mind elsewhere. “Don’t apologise. I meant to talk to you about something actually.”

And suddenly she remembers him leaning over at the club, ready to share something in the spirit of being honest. “Okay,” she replies quietly, taking the steps much slower now.

The keys to her flat feel much heavier and colder than they usually do in Y/N’s palm. She nearly drops them to the floor but fumbles clumsily in the air to catch them. Behind her, Harry tries not to laugh but Y/N refuses to turn around to see, surprising herself at just how pathetic she’s appearing. This is why she doesn’t go on dates. This couldn’t be attractive to anyone.

“Do you want to come in?” She asks. “B-because you said—you said you wanted to ask me…something.” Keep it together.

“If that’s okay with you.” Y/N nods. And she only sort of half realises she’s inviting a semi-stranger into her home… but if Niall trusts him then Y/N supposes she can too.

“Please—uh—sit, or stand, or whatever you want. Do you want a drink? Or something to eat? Or—”

“Just you is fine.”

Y/N struggles not to visibly react to that. “Oh, right, okay.” She moves to sit on her sofa and Harry mirrors her, angling his body towards her.

Harry wants to positively swaddle her right now. He can tell she’s completely oblivious to how adorably ditsy he thinks she’s being. She looks comparable to someone sitting in the dentist’s waiting room—eyebrows tight with nerves. He starts, “Niall didn’t set us up to have an ordinary date. He asked me to help you relax a little, get out of your head because it all gets a bit much for you sometimes.”

Y/N fidgets in her seat. She wasn’t expecting that. She didn’t even know Niall had noticed she was struggling again. Or that she was still struggling. “How—how would you do that?”

Harry decides to just say it. He’s done this before. Not with someone quite so timid but being transparent was always best, he feels. “I’m a dominant, love.”

And Y/N’s seen Fifty Shades of Grey so she’s got a pretty intense picture going on in her head—one that is abysmally inaccurate, she’s sure, but it’s a picture nonetheless.

“D’you know what I mean by that?” She nods, eyes wide and tongue poking out to wetten her drying lips. “People give their control to me, and by doing so they get to feel as stress free as possible. Don’t have to worry about anything because they hand it all to me.”

“You want to do that…to me?”

Harry smiles. “If you wanted that. I think it would make you feel really good. But it wouldn’t happen yet, not fully. Not without talking it through.”

Y/N feels herself nodding, head dancing in filth from the moment he said dominant. And Harry can see it in her eyes. See the way they unlock somewhat, nerves turning into anticipation, and imagination.

“You like the sound of that, pup?” She fills with heat—both embarrassed and turned on by his degrading choice of words. “Excited like I’ve just said it’s time for walkies.” All Y/N can do is look at him, pupils getting bigger by the second and warmth in between her thighs spreading. 

Her hands come up to cover her face, overwhelmed by all the different things she’s feeling—and by how much she likes the sound of Harry’s proposition. 

“Answer me, darling,” Harry strokes a large palm over her knee and trails the fingers on his other hand across her wrists. She lets him pull them down from her face. “Most important thing to me is communication.”

“Okay,” Y/N squeaks. “What was the question?”

Harry grins. “Will you let me kiss you?”

“You want to?” She recoils, eloquence lacking but she can’t care.

“Wanted to all night,” he brushes a knuckle across her cheek and Y/N’s eyes flutter shut, goosebumps rising in his wake.

“Not just because Niall asked?” She whispers. Harry’s breath fans against her mouth.

“Because I want to. Because I think you’re beautiful, and sweet.” Y/N exhales as he speaks, positive she could tear up if he keeps talking. So she leans forward blindly, unaware of how close he is but hoping he’ll take the lead.

And he does.

Harry presses their lips together softly, careful to take it slowly. He thinks she’ll need that. Kissing her feels like sinking into the plushest of mattresses. But the mattress is in a meadow, overlooking the seaside, and the sun is beaming down on them, and there’s still the taste of strawberries remnant in her mouth.

Y/N sighs into Harry’s mouth, painting a similar picture in her mind—only in her daydream they’re in her bed and Harry is leaning over her, pushing her further and further into the sheets. She’s only kissed one person before (two if you count Niall during a drunken night which Y/N firmly doesn’t) and it’s immediately clear to her that Harry is infinitely better. Doesn’t shove his tongue in her mouth straight away and slobber his lips all over hers. No, Harry is delicate and it makes her heart flutter. Because she can feel how much he cares to do it just right.

When Y/N pulls away it’s because she absolutely has no other choice. Her heart was pounding before the kiss but now it’s threatening to tear right out of her chest as she (not so) subtly inhales as deeply as she can. Harry presses his lips against the corner of her mouth and she can feel the way he’s smiling into her face. 

He’s been doing that all night—smiling at her. And Y/N thinks that it’s been stoking the fire in her belly since they met; so obvious now that he’s been amused this entire time. Yet, the idea that he’s laughing at her deters her none—it’s exciting, in fact—and Y/N is learning more about herself tonight than she has done in the entirety of her adult life.

Harry hums, tongue poking out to tease her bottom lip. “Y’taste so sweet, darlin’. G’na give me a sugar rush.”

Y/N’s insides twist and turn at his words, face on fire. “Harry,” she breathes, “You’re making me—” dizzy? hot? wet?

“Making you what?” Harry asks, trailing his fingers along the exposed skin of her shoulder and down her arm agonisingly slowly. Her body shudders.

“B-butterflies.”

“I’m giving you butterflies?” He smiles. “How adorable is that?  Has no one ever told you how good you taste, Y/N?” He runs his fingers back up.

She doesn’t miss the double meaning, shaking her head. “No. No one’s ever— I’ve never—” the words don’t come out (and she’s far too aware of just how akin to the plot of Fifty Shades this is getting). What if her lack of experience turns him off? She thinks she’d do crazy things to make herself desirable.

“God,” Harry exhales and Y/N opens her eyes hesitantly. He holds her gaze, brows pinched and hand stalling on her arm. “No one’s ever made you come?”

And she panics when he says it, rushing to make sure he still wants her. “I can give you a blowie! My ex used to make me give him blowies.” She thinks nothing of it—a little humiliated perhaps at the desperation to suck him off but too turned on to care.

Harry removes his hand from her skin and Y/N’s stomach drops at his expression. An undeniable frown. “He used to make you?”

“He—” Y/N pauses, because she’d never really thought about it before. “He got annoyed when I didn’t so it was easier…” she starts fiddling with her hands; can’t look at Harry, can’t speak the words and maintain eye contact—it’s not possible.

“And he never returned the favour?” He ducks down to catch her eyes.

She closes them, shaking her head again. “He always made excuses as to why he couldn’t… No time, too tired, not in the mood.”

“What a fucking piece of shit,” Harry lets out a humourless laugh. “You deserved so much better than that, darling. I’ll show you, yeah. Will you let me?”

Y/N looks at him, eyes open all the way to confirm he really was still there. “What do you want me to do?” she says.

“I don’t want you to do anything. Just wanna show you how good it feels. Don’t want you to think about anything we’ve discussed tonight—we won’t play or perform. And you don’t even have to see me again if you don’t want to. I can still leave now.”

“No!” Y/N grabs his wrist. “Don’t leave.”

Harry smiles, removing her grasp to slot their fingers together instead. “Where’s your bedroom, love?”

ㅤㅤ

Y/N doesn’t know what to expect when Harry hoists her up and gently throws her onto the middle of her bed—as he relishes in the squeals and giggles—before crawling up to kneel in front of her body. 

He’d said to ignore their previous conversation but did that mean to forget that he was a dominant? Would he be dominant with her now? Or would he just be normal? Whatever that meant, Y/N doesn’t know. She doesn’t know what’s supposed to happen in this situation—how much or little to rely on her film and book knowledge about sex. Not when her ex never cared to get this far.

But Harry is bewitched, he’s sure. Staring down at the girl before him, little dress riding up her thighs as she presses her legs together tightly and fidgets with the sheets nervously. Even he doesn’t know where to start. Wants to overwhelm her in every way but knows he needs to take it slowly, needs to treat her like glass—make her first experience one she’ll never forget.

But not without trying to fluster her first. That’s half the fun, after all.

With soft hands, Harry starts at Y/N’s feet, slipping off her delicate heels before smoothing his palms up her silky calves. Her chest is already heaving and when he stares at her anxiously awaiting face for too long she hides away underneath her hands.

Slowly does Harry slide up higher, cupping the crease of her knees and then her thighs under her dress. He squeezes and rubs his thumbs and watches as Y/N tentatively uncovers her eyes, looking down at an encouraging Harry.

“Still got those butterflies?” She nods jerkily. “Your tummy warm?”

“Mhm,” Y/N’s fingers curl into the sheets as she watches Harry’s wrists disappear under her dress as he dares to move higher up her thighs.

“If my hands were to find the middle of your thighs, would they be wet?”

“Harry,” she turns her face into the mattress, too embarrassed to look at him or even think about granting him an answer.

“Mm, sorry,” he hums, “so shy, aren’t you, darlin’?” as the tips of his fingers brush against her underwear.

Y/N’s conflicted—excited but scared. Entirely unprepared for this to be happening today. “Will you kiss me, please?” she forces out, so desperate to relax.

Harry pulls his hands back, moving to hover over her. “We don’t have to do anything, love,” he reminds her.

“I want to,” Y/N assures, “m’just nervous, sorry.”

“It’s okay to be nervous,” Harry leans closer, “but it’s supposed t’be fun, yeah? G’na have fun.” He sponges his lips to hers, parting with a soft noise and watching the flutter of Y/N’s lashes as she waits for more.

He gives to her without hesitation; is already looking down at her with an overwhelming urge to just give, give, give—anything and everything she could ever want—as her skin heats up and her lips plump from his kisses.

Slowly, ever so slowly, as Harry skillfully pulls Y/N in and gets her lost in his kiss, does he start to ruminate on the best way to please her. He’s sitting on her thighs, pinning her to the bed as gently as he can whilst being a fairly heavy man—but she likes it. And she doesn’t have to say so for him to notice.

With each passing minute that their lips lock, Y/N’s body relaxes further and further against the sheets, soft hands coming up to rest beside her head in an innocent, natural act of submission. Harry has to fight the urge to push hard against her—to shove her hands up higher, above her head, and ruck her dress up to her ribs.

Instead, a large paw cups her cheek, mouths parting an inch so he can rub his thumb along her spit-slicked flesh. Her bottom lip is springy against his finger and welcoming as he slips it along the inside, watching her face attentively for any sign of discomfort. She’s overwhelmed, sure, and alert to his every move, but he can feel the way she’s starting to accept the feelings—to fall into them.

Harry’s thumb breaches her mouth, pad teasing the tip of her tongue before pushing further to rest against the full of the muscle. Y/N opens up for him nervously, holding her tongue out slightly so it rests on her bottom lip.

Harry smiles, “Clever girl,” heart hammering at her small, accomplished expression as he starts to explore her mouth. He’s in no rush at all; happy to spend a torturous amount of time just stroking her tongue and slicking her spit over her lips as Y/N loses more and more composure.

He thinks it funny, a little, how naturally submissive she is. So obviously desperate that he moves on but never daring to say a thing. Just letting him do as he pleases with her. It’s exciting. And adorable. He thinks she deserves so much.

“You wanna know what I’m thinking?”

Y/N nods, knocking his thumb down her chin.

“I’m thinking about when I first saw you. So cute as you came over, like a little deer in the headlights. Knew you’d be so sweet. So eager.”

She gives an involuntary buck of her hips, “Harry, are— are you going to t-touch me now, please? I’m ready—”

“You don’t want to hear what else I’m thinking? About how the way you were staring at me all night was making me tighten in my trousers? Thinking about all the things I wanted to do with you?”

“God,” she breathes, eyes closing and brows furrowing. Bless her.

“Are you aching, love?”

“I’m— I’m…”

“You’re shy, I know, it’s okay. You want me to touch you now? Make you feel good? Make you come?”

Y/N nods, slowly at first, and then faster as Harry leans back—sure to press his lips against her mouth one last time before trailing his hand down her body.

His thick thighs stay firm around her own, angling back a little for the perfect access. Gently, does he hike her dress up and up, bunching the material around her waist and revealing the entirety of her flimsy underwear.

“So pretty, darlin’,” Harry promises, eyes struggling to tear away from the wet patch to meet her anguished eyes. “Feel so lucky to see you like this.”

“T-thank you,” Y/N cringes, uncomfortable with the compliments—still feeling unworthy of them.

“I mean it,” he holds her stare. And then he shifts the tiniest bit, just enough to rest the thick bulge in his trousers against her mound. She gasps. “All because of you.” He leans back again, content with the way Y/N’s eyes have shut slightly, inhibitions starting to slip away.

Harry runs his knuckles across her stomach, down her thighs and back up again, smiling at the way her attempt at taking a deep breath falters with his feather light touch. She watches him with eagle eyes, fighting the urge to just let them shut as she’s taken care of. 

His being above her, strong body pinning her down is wetting her underwear considerably—she’s comfortable and safe; she’s unknowing but he makes her feel small enough to fit in his palm. It’s a good feeling.

Finally, Harry touches her where she wishes most. A light thumb swiping over her covered clit, and she jolts.

“So sensitive,” he mutters, irises sparkling in delight. “Never been touched…can’t believe it,” he shakes his head, and Y/N thinks he might be talking to himself, the way he doesn’t look at her. “Is that right?” Harry’s gaze suddenly burns into her. “He never even touched you, did he?”

Y/N shakes her head, frown pulling her lips down.

“Fucking idiot,” Harry says, and then he’s rolling her clit underneath his thumb and Y/N is gasping out, hips pushing up but Harry holds her down softly.

“Oh—uh!”

“How’s that feel? Good?”

She nods hard, torn between looking up at Harry’s beautiful face or down to where his thumb is working her. She goes for the latter, eyes trailing down his arm and near sighing at the sight. Harry’s thumb stroking her as his hand splays out atop her abdomen; big, so big. It’s hypnotising.

But then it stops. And Y/N is surprised at how quickly she’s ready to whine at him to keep going.

“Sit up a sec, love.” He has every intention just to reposition her, but as she kneels up and gets closer to Harry’s height, he can’t help but surge forward and smear their lips together in a rushed kiss—pulling back before Y/N can melt too much.

Harry sits back against her headboard, patting the space between his legs. Y/N knees over shyly, dress still pulled up around her middle. 

“Jus’ sit back against me, there you go,” he drawls, lips brushing her ear as she settles in his arms. In this position, Harry tucks his legs over hers, gently forcing them to open, and stay open. 

“Why did you stop?” Y/N breathes, words mere pants as Harry kisses along her shoulder absentmindedly. 

“This is much more comfortable, no? Much better angle for me to touch you, baby.”

And Y/N can’t help it, she lets out a little mewl and her head tilts back until it meets his shoulder. “Sorry,” she pants.

“What for? Want you to make those pretty noises. Want you to turn to mush in my arms, that’s how I know I’m doing a good job.”

You’re doing more than a good job, she thinks, lungs working harder when he brings his fingers back to her underwear.

“Shall we take these off, darlin’?” Harry trails his finger along the elastic on the inside of her thighs. Y/N twitches. He could’ve probably asked her anything and she’d give the same answer.

“Yes, okay. It’s just…no one’s ever—”

Harry cuts her off, “I know. And I’m so lucky to be the first, baby. You’ve got nothing to worry about.” 

When she nods, he lifts her hips up and tucks his fingers into the waistband of her panties, tugging them down her legs and putting them to the side on the bed. The cold hits her and she wiggles, trying to shift but Harry’s legs are holding her down once again.

A hand smooths across her stomach as the other one taps across her lips, middle and ring finger asking to be let in. Y/N opens for him, much quicker now to present her tongue and Harry kisses her cheek for it, humming when she closes her lips around them and gets them wet—without even being asked.

He doesn’t tease after that; pulls his fingers free and goes straight to her clit. Normally, if it was pussy he had the pleasure of dealing with, he’d build a person up, taunt their hole until it clenched around nothing, brush the inside of their thighs, pull their lips apart—anything to avoid touching their clit. But with Y/N, for her first time at least, he only wants to make her feel good as soon as possible.

And she does. She pants and whines, still a little shy to make too much noise as Harry rubs tantalising circles onto her swollen bud. Y/N has never known it to feel this good. Of course, she is well familiarised with late night fondling, messing two fingers over herself underneath her sheets as she lets out silent cries. 

But she didn’t know how much better it would feel from someone else. And God does it. It feels so good to be touched for the first time, by a gorgeous, sweet, selfless man who has her splayed out in his lap. So good that she’s about to come already and it embarrasses her immensely.

“Oh! I’m— Sorry, I’m g’na—!”

Harry’s cock leaks in his boxers. “Oh, that’s so cute,” he sighs, manoeuvring his hand under the tight material of her dress, searching for her tits. When he finds them, free of a bra, and squeezes his big hand over one, Y/N clenches around nothing.

“Are you g’na cum f’me, pretty girl? Give me your first proper orgasm? Finally touched like you deserve for the first time and you’re cumming in seconds, baby.”

It’s humiliating, and it's stirring her insides up even more. “Uh! Uh, Harry—” she’s breathless, voice tight and directed right into his ear as her head lays leaden on his shoulder.

“That’s it, show me how beautiful you are when you come.”

Y/N’s sure if she wasn’t about to orgasm, she’d burst into tears. Maybe she still will, as Harry’s fingers break the dam and carry her through the flood that is the most powerful orgasm she’s ever had. 

“Hhnh, uh, hngh, Ha—Harry,” he slows down considerably but keeps rolling her clit.

“So gorgeous, darling,” he kisses her shoulder. 

“T-too much!” Y/N pants, hips trying to pull back to no avail under Harry’s strength. But he stops; is soft in the way he dances his fingers along the insides of her thighs, pressing kisses wherever he can reach.

“Do you feel okay?” He asks, nudging his shoulder to get Y/N to lift her head up a little, to look at him.

She’s still shy, but there’s no denying how much that orgasm has softened her bones. “Mhm, thank you.” Harry leans down to kiss her again, smiling into her mouth when he cups her pussy and she inhales sharply. Doesn’t try anything, just holds her there. But she likes it all the same, much looser for him now as they lock lips lazily.

She pulls away, “I wanna… wanna suck you off,” she whispers, eyes avoiding Harry.

“You don’t need to do that. I’m not expecting it.”

“But—”

“I want you to let yourself feel good tonight, love. Can you do that for me?”

She looks at him. For a while. Eyes wide and unsure—fighting the habit, the urge to feel like she has to, otherwise she’s not good. Harry understands; he looks right back at her with his gentle, soft, green eyes. No feature on his face is tense and there is no part of him that is lying to her about expecting a blowjob.

“You’ve been so good tonight, you know that?” His hand is still holding her warmth. “So lovely, you’re just wonderful.”

Y/N doesn’t know if it’s possible to fall in love with someone within the first evening of meeting them but she thinks she could be there. So she pushes upwards to sponge their lips together once again, and hesitantly brings a hand up to his cheek; slightly awkward from the position but it feels right. 

“Are you real?” She mumbles into his mouth.

Harry laughs, warm and deep. “Think so, love.”

And as if to prove his very existence, he teases a finger around her hole—that’s still mindlessly pulsating and basking in the aftershocks of orgasming—pulling it back and feeling a string of arousal following him. Y/N gasps, rearing back from his mouth to look down at his movements.

“You want to keep going?”

“Keep going?” 

“Yeah,” he laughs, “y’didn’t think I was done with you, did ya?”

“I— I don’t know, I wouldn’t be offended if you were, that was…pretty good.”

“Oh darlin’, you’re so easy to please,” Harry smiles. slipping out from underneath Y/N to lay her back. He moves onto his knees, looking down at her malleable body affectionately. “We can stop now, if you like. I’ll give you a cuddle and tuck you in.”

She giggles a little, insides melting at the thought. This beautiful acquaintance of hers… was definitely an angel. Or something equally as special.

“Or…” he starts, lips upturning at the sight of Y/N’s eyes twinkling with curiosity, “I can work your pretty pussy open with m’fingers, get you all soft and wet, ‘n’ ready for my cock. And then I can fuck you all deep, right into your tummy, ‘n’ then I’ll give you a cuddle and tuck you in.”

He’s smiling down at her, eyes crinkling at the look of pure astonishment on her face. Astonishment, and intrigue, and lust. Pure, carnal levels of lust.

It’s then that Y/N realises that Harry is still completely, fully clothed. Shirt sleeves still deliciously rolled up to his elbows, and tight slacks still hugging his strong thighs. He even has his fancy dress shoes on.

All while Y/N has her entire bottom half on display and her once cute dress bunched up under her tits. She must look a mess.

Harry would agree with her there. A beautiful, flustered, glowing mess that he only wants to dismantle further.

“What d’ya think?”

Y/N nods, “Yeah, yes please, that sounds…yeah.”

“Yeah?”

“Can I—” Y/N lifts a hand and then pauses. “Will you— Can I see you please?”

“Wanna get me naked, darlin’?” Harry toes his shoes off, fingers nimble in their unbuttoning of his shirt.

Y/N’s face burns, feeling somewhat scandalous for watching despite her spread legs and naked centre. She can’t stop her ogling though, not when he shucks the material off his shoulders and tattoo upon tattoo is revealed to her.

Sure, she’d known he had ink, from the lean forearms she’d been drooling over from across the table at the club. But she hadn’t known just how much. And it’s stunning; stark and intricate against his skin. Against his hard chest, broad shoulders and defined biceps. But especially on his stomach, a large, detailed butterfly that is demanding of eye contact, complimenting the ridges of his abs that she’s unconsciously reaching out to touch.

Was he made in a lab?

Before her fingers touch his skin, she pulls back with a sheepish smile on her face, “Sorry.”

Harry doesn’t say anything, just shuffles closer on his knees until he’s straddling her again and takes her hand. He stares at her so intensely as he guides her palm to his skin, basking in the coyness she’s exhibiting.

When her skin meets his, he’s convinced she’s affected more by it than he is, and he’s the one with the pretty girl feeling up his abs. As she touches, Harry unzips his slacks, opening the material to reveal his boxers but he leaves her wanting more. Doesn’t want to give her everything at once.

He lets her have her fun, soft fingertips outlining his tattoos, before taking hold of her wrists and holding them above her head. “Dress off, baby?”

She nods, and Harry peels it up and off her body, dragging his palms back down to slide over her breasts and stop on her waist. 

“You can rest your arms back down,” he says.

Y/N’s naked. As naked as one can be. For the first time, in front of anyone. It’s only natural that she covers her chest with her arms. Harry shakes his head.

“Don’t be shy. I’m near bursting through the seams at the sight of ya, there’s no need to hide, darlin’.”

So in a contrasting burst of confidence she blurts, “Take your trousers off first.”

Harry grins, leaning over her so his broad chest squishes her arms and his plush lips tickle her ear. “Make me.”

And well, that didn’t quite work, did it? Y/N’s mouth opens and closes—guppy-like—pouting at Harry’s smug expression when he pulls back. But it’s a sort of game now, isn’t it? And Y/N has always been a little competitive.

Carefully, Y/N hides as much of herself as she can with a singular arm, much less bothered now than she had been initially. The excitement of seeing Harry is conquering her nerves significantly. With her free hand, she reaches out for his open slacks, attempting to tug them down his hips with limited success.

Harry looks down at her, bemused. She thinks he’ll let her struggle—faff about for minutes until she’s satisfied—but his laurel tattoos are barely exposed before he’s taking hold of her wrist near his pelvis and the one hiding herself and pins them down beside her head.

“You wanna play, darlin’?” He’s so close to her. “Because we can…but I’ll always win.”

Y/N doesn’t really know what he means by play—guesses her little act of defiance (that can barely even be called that) has tickled his senses; his desire to control. But she assumes he doesn’t mean like… play play… or however he’d described it earlier.

Harry notices her little stray thoughts.

“Hey,” he brushes the hair away from her face. “They’re just words, love, told you—nothing more until we talk about it. If you want to.”

Y/N looks into his eyes, admiring their colour and their unique flecks, as she nods her head. “Want your…trousers off.”

He smiles, nodding, “Okay, fine. I think that’s fair.” Harry empties his pockets, throwing his wallet down someway beside them before standing up to shuck his slacks down his legs.

The sight before her is unfathomable. He’s… well he’s perfect, surely. And the bump in his boxers is certainly intimidating.

Harry crawls back on top of her, now much more naked, to Y/N’s delight. He presses a sweet kiss to the round of her cheek. “How are you feeling? Still good?”

Y/N nods. “Still good. Very good.”

To that, Harry smiles, leaning down to teasingly brush his mouth along hers, stubble scraping deliciously.

“Is there anything…” a kiss to her bottom lip, “you want to…” another with an open mouth, “try?”

Y/N’s a little preoccupied so her response is delayed. “What do you… what do you mean?”

“I’m sure you must have fantasies, no? Kinks you want to discover?”

She struggles to kiss back now, face heating up considerably.

“I— S’embarrassing… to say.” But she is thinking of some things. Desires she’s been pushing down, unable to soothe the frustration or heal the ache. Things she’s been just waiting for. Counting down the days for.

“Why don’t you show me then?” Harry suckles on her bottom lip, pulling back and watching the way her flesh bounces back. Succulent and spit-slicked.

Y/N inhales shakily, nodding slowly—almost as if to herself. She feels him smile, opening her fluttering lashes and leaning away some to catch her breath as she finds one of his hands that’s bracing himself. Her much smaller fingers wrap around his wrist, tugging it from the mattress, and up, up, up until his slender fingers ghost against her throat.

She looks up at him, eyes wide and apprehensive—nervous. Harry’s gaze is kind. Undeniably excited but he suppresses it in favour of reassuring Y/N. Slowly, he extends his fingers as they coil around the soft skin of her neck. He applies no pressure—just basks in the way she feels underneath him and the small hitch of her breath that tells him she’s in love with it.

“Yeah?” Harry drawls. “You like that?”

Y/N nods, blinking up at him slowly. Dazed.

“Just needed a man to put his hand around your throat, didn’t you, love?”

She fucking mewls and Harry’s lips curl upwards like a sadist. And never before has she been so turned on by such male arrogance… but in the bedroom? Y/N is sure he could start mansplaining and she’d lap it up.

“God,” Harry looks down at her like she’s made of diamonds. If she squints maybe she’ll see the reflection sparkle in his eyes. “And I didn’t think you could get any prettier…”

She has the audacity to feel embarrassed despite the obvious hand around her throat. Y/N thinks this is the most she’s ever been complimented in a single day. And even when she receives compliments usually, they’re from Niall and they hardly make her all flustered; they go over her head most of the time or she takes them with a pinch of salt.

But Harry is so unabashed with his words. He says what he wants and he means it. Y/N can tell he doesn’t bullshit. And the sincerity of the way he speaks to her is utterly mouthwatering—his voice slinks down her throat and into her belly where it sizzles hot and drips further… and further.

Y/N nods. Harry hasn’t said anything but she nods anyway, a silent plea that he give her more. He mimics her, head moving up and down in a mocking exaggeration, and then he tightens his fingers around the sides of her throat—just a little but enough to have Y/N wilting. 

He leans closer until his breaths mingle with hers and he just… looks at her for a moment. Feels her swallow against his palm and sees the miles of naked skin out of the corner of his eye. His thighs sit thick on either side of her hips and all Y/N can see is him. All she can feel is him.

Harry brushes his lips against hers and Y/N blossoms, mouth unlocking like he’s whispered a secret incantation. All for him to explore. His tongue rolls against hers as he sponges his lips with unbridled enthusiasm. It’s slow and rushed at the same time. Heavy and erotic; a kiss that can only be the precursor to sex.

Y/N’s hands reach out without the permission of her brain, palms meeting the firm muscles of Harry’s chest. He’s warm, and big, and dizzying just to feel.

She kisses him harder.

She doesn’t know how long they’ve been on her bed. It could have been minutes, or hours. It could have days and Y/N wouldn’t have cared. If the world ends right now, this is a pretty good place to be, she thinks.

“I’m ready—ready now,” their lips smack as Y/N pulls away, sucking in a gasp of air. Harry lingers, kissing the corner of her mouth with that ever present smile.

“Not quite,” he mumbles. “Gotta stretch you out first. Don’t wanna hurt you, do we?” Y/N pouts. “Stop tha’, be lovely f’me.”

Harry can tell she’s itching to whine; to retort something like, “Am I not already lovely?” with her big, sparkling eyes. But she holds herself back. Is still too nervous and unsure to let her personality shine through. God, Harry hopes she wants to see him again. So they can blossom together—become symbiotic. He wants to discover every inch of her brain.

Harry flexes his fingers around her throat, pressing kiss upon kiss to the heated skin of her cheek, trailing down past his hand to her collarbones, her sternum, her stomach. Then back up to lave his tongue over her left nipple. 

Y/N gasps, back arching up into his tongue. Harry hums, sucking the peaked bud into his mouth and hollowing his cheeks. She watches the way his long lashes rest against his cheekbones as he enjoys himself against her chest, daring to pinch her with his teeth a little before he pulls off with smiling eyes.

Her breaths are laboured, lungs expanding at a rapid pace as he moves to her right breast to repeat the process. All whilst he maintains his meltingly delicious grip around her neck, squeezing every now and then to remind her he’s still there. 

His other hand dances down her tummy, enormous palm warming against the skin. Y/N might be giggling and complaining that it tickles if not for his other ministrations. (And she should be thankful that Harry doesn’t pick up on that otherwise he would be sure to torture her. Tickle her whilst he’s balls deep inside, perhaps. It’s something he’s always wanted to try.)

Harry’s lips are wet when he pops off of her, pupils dilated to an alarming size as his kisses move down with his hand, leaving his spit against her. Y/N wishes he was wearing lipstick at that moment—just to see the proof of his heart shaped mouth painting her body.

When his breath ghosts over Y/N’s mound, she freezes, nerves rising at a rapid pace once again.

“It’s okay,” Harry coos, both hands now smoothing up her thighs in reassurance. “Don’t be nervous, baby. There is nothing that could stop me from wanting you like this.”

And his words soothe her some, but no one’s ever… tasted her before. It makes her cringe. “What if— What if I… If it’s—”

“You’re making my mouth water, love. Promise you, you’ll taste just as good as you smell.”

Her breath hitches. “Oh God,” she whispers, “you— you’re so—”

“Mhm, I know. So shy, aren’t you?” His nose nudges her right above her clit. Purposely so. “G’na let me taste you, sweet girl?”

Y/N nods suddenly, frantically, “Okay, okay, just—”

Harry flattens his tongue against her. The full of him against the full of her. She gasps, nearly chokingly, and her hips stutter under the weight of his hands.

He hums against her, “So good,” lips closing around her clit in a gentle suck… and Y/N doesn’t even remember what she was so worried about.

“Oh my God,” she squeaks. “Ha-Harry, that’s—”

“Good, yeah?” He speaks against her, and the vibrations shoot through her clit and up her limbs.

“Y-Yes.”

His hands feel like velvet as they caress her thighs—touch feather light but somehow grasping at the same time. He commits her skin to memory, among other things; like the heady tang that coats his tongue and swirls in his nose. But there’s something about the feel of her body under his palms that compels him in a way unusual to his normal experiences.

Making Y/N writhe underneath him as he flicks his tongue, and then flattens it against her in languid motions that speed up teasingly just to slow back down again, has Harry’s insides coiling—blood rushing south despite him already feeling as hard as he can get.

She’s opening her mouth in silent moans, eyebrows furrowed in the depths of pleasure and hands digging tight into the sheets. Harry can’t help but smile against her and hum in satisfaction to make her jolt against his face. As he slides his tongue down and teases her dripping hole; still reacting to the orgasm he gave her with his fingers.

He has to stop himself from getting too ahead. From picturing all the different ways to make her feel good. From bending her body into different positions and sinking himself all the way inside her—to hear her exhale of breath that chokes around a moan. Whilst his tongue is pushing inside of her and his thumb is rolling around her clit as his strong arms pin her down. And he’s fluttering his eyes shut at the image of it all—the one before him and the copious that build up behind his eyelids. Of her beautiful face contorted into an expression that could only be instantly recognisable as deep satisfaction.

Harry moves his tongue back up, soaked in saliva and honey, to make room for one of his slender fingers as he unwraps his arm from around Y/N’s waist and trails it down. He strokes the inside of her thigh in a moment of stillness—as Y/N peels her eyes open and registers his lack of movement against her.

She’s glowing; chest heaving and skin shining. “More?” Harry asks, hot breath fanning against her.

Y/N swallows, answering without hesitation, “Please.”

[antiodote]

y/n needs to stop acting like harry’s the only person in the wrong here like they’re not in this mess bc of her in the first place lmao

very valid take ! but I do think it’s both of their doing and I also think that she’s at least somewhat (self)aware 👍