golden-reverie - Tumblr blog

golden-reverie · 4 months ago

Text

Dewey Decimated

Chapter Three

Author’s note: Chapter three is here! I lied in my last post, this is the final "setting the scene" chapter. Four will be when the🔥comes into play.

Summary: Mabel, a part-time librarian, finds solace in her carefully constructed routine—that is until Harry, an atypical library patron, unsettles the order she’s worked hard to maintain.

Word count: 2.1k

Warnings: Harry is low-key kind of cocky but in a self-aware way? Dom!Harry, Sub!Reader, Fem!Reader, hints at past (and future) dom/sub relationship(s). All mentions of relationship dynamics are consensual.

“I’ve never had to pay this before,” an older man snapped, jabbing a finger toward the screen Mabel sat in front of. “This is ridiculous.” His voice was shaking with anger, eyes boring into Mabel as if she were personally responsible for the library’s sudden decision to charge for printing services. She took a deep breath, reminding herself to stay calm. She had dealt with plenty of difficult customers before, and she was not going to let this one ruffle her feathers.

“I’m sorry for the inconvenience, sir,” she returned politely. “But as I said, the library has recently implemented a new policy to cover the costs of paper and ink."

The man scoffed. “That’s absurd!” His voice rose, sharp enough to draw the attention of a few nearby patrons. “It’s extortion.”

Mabel’s cheeks burned, but she kept her tone professional. “Please don’t raise your voice in here, sir.”

"What do you even know? I want to speak to someone in charge."

Before she could respond, a smooth, assured voice cut in.

“I believe she’s handling it just fine.”

The shift in energy was immediate. The man hesitated, his posture stiffening as he turned toward the source.

Harry.

He stood behind the man, watching the exchange with a composed, unwavering expression. He wasn’t aggressive—he didn’t need to be. He simply existed with an authority that made people think twice before pressing their luck.

The old man turned his attention to Harry. "And who are you?" he snapped, though his tone had lost some of its bite.

Harry’s face remained unreadable. "Just a concerned citizen wondering why you're making a scene over a few cents, mate." His voice was calm, clipped—cutting in a way that left no room for rebuttal.

The man’s mouth opened, then closed, face mottled with frustration. He let out a huff, clearly realizing he’d lost whatever imaginary battle he thought he was fighting. With one final grumble, he retrieved his receipt from the counter.

“Fine,” he muttered under his breath, shoving the paper into his pocket before stalking off.

“Have a great day!” Mabel called after him, lacing her voice with just enough false cheer. He dismissed her with a wave.

Mabel exhaled, shaking her head as she turned back to Harry. "Thank you," she said. “You didn’t have to do that.”

He leaned casually against the counter. "I couldn't let you have all the fun," he replied, scanning her face for signs of disquiet.

Mabel rolled her eyes. "Oh yes, because diffusing entitled outrage is my idea of fun."

Harry chuckled, a deep, rumbling sound that reverberated in her chest. "Well, you certainly have a knack for it," he commented. "Besides, you might have to remain professional and all. Doesn’t mean I do."

She offered him a small smile. "Well, thank you," she said again. "I appreciate it."

Harry gave a dismissive tilt of his head. "Just doing my civic duty.”

Mabel cleared her throat, shifting her focus to the book in his hand. “Already back for more?"

"Someone told me I should expand my literary horizons," he replied.

Her eyes flicked to the copy of The Alchemist he placed on the counter between them.

She raised a brow, smiling. "Well, that someone must be smart. Good choice."

She scanned the barcode of the book, the machine beeping softly.

He smirked. "What did they call it again?” he asked, feigning contemplation. “A ‘mystical masterpiece’?"

Mabel met his gaze. “Whoever they are, they sound like a genius... Think you can handle such a masterpiece?”

His lips twitched, clearly amused. “I’ll let you know when the enlightenment kicks in.”

Her lips twitched as she slid the book back to him. “There you go,” her inflection lifting just slightly on the last word. “Will that be all?”

Harry looked at her, silence stretching between them like a thread pulled taut.

"Not quite," he said, his voice low, measured. "I was hoping I could take you to dinner Friday night."

Mabel blinked. "Oh… I—"

The words tangled in her throat, catching her off guard in a way she wasn’t prepared for. Her earlier confidence scattered, leaving her fumbling.

She forced a small, polite smile. "That’s nice of you to ask, but I—"

Harry arched a brow, waiting.

"But… I don’t really date."

His expression remained steady, like he expected that response. "Who said anything about dating?"

Mabel’s lips parted slightly, embarrassment and surprise intertwining at how effortlessly he had sidestepped her excuse.

"Just dinner with a friend. That’s all," he continued, holding her gaze as if daring her to challenge such an innocent request.

Friend. The word settled oddly in her chest, a quiet, unexpected sting pressing beneath her ribs. If anything, it was a generous description for what they were. They had shared one conversation over coffee. The rest had been a handful of fleeting glances and pleasantries. And yet, the word landed awkwardly, like a note played slightly off-key.

In what seemed like a last ditch effort to quell her stubbornness, Harry leaned in slightly. "I need someone to talk to about my newfound literary pursuits. Turns out the guys at my office are pretty shit conversationalists in that regard."

Mable huffed out a quiet laugh. "So I'm your designated book club, is that it?"

"Something like that," he said smoothly. "But as club president, I’m enforcing the mandatory addition of dinner to our meetings.”

Doing her best to feign nonchalance, she shrugged. "Well, if you can make it through the mystical masterpiece by then, I suppose I can offer offer my services."

He grinned, slow and self-assured. "Great. I’ll text you the details?"

"That works," she replied, willing her voice to sound even.

Harry reached for the book, then hesitated, glancing back at her. "Oh, and try not to let any more unruly patrons shake you down today, yeah?"

Mabel smiled, "I'll do my best, but you never know when someone's going to take personal offense to the price of printer ink."

Harry flashed her a parting smile, before tapping a hand once on the desk. "I'll see you, Mabel."

She watched as he exited, effortlessly shrugging into his coat.

The rest of her shift slipped by in a haze. As she moved through the motions, each task felt slightly out of sync—like she was trying to retrace steps in a path that no longer existed.

***

Harry leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled as he surveyed the floor-to-ceiling windows of his office. The Seattle skyline stretched before him, all sharp angles and steel, the city humming beneath him like a machine he had long since learned how to operate. Everything in his world was ordered, controlled—exactly how he liked it.

Or at least, it had been.

He exhaled slowly, drumming his fingers against his lap. His mind should have been focused on the quarterly reports in front of him, the business deals waiting for his approval, the dozens of emails demanding his attention. Instead, he kept circling the same thought. The same person.

Mabel.

She had been an unexpected variable—one he wasn’t entirely sure how to categorize. Their coffee “date” had been a personal test of sorts—a way to satisfy his curiosity, to identify exactly what it was about her that had lodged itself under his skin. He had walked into that café expecting resolution, a finality that would allow him to move on.

Instead, he had walked out with more questions than answers and more restlessness than resolve.

Harry sighed, rolling his shoulders as he forced himself to refocus on the screen in front of him. A sharp knock on the glass door of his office pulled his attention. Nathan, his head of strategy, stepped in, iPad in hand.

"Numbers from the Valeris deal," Nathan said, setting the tablet on Harry’s desk. "Everything’s in line with projections. We’re set to close by next week."

Harry nodded, barely glancing at the figures flashing across the screen. "Good. Keep the legal team on standby in case we need to push anything last minute."

"Got it." Nathan hesitated. "You good?"

Harry arched a brow. "Should I not be?"

Nathan smirked, stepping back toward the door. "You just seem... distracted. Doesn’t happen often."

Harry gave him a pointed look, "If you’re angling for my chair, you’re going to have to come up with a better strategy than amateur psychoanalysis."

Nathan chuckled, arms raised in mock surrender. "Right, right. Ok. Just checking," he said before making his exit.

Unfortunately, he wasn’t wrong.

It wasn’t like Harry to fixate. He had rules, boundaries—ones he spent years perfecting. Keep things simple. Flings, no relationships. He never let things get emotional, never let them linger longer than they should.

And yet, here he was, staring out his office window like a man who had let something linger.

The funny part was, he had let it linger longer than any of his previous entanglements, and he hadn’t even touched her.

With most women, the chase wasn’t necessary. If he wanted them, they were his. His reputation preceded him. His looks and confidence did the rest. Whether it was a glance across a bar, a well-placed remark, or a passing encounter on a business trip, the outcome was predictable. If he initiated it, they responded. And if they initiated, he indulged. And the second he sensed the faintest tinge of feelings start to surface on their part? That was when he walked away.

It was the dynamic that worked for him. Mutually beneficial while it lasted. No mess after it was over.

But Mabel? Mabel was different.

She held so many contradictions—soft, but not weak. Guarded, but not impenetrable. There was a push and pull to her, an awareness that made him wonder just how deep his instinct ran.

He had seen it in the way she responded to him—the slight hitch in her breath when he pushed just enough, the fleeting relief in her eyes when he took control of a moment, the way she unconsciously melted at the firmness in his voice, her body betraying what her mind refused to. There was something soft beneath her sharp edges, a subtle willingness to let go, to surrender—if only to the right hands.

Then there was the coffee “date.” That was where he first saw the cracks in her carefully constructed walls. When she spoke about her family, her childhood, the sheer exhaustion of shouldering a world that refused to lighten its grip. He saw the way her struggles carved out fiber beneath her simple grace—a challenge she had faced alone for far too long.

Sitting across from Mable in that café, he felt something rare stir within him. It was more than dominance, more than attraction—it was the same pull he’d felt watching that old man berate her in the library. He knew she could handle herself; she always did. But that didn’t stop the instinct, the quiet urge to step in anyway. To take some of the weight off her shoulders. To help her exhale, even if just for a moment.

Harry had always been an attentive dominant—he knew how to read women, how to recognize their needs before they voiced them. But with Mabel, it wasn’t just about fulfilling a role or meeting an expectation.

It was about wanting—no, needing—to be the one who gave her what she’d never been given before.

That thought had settled into his mind like a hook he couldn’t shake loose.

He had a feeling she hadn’t always been granted the space to explore what she needed. She had it in her—he was sure of it. The desire to relinquish control, to find relief in someone else’s hands. Maybe she had even tried before, but with the wrong people. So she had buried it beneath layers of protective resolve, told herself it wasn’t worth the risk.

But it was still there.

And if she let him, he could show her that submission wasn’t weakness. That giving in wasn’t about breaking—it was about trust, safety, release.

And Harry had every intention of proving that to her.

But only if she wanted it.

If she recoiled, told him no, he would understand completely. There would be no coercion, no convincing. Only choice.

Still, he never wanted to be more right about anything.

Fuck.

What was happening to him?

His phone vibrated, pulling him from his thoughts. A message from his assistant.

Board meeting in ten minutes.

Harry exhaled, pushing himself up from his chair and adjusting his cufflinks. Business first. He had plenty of time to get his mind right before Friday.

But as he left his office, the weight of an undeniable truth followed him out the door.

Time had nothing to do with it.

***

Woohoo! Chapter four is in the works 👩‍💻

Chapters one and two :)

69 notes · View notes

golden-reverie · 4 months ago

Text

Masterlist

Series

Dewey Decimated // One, Two, Three (In progress)

Mabel has spent her life putting others first, balancing a demanding job by day and library shifts by night—her only escape. Then there’s Harry, the confident, enigmatic patron who intrigues her in a way she can't ignore. One day, he leaves a note in one of her books, inviting her to coffee. What starts as curiosity turns into something deeper—an undeniable pull between a man who avoids attachments and a woman who’s sworn off romance. When he offers her a no-strings arrangement built on trust and control, they tell themselves it’s simple. But if that's true, why can’t they walk away?

Blurbs

Burnt Out // Dom!Harry, Sub!Reader

Y/N's been running herself ragged over a work project, and Harry isn't having it.

21 notes · View notes

golden-reverie · 4 months ago

Note

Hello could I request you to put a keep reading sign in your stories? Thank you! 😁

Good comms… tbh thought that just happened automatically lol so totally my bad but they should all have them now! :)

0 notes

golden-reverie · 4 months ago

Note

Please tell me you have plans to write more dom!harry!!! You write him so well- quite possibly the best piece I’ve read on tumblr!!

You’re so sweet… I’m seriously blushing rn 🤭 thank you so much!!

Beginning of a new dom!harry story is posted! It’s a little bit of a slow burn so bear with these first couple chapters but it will heat up very soon 🫡

2 notes · View notes

golden-reverie · 4 months ago

Text

Dewey Decimated

Chapter Two

Author’s note: Chapter two of my first series. You can read chapter one here. Still in the midst of setting the scene, but the next chapters will have more substance so stay tuned! And again, thank you all for the support!!

Summary: Mabel, a part-time librarian, finds solace in her carefully constructed routine—that is until Harry, an atypical library patron, unsettles the order she’s worked hard to maintain.

Word count: 4.9k

Warnings: Still nothing quite yet, toxic boss, hints of past dom/sub relationships if you squint, brief mentions of complicated family dynamics (alcoholism and abandonment), and hints at a future dom/sub realtionship (if you really truly squint)

By 10:07 AM, Mabel had already swallowed her frustration twice, forced a polite smile four times, and reminded herself at least a dozen that storming out in a blaze of righteous fury was not, unfortunately, a financially responsible decision.

Rick Alderman, her boss, thrived on power for power’s sake. As a senior executive at Northwind Publishing, he projected an image of authority, but in reality, he was little more than a glorified bottleneck—too obsessed with control to delegate effectively, yet too lazy to do the work himself. His office was a shrine to his own ego, cluttered with awards from decades past and framed photos of handshakes with people who had likely forgotten his name the second they walked away.

For the past week, Mabel had been waiting for a response from him. She’d sent an email requesting a meeting to discuss her future at the company. No response. Three follow-up emails. Nothing. Two polite in-person reminders. More silence.

It wasn’t surprising. Disappointing, yes. Infuriating, absolutely. But surprising? Not even a little.

In the two years she had slogged under Rick’s reign, he had never given her a straight answer about anything that didn’t serve his own interests. Every discussion about her career aspirations vanished into thin air, yet somehow, he always found the time to ask her to book his personal appointments or send her cryptic, one-line emails titled “Fix this”—never accompanied by context, or God forbid, an explanation.

She knew she was wasting away in this role, like a plant starved of sunlight, but quitting wasn’t an option. Not yet. The paycheck was just good enough to keep her tethered—to keep her brothers in school, to keep the rent paid, to make the soul-sucking monotony just bearable.

“Mabel, a word.”

Her shoulders stiffened at the sound of his voice.

She looked up to see Rick standing in his doorway, summoning her inside. She followed, forcing herself into the kind of neutral professionalism she had nearly perfected. He shut the door behind her and leaned against his desk, arms crossed.

“How long have you worked here?”

Her pulse kicked up a notch.

Was this it? Was it finally happening? Was he actually going to acknowledge her work? To offer her the promotion she deserved? The faintest ember of hope flickered in her chest despite her better judgment.

She straightened her posture. “About two years now, Mr. Alderman.”

She was ready. She had rehearsed this moment a hundred times in her head, ready to enumerate her achievements, her innovative ideas, and the ways she could help propel the company forward. She would make a case so strong he couldn’t possibly—

“I see.” He nodded, then sighed. “Two years, and you still can’t remember that I prefer my documents single-sided, not double.”

It was like the air had been sucked from the room.

Of course. How could she have been so stupid as to think, even for a second, that this was going to be different? That he would ever change?

Mabel swallowed down the sting of disappointment and forced a tight-lipped smile. “I’ll make a note of that.”

Rick gave her a menacing smile, as if he relished the power he wielded over her. “That’ll be all,” he said.

She turned to leave, jaw clenched, but before she reached the door, his voice cut through the silence again. “Oh and while you reprint these, you can entertain yourself by thinking of a spot to pick up my lunch. I’m in the mood for French.”

She clenched her fists and forced a fake smile. “Will do, Mr. Alderman.”

***

That evening, the familiar hush of the library was a balm to her frayed nerves. Mabel exhaled slowly, willing herself to forget about eco-unfriendly documents, insufferable bosses, and overpriced French cuisine. But as she approached the front desk, something caught her eye.

Her book—the one she had been reading the night before—sat exactly where she had left it. But something was off.

The spine was slightly shifted, the pages bent in a way they hadn’t been when she last held it.

She frowned, picking it up, flipping through until—

A small slip of paper fluttered onto the desk.

Mabel stared at it for a moment before unfolding it, her pulse quickening.

Not practical enough for me, huh? Figured I’d see for myself. Can we discuss over coffee tomorrow? —H

She swallowed.

The elegant script taunted her with its casual confidence. The way he signed it “H,” as if he knew he didn’t need to clarify.

Her fingers traced the edge of the note, her emotions a tangled mix of curiosity and caution.

It was just coffee, she told herself. A simple, harmless meeting over caffeine. Nothing more.

But she couldn’t shake the feeling that agreeing to this might unravel the tightly woven threads of her life. Coffee could lead to conversation. Conversation could lead to…

She shook her head, willing herself to focus on the present.

Slipping the note back into the book, she returned to her tasks. But throughout the evening, her thoughts kept drifting back to the note, the words circling in her mind like a melody she couldn’t shake.

As closing time approached, Mabel found herself drawn back to the front desk, the book now a silent testament to her inner turmoil. She traced the spine with her fingers, contemplating.

Her sensible side screamed for her to retreat, clinging to the safety of routine. Yet a quieter, more daring inner voice urged her to seize the chance—a chance to see the man behind the enigmatic “H,” to let the idealized image she’d built up crumble, and then she could go back to enjoying her library shifts in peace.

With a resolute breath, Mabel made her decision. She reached for the stamp on the desk—the one reserved for marking returns—and, with a small, defiant smile, stamped “APPROVED” in bold green letters across the note.

Then, with quick, decisive strokes, she scribbled a reply beneath it, proposing a time and place.

Her heart thudded as she slid the note back into the book and tucked it onto the hold shelf under his name.

As she tidied up the desk, Mabel couldn't help but wonder what she'd just set in motion. She hoped she wasn't making a mistake, but as she locked up for the night, she couldn't rid herself of the feeling that something had shifted—like the first ripple on an otherwise still surface.

***

The next day, as she went about her routine at Northwind, Mabel found herself glancing at the clock more often than usual, her focus slipping despite her best efforts. The hours crawled at a torturous pace, each tick of the second hand stretching longer than it should. She had promised herself she wouldn’t overthink it—it’s just coffee, a casual meeting—but the thought clung stubbornly to her mind.

Rick, as predictable as ever, was too absorbed in his self-importance to notice her distracted state. He spent most of the afternoon micromanaging a project he had only half-understood, making sweeping declarations and then leaving her and the rest of the team to clean up the inconsistencies. It was just another day trapped in corporate purgatory, though today her impatience to escape was palpable.

As the workday waned, she practically counted down the minutes, willing the hands of the clock to move faster. But, in true Rick fashion, just as she was slipping her coat over her shoulders, he called out from his office.

“Mabel, hold on a second.”

She froze, mentally cursing every higher power in existence. With measured calm, she turned back, schooling her expression into polite indifference. “Yes, Mr. Alderman?”

Without lifting his gaze from the screen, he intoned, “I need you to fix the formatting on the Johnson proposal. The alignment is off.”

She blinked, incredulous. “The one I sent this morning? I followed the��”

“I need 1.27 margins,” he interjected with a dismissive wave, “not whatever this is.”

It had 2.54 margins, the company standard—a detail Rick always managed to forget, despite endless reminders from compliance that his revisions were “not in brand.” Mabel had explained it to him more times than she cared to count, but today she lacked the energy for another lesson. Instead, she bit her cheek to stifle a retort and nodded stiffly. “Of course.”

By the time she reworked the document, painstakingly scrutinizing every possible nitpick and resending it, she was already fifteen minutes behind schedule. A hasty email later, she shut down her computer, and practically sprinted out of the office, weaving through the rush-hour crowd like a fugitive on the run.

***

She reached the café breathless, running a hand through her hair in a futile attempt to compose herself before stepping inside. The scent of roasted espresso and warm vanilla curled around her as she scanned the room.

Almost instantly, her eyes fell on him.

In the far corner, Harry sat with one leg casually crossed over the other, his fingers loosely curled around a coffee cup. There was no sign of impatience—no furtive glances at his watch, no restless shifting in his seat. Instead, he seemed content to wait, his calm focus unbroken as he typed away on his phone. Then, as if in response to her presence, he looked up. His gaze wandered over the room for a heartbeat before settling on her.

Mabel’s heart quickened as she forced herself forward.

“Sorry I’m late,” she murmured with a tentative smile, drawing closer. “Work… my boss… well, he’s—”

“A prick?” Harry finished smoothly, a flicker of amusement passing through his green eyes.

A startled laugh bubbled up before she could stop it. “That’s putting it mildly.”

For a brief second, something unreadable passed over his face—something that almost looked like protectiveness, but before she could overanalyze it, he gestured toward the seat across from him.

“Sit,” he said, his voice low, effortless. “I ordered for you. Hope I guessed right.”

Mabel hesitated briefly before easing into the chair, her eyes drawn to the cup that awaited her. “I hope I didn’t keep you waiting too long,” she said as she took a cautious sip, warmth settling over her tongue.

A vanilla cappuccino. How did he—

“I’ve seen it written on your cup at the library,” he said, answering her unspoken question. “And don’t worry about it—I’m well acquainted with difficult bosses.”

She set the cup down, narrowing her eyes slightly. “Is that because you have one or because you are one?”

The words left her mouth before she could stop them. She instantly regretted it.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have—”

“Probably because I am one,” he said, cutting off her backtrack with a smirk that made something flicker low in her stomach. “What gave me away?”

Mabel exhaled, forcing herself to relax, to match his ease.

“Well,” she said, leaning back slightly, “the suits for one. Successful businessmen aren’t exactly the library’s core demographic—more of an order-it-off-Amazon crowd.”

She let the words hang for a beat before tilting her head. “That, and your reading material. Pretty sure you’re single-handedly keeping our Business & Economics section in circulation.”

Harry smirked, raising his cup in a half-toast. “Knowledge is power.”

Mabel raised an eyebrow. “Spoken like a true man in charge.”

His gaze flickered over hers—sharp, assessing, intrigued. Something heavy settled in the air between them, like he had caught onto something she hadn’t meant to reveal. The corner of his mouth twitched, but he said nothing.

He cleared his throat. “And what about you?” He asked, breaking the moment just before it lingered too long. “What do you do when you’re not critiquing your library patrons’ choice of books?”

Mabel let out a quiet laugh. “Plot their literary redemption arcs.”

Harry chuckled. “That sounds serious.”

“Oh, it is,” she said, lifting her cup to her lips. “One tragic book choice at a time.” She set it down. “And I work in publishing. Northwind Publishing.”

He let out a low hum. “Publishing. That tracks.”

She tilted her head slightly. “Tracks how?”

“You have the precision of someone who deals with words all day,” he responded casually. “The way you correct yourself, structure your thoughts before you speak.”

Mabel frowned, “I’m not sure if I should be flattered or concerned by how much you notice.”

Harry chuckled, his green eyes glinting. “I’m just observant.”

She didn’t quite believe that was all it was, but she let it go.

“And you?” she asked. “What kind of boss are you?”

His lips twitched. “I run a firm. Investments, acquisitions—things most people find dull.”

She let out a small laugh. “So you’re admitting you have a boring job?”

“I’m admitting most people think it’s boring,” he corrected. “I happen to enjoy it.”

There was something in the way he spoke—an assured, measured cadence—that made her want to trust every word he said.

Before she could press, he leaned back and fixed her with a thoughtful look. “So, what did the prick do this time?”

Mabel blinked. She hadn’t expected that.

In her experience, most men loved to talk about themselves. She had been on enough coffee dates where she barely had to speak, yet somehow still endured the inevitable, clueless "This was fun, we should do it again sometime."

Even with Matt—the only one who had lasted long enough to earn the title of boyfriend—conversations about work had always been unwelcome. He’d roll his eyes whenever she vented, chastising her for complaining about a paying job, as if having an income absolved her of any legitimate frustration.

But Harry wasn’t waiting for his turn to dominate the conversation. He’d deftly steered it back to her, expecting an answer.

Mabel hesitated, her grip tightening around her cup before she exhaled. “Oh, the usual. Death by a thousand pointless tasks. My boss has this uncanny ability to make a simple request sound like the fate of the company depends on it.”

Harry tilted his head, watching her. “And yet, you’re still there.” His tone wasn’t judgmental—just curious.

She shrugged, lifting her cup again and muttering the only response she had been conditioned to believe was acceptable. “It pays the bills.”

“That’s not an answer,” he replied, his tone smooth and insistent.

Her fingers tightened slightly around the ceramic, her instinct telling her to deflect. Change the subject. Redirect the focus back onto him like she always did.

But for some reason, she didn’t. Maybe it was the exhaustion, or maybe it was the way Harry was looking at her—really looking at her—like he saw more than she was saying. Like he wasn’t just filling space with conversation, but memorizing every syllable.

She lowered her cup, and along with it, the defenses she’d so carefully constructed—just slightly. “I have two younger brothers in college,” she said finally. “Charlie and Peter. They’re twins. I help cover their tuition. It’s not exactly my dream to work as an executive assistant, but… it’s necessary for now.”

Harry didn’t look surprised. If anything, something in his expression shifted—something quiet and contemplative.

“That’s a lot to carry,” he said after a beat, his voice steady.

Mabel shrugged, “I have strong shoulders.”

His gaze didn’t waver, sharp yet unreadable, like he was cataloging her words and filing them away. She opened her mouth to redirect the conversation—turn it back to him, to his work, to anything that didn’t feel quite so exposed—but he was quicker.

“So, you have Charlie and Peter. What about the rest of your family? Did you grow up in Seattle?”

She hesitated for half a second.

Mabel hadn’t been asked about her childhood in a long time. Not by someone who actually seemed to care about the answer. The words tasted unfamiliar, rusty from disuse—“I grew up in Lake Stevens. About 35 miles north of here. But we moved to Ellensburg when I was in middle school.”

She left it at that, deliberately sidestepping the real question, hoping he wouldn’t press.

Her hopes were short-lived.

A thoughtful hum escaped him as he trailed a thumb along the rim of his cup. “Why did you move?”

Judging by his accent, she had assumed he had little knowledge of Washington’s geography—certainly not enough to question why a family would leave safe, suburban Lake Stevens for somewhere like Ellensburg. But something about the way he asked made her think otherwise.

Well, here goes nothing.

“Cliché story, really,” she said, trying to shrug the weight of it off. “My father left when I was fourteen. My mother lost her job shortly after. We couldn’t afford to stay in Lake Stevens, so we moved somewhere more… manageable.”

She kept her tone even, casual. Like it was just another fact about her life, no different from saying she worked at a library or that vanilla cappuccinos were her drink of choice.

But Harry wasn’t fooled.

His expression didn’t change, but his posture did—just a fraction, like he was absorbing the weight of her words. When he finally spoke, his voice was lower, softer.

“I’m sorry to hear that, Mabel.” He paused, as if choosing his words carefully. “I can’t imagine what that must have been like at that age. Not young enough to be oblivious, but old enough to shoulder more than you should’ve had to.”

She saw genuine empathy in his gaze.

This was a first.

Most people either pitied her or tried to reframe it into some kind of inspiring resilience story. Poor girl. You’re so strong. Everything happens for a reason. But Harry… he simply acknowledged it.

She hadn’t realized how much she needed that. How much she had needed someone to recognize that there was no silver lining, no moral takeaway. That some things just… were.

Harry watched her patiently, like he could sense her thoughts tumbling over one another and was giving her space to process.

She gave him a small smile. “Yeah,” she said quietly. “It definitely wasn’t easy. My mother, she’s...” pausing, she let her words drop off. “Well, I did what I could to to make a future for myself. For my brothers.”

Granting her some reprieve, Harry didn’t pry any further. But she could tell— by the way his gaze sharpened—that his interest was genuine.

He exhaled slowly, then leaned forward, resting his forearms against the table. His voice was more deliberate now, like he was at the helm of some metaphorical ship, steering their conversation into uncharted waters.

“So, you’re putting your brothers through college, you’re at the beck and call of the prick Monday through Friday...” His gaze flickered over her, like he was fitting puzzle pieces together. “And I’m guessing there’s more to the story with your mother, which we’ll get to eventually.”

The certainty in his voice caught her off guard. Like he knew she wouldn’t tell him everything tonight, but he was willing to wait.

Then, he leaned in slightly, his voice low.

“Is there anyone who takes care of you, Mabel?”

The words hit like her like a thunderclap, low and resounding.

Mabel’s expression faltered. It was a simple question.

Everyone had someone who took care of them—a parent, a partner, a person who made life feel a little lighter. Didn’t they?

She had her brothers, and in some ways, they took care of her. They gave her purpose, made her laugh when she needed it most. She had Mrs. Whitmore to offer her reassuring words every now and then. But she knew that wasn’t what Harry meant.

She let out a small, slow breath. “I—” She stopped, realizing she didn’t actually know what to say.

Her first instinct was to brush it off with some quip about being perfectly capable of taking care of herself, but if there’s one thing she’s learned, it’s that capability and need were two different things—and something told her Harry knew that too. All her usual excuses suddenly felt thin under the weight of his gaze.

She managed a wry smile, “I guess I haven’t really thought about it.”

Harry’s lips pressed together slightly. “That’s not a yes,” he noted.

Her throat tightened. “It’s not a no, either.”

His fingers tapped against the table, slow and deliberate. The space between them felt charged, both physically small and emotionally expansive.

“No one should have to deal with that all alone,” he said gently.

She let out a shaky laugh, half-mocking, half-sincere. “That’s what people say right before they remind you that, at the end of the day, you do, actually.”

As the words left her mouth, she suddenly felt like crying, but she held it in.

For an instant, his expression shifted—a fleeting tightening around his eyes betrayed his concern at her reaction.

For a moment, the cafe seemed to hold its breath.

“Maybe most people,” he allowed. “That doesn’t mean everyone.”

That quiet confidence again. Like a promise, one she wasn’t sure what to do with.

Mabel felt her pulse quicken, but she wasn’t sure if it was from his words or the way he looked at her when he said them. Like he wasn’t just making an observation, but an offer.

No no no. This is exactly the territory she didn’t want to breach. She needed to break the moment before she slipped too far into it.

“Well,” she said lightly, “I’ll be sure to let you know if I ever need a businessman-slash-library-patron to step in.”

Sensing her walls starting to climb around her again, Harry didn’t press the issue further. Instead, he offered her a knowing expression and nodded.

“Please do.”

Mabel let the words settle between them, rolling them over in her mind as she studied the man across from her. When she agreed to coffee, she had framed it in her mind as a professional courtesy—her civic duty as a librarian, a steward of knowledge, a public servant of sorts. She was simply being accessible to discuss literature, facilitating intellectual curiosity like any librarian should.

That had been the plan, at least.

And yet, here she was—sitting across from Harry, a man she had known for barely more than a handful of library visits—letting him see the parts of her she usually kept tucked away, behind polished smiles and convenient deflections.

In an attempt to hold onto some semblance of her original intentions—she nodded towards the copy of The Long Way to a Small, Angry Planet laying on the table between them.

“So, what did you think?” She asked.

Harry’s lips twitched, as if he knew exactly what she was doing but was willing to play along. “Certainly not a business book,” he said through an exhale.

“Very astute observation,” she replied with a playful glint in her eye.

“But I can see why you like it,” he added softly.

“Oh? And why’s that?” she queried, curiosity mingling with caution.

“It’s a character study—about relationships, about finding where you belong. About knowing when to lead, when to follow... when to let people in,” he said, his voice a hushed murmur that made her heart flutter.

She drew a breath, swallowing the sudden dryness in her throat. “That’s a very emotionally insightful response for someone who checked out a book on strategic acquisitions last week.”

Harry’s eyes gleamed with mirth. “I contain multitudes.”

Mabel let out a breathy laugh, shaking her head. “That might be the first time I’ve heard a finance guy quote Walt Whitman.”

“I doubt it’ll be the last,” he murmured, and there it was again—the expectation that this wouldn’t be the last time they sat across from each other like this.

Mabel was dumbfounded as to how something could feel so safe and so dangerous at the same time.

But here that something was—sitting across from her, making her stomach tighten in ways she wasn’t sure she wanted to analyze.

And for the first time in a long time, she let herself stay in it, let the conversation stretch and unfold in a way that felt natural—like slipping into a current instead of fighting against it. They drifted back to books—her recommending novels with actual plots, him trying to argue that business books had their own kind of narrative. He told her about his mother and sister, who still lived back in England. She learned that he studied finance at Imperial College in London, an education that set him up to launch his own firm in America by the age of twenty-six.

“Did you always know you wanted to do that?” she asked, grasping her drink, long forgotten.

“I knew I wanted control over my own success,” he answered, voice calm, resolute. “I don’t do well with other people dictating my decisions.”

A faint blush warmed her cheeks—a reaction he noted with a small, amused smile. “Yeah,” she cleared her throat, “I can see how that might be the case.”

Their conversation flowed on—shifting from hobbies they enjoyed to anecdotes from their college days to their favorite foods and go-to spots in Seattle. They debated the merits of slow-burn character dramas versus high-stakes action films. Mabel learned he had a fondness for old thrillers, and Harry learned she had a deep love for Pride and Prejudice adaptations—especially the Colin Firth version.

It was... comfortable. Terrifying, yes, but easy in a way she couldn’t explain.

Eventually, the evening wound down. Harry pulled out his phone and slid it across the table. “If I’m going to be expanding my literary horizons, I’ll need a direct source for recommendations.”

Mabel smirked, picking it up, she entered her number and texted herself an “H.”

When they stepped outside, the air was cool and crisp against her skin.

“I’ll drive you home,” he said, easy, assured—like it wasn’t a question.

Harry had a way of doing that—saying things that made them feel like natural conclusions rather than mere suggestions. If it were anyone else, Mabel probably would have rolled her eyes. Yet, there was something about Harry's approach that she found settling and... safe.

Still, she shook her head gently. “Thank you, but I have my car.”

Harry nodded, slipping his hands into his pockets. “Text me when you get home then, yeah?”

It wasn’t a request.

Mabel huffed out a quiet laugh and conceded, “Okay.”

A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Goodnight, Mabel.”

She turned, walking toward her car, feeling his eyes on her until she was out of sight.

By the time she stepped into her apartment, she was exhausted. She shut the door behind her and reached for her phone.

Made it home. Thanks again for the coffee. -Mabel

She barely had time to set her bag down before her screen lit up.

Good. I had a wonderful time with you, Mabel.

And then another.

Get some sleep. H.

Mabel stared at the messages for a moment longer than necessary, her fingers hovering over the keyboard before she finally locked her phone and set it aside.

She got ready for bed—washing her face, changing into an oversized T-shirt, brushing her hair into a loose knot—but her mind was still at that coffee shop, replaying the evening in fragments.

His voice. His eyes. The way he listened.

The way he spoke.

There was quiet dominance woven into every part of him—his presence filled the space without ever suffocating it. His words didn’t demand but still expected. Sitting across from him, she felt both exposed yet safe, like he was peeling back her layers with gentle precision.

Men who carried themselves the way Harry did—men with power, with control—they were usually the ones who took. Who assumed. Who wore authority and entitlement like a badge—one they never actually earned.

But Harry was different.

Yes, he had an undeniable presence—the kind that made people instinctively take him seriously. But it was also the kind that didn’t require raised voices or unnecessary force to yield.

And he listened. Really listened. He had taken in her words and held them like they mattered. Like she mattered.

She never talked about her past—not with people she knew and certainly not with people she barely knew.

And the worst part? She felt something when those parts of him surfaced—when he told her to text him, when he told her to get some sleep, when he ordered water for them both without asking, as if it was all second nature to him. To anyone else, they might have seemed like nothing, just small inconsequential gestures.

But each time she replayed them in her mind, something stirred deep in her core—a pull, a recognition of a need she had had told herself she had long since buried.

She exhaled, flopping onto her bed, pressing the heels of her palms against her eyes.

Enough, Mabel. She pleaded with herself. You don’t even know what this is.

And yet—

Lying there in the dim glow of her bedroom, staring at the ceiling, she couldn’t shake the feeling that they both knew exactly what it was—an unspoken understanding woven into every glance, every carefully placed word.

And that they were both standing at the edge of it.

Something that, once crossed, would never be undone.

***

More to come very soon! Thank you for reading :)

Read chapter one here.

65 notes · View notes

golden-reverie · 4 months ago

Text

Dewey Decimated

Chapter One

Author’s note: I genuinely don’t even know what to say, except thank you all so much!! I was expecting maximum like 10 likes on my last blurb, so the fact that 500+ people liked/reblogged it?? I'm forever indebted to you all. You make this so much more fun for a tentative writer like me!

Anyway, I’m finally sharing the first couple of installments of my very first series! Just a heads-up—it’s a slow burn, and, unfortunately, I’ve written it at an equally slow pace, so thank you in advance for your patience. At this point, it's a lot of just setting the scene, but it will get better (and spicier)—I promise! 💕

Summary : Mabel, a part-time librarian, finds solace in her carefully constructed routine—that is until Harry, an atypical library patron, unsettles the order she’s worked hard to maintain.

Word count: 2.4k

Warnings: Nothing quite yet, hints of past dom/sub relationships if you squint, brief mentions of complicated family dynamics (alcoholism and abandonment), toxic work environment-ish, and hints of a future dom/sub realtionship (if you really truly squint)

The library was Mabel’s refuge—a place where the world exhaled, its chaos dimmed to a distant murmur beneath the soft rustle of pages and the faint squeak of rolling carts. The air smelled of aged paper, leather bindings, and a hint of dust, settling over her like a familiar, worn blanket.

She just started her shift and was in the middle of shelving a stack of biographies, her fingers trailing the spines as if drawing reassurance from their steadfast order. The quiet, the predictability—it was the only part of her life that made sense.

She stretched her arms above her head, feeling the pull of exhaustion etched deep into her muscles. Northwind Publishing, her so-called “real” job, had wrung her dry per usual—early mornings, endless demands, her boss barking orders like she was his assistant and his punching bag. The paycheck wasn’t glamorous, but it kept her modest apartment and, more importantly, covered the twins’ tuition.

Her brothers, Charlie and Peter—now sophomores in college—were the reason she did everything. She’d promised herself long ago that they’d never be crushed by the weight of their father’s abrupt departure or their mother’s slow, suffocating unraveling afterward—a promise paid in the form of a miserable boss, double shifts at the library, and exhaustion woven into her bones.

Unlike their father, their mother didn’t leave them—not physically, at least. Shortly after “the departure,”—or “D-Day” as Charlie mordantly coined it—she’d lost her corporate job and found solace in the bottom of a bottle, leaving Mabel to shoulder the role of caretaker by the time she was a freshman in high school. Cooking meals, checking homework, wiping tears—she’d done it all. Maternal love had been transactional in that house, given only when it served a purpose. Now, Mabel’s love manifested itself in tuition payments and relentless sacrifice—but she was okay with that—as long as her brothers never felt that same hollow emptiness she did.

She sighed, casting a glance at the clock. One more hour, then she could shuffle home, microwave leftovers, and collapse into bed—only to rise at dawn and do it all again. The routine numbed her, but at least it was consistent. Consistency kept her grounded.

That is, until he walked in.

Harry.

She didn’t need to look to know it was him. He had a presence—one of those rare people who could command a room without saying a word. Even in the hushed sanctum of the library, he somehow made space bend around him.

There was a rhythm to his visits now—same time, same sections. He’d skim the Career & Business shelves before moving on to something more eclectic. Last week it had been Leaders Eat Last by Simon Sinek and Murakami’s Kafka on the Shore. She’d checked them out for him, her fingers brushing his as he handed over his library card.

It wasn’t like she went out of her way to notice him, exactly. But he was… hard to miss.

Tall and sharp-jawed, he was always dressed like he’d just stepped out of a boardroom, his suits tailored to perfection, hugging his frame like they’d been stitched directly onto his skin. His curly brown hair was just messy enough to look intentional, like he’d run his hands through it moments before stepping inside. And his eyes—a sharp, calculating green—seemed to take in more than he let on. There was a confidence in the way he moved, a slight edge that bordered on cocky but never tipped into arrogance. Mabel told herself it was just observation—nothing more. She wasn’t naive enough to think a man like him could be interested, and even if he was, she didn’t have the luxury of entertaining the idea.

It had been two years since her last attempt at anything resembling a relationship, and the memory still stung like a fresh bruise. His name was Matt, a classmate from her Literary Theory class. He’d asked her out right after graduation, claiming he’d been crushing on her all year but was too intimidated to say anything sooner. When he’d say things like that, she believed him—for a while, at least. He told her he admired her drive and independence. When she started working full-time, juggling two jobs to support her brothers, he told her he respected her dedication. He knew about her family situation, knew the weight she carried, and said he admired it.

But admiration has a short shelf life when convenience runs out.

He didn’t care that she took a humiliating scolding from her boss after leaving the office early one night to make it in time for their dinner plans, only for him to cancel last minute because he wanted to “hang with the boys.” He didn’t flinch when she cut her hours at the library—the one job she actually enjoyed, the job that paid for her groceries—just so she could attend his intramural baseball games on Thursdays, only for him to barely acknowledge her presence anyway.

For a time, he gave her what she craved in the bedroom: the release of control, the ability to let someone else take the reins for once. He claimed he was the dominant type—but like every man before him who’d promised her the same, it was just a façade. Dominance, for them, was an excuse to be selfish and get away with it. It meant using her vulnerability as a weapon. They ignored her boundaries, bulldozed through her limits under the guise of “knowing what she really wanted.” They treated her trust like a disposable commodity—something to be used up and discarded when it no longer served them. What should have been a partnership rooted in mutual respect became a one-sided performance, with her needs left forgotten in the aftermath.

After Matt, Mabel decided she didn’t have the patience for men who saw her strength as a challenge to conquer, who twisted the control she trusted them with into something ugly. She had no time for people who mistook her independence for an inconvenience, or who recoiled at the reality of her responsibilities. Love—or whatever shadow of it they offered—came with too high a cost.

And Harry? He was just another polished surface, all gleaming edges and smooth charm. She wasn’t about to get lost in reflections again.

That’s why she paid no mind to the way he lingered a little too long at the service desk. She brushed it off as coincidence when he always, without fail, ended up in her line, even when another was open. She refused to acknowledge the flutter in her chest when their fingers brushed, or the way her stomach twisted when she caught him glancing her way. No, she didn’t have time for distractions—especially not the kind wrapped in bespoke suits and quiet confidence.

As if on cue, Harry glanced up from a book he was inspecting, his gaze flicking over the room before landing squarely on her. Mabel quickly turned back to her cart, pretending to fuss with a stack of already-perfectly-aligned books. She could feel her heart thudding loudly in her chest, but she ignored it.

“Mabel, darling,” Mrs. Whitmore’s familiar voice broke through her thoughts, warm and grounding. “Do you mind covering the front desk for the rest of your shift? Daniel’s feeling under the weather, so I sent him home early.”

Mabel turned to her manager with a nod. Ever since she’d started at the library, Mrs. Whitmore had filled a mother-shaped void in her life. She offered everything Mabel had been deprived of as a child—kindness, encouragement, gentle words, and a listening ear. She had become the safe harbor where Mabel docked after the stress of long days in the office.

“Of course,” Mabel said, forcing a small smile.

“Thank you, dear,” Mrs. Whitmore patted her arm affectionately. “You’re a lifesaver.”

Mabel gathered her things and made her way to the front desk, her sneakers squeaking softly against the polished floor. She thought she felt a particular set of green eyes tracking her movements—but she dismissed the thought as nonsense.

Get a grip, Mabel, she chastised herself. He’s just another library patron. Nothing more.

The library was quieter than usual for a Tuesday afternoon. A few patrons were scattered throughout, lost in their own worlds. Perfect. It meant she could lose herself in hers. She pulled her current read from under the desk—The Long Way to a Small, Angry Planet by Becky Chambers. It was the perfect escape, pulling her into a world far from her own, where travelers forged bonds stronger than blood and navigated life’s complexities among the stars. She relished the sense of adventure, the camaraderie, the idea that even in the vastness of space, people could find home in each other. The words wrapped around her like a cocoon, the rest of the library fading into the background. She barely noticed when Harry approached.

“Interesting choice,” he said, his voice smooth, laced with the faintest hint of amusement.

Mabel looked up, startled. He was standing there, one brow slightly raised, that same quiet confidence radiating off him like heat from the sun.

“Uh—yeah,” she stammered, quickly snapping the book shut. “It’s… thought-provoking.”

“I’ll bet.” His gaze flicked to the cover, then back to her. “Think it’s worth a read?”

Her stomach tightened, but she kept her face neutral. “I think you might find it interesting.” A beat passed, and then she rambled, “I mean, not that I know what you’d like… I mean, you seem more into practical stuff… not that there’s anything wrong with that…”

Oh my God, shut up.

A slow, knowing smile spread across his face—the kind that suggested he was used to getting under people’s skin.

“I’ll have to check it out, then,” he said, sliding his books across the counter.

She reached for them, fingers brushing his—barely, but enough. Enough for a flicker of something unreadable to cross his face. Enough for her breath to catch, despite herself.

She swallowed. Be normal, Mabel.

She scanned the books, handed them back, and gave him the same polite smile she offered every patron.

“Have a good evening,” she said, her voice almost steady.

“You too, Mabel.”

His voice was lower this time. Intentional.

And then he was gone.

***

Harry wasn’t the type to frequent libraries. His world thrived on boardrooms, deadlines, and the relentless pursuit of success—not the hushed whispers and faint scent of old paper that clung to places like this. But there was something about this particular library—and the woman behind the counter—that kept pulling him back.

It had started innocently enough. A random detour on a quiet evening when the hum of his office felt too suffocating and his penthouse felt too empty. He’d needed something to distract him, something to tether his thoughts before they unraveled into restless discontent.

What he hadn’t expected was her.

Mabel.

He’d caught her name from the delicate pin on her blouse the first time she checked out his books. It suited her—pretty, unassuming, but with an old-world charm that felt rare in a city like Seattle. At first, she hadn’t even looked up, too focused on scanning his selections. But when she did…

Those eyes.

They weren’t the kind that sparkled with flirtation or invited small talk. No, hers were guarded—the kind of eyes that had seen too much and trusted too little. But they intrigued him in a way he couldn’t quite shake. There was a quiet strength there, something unyielding beneath the exhaustion lining her features.

Harry prided himself on control—in business, in life... in the bedroom. He made decisions in seconds, calculated risks with precision, and surrounded himself with things that screamed efficiency, power, and control—innate parts of who he was.

But with Mabel, that all felt like it was slipping, one fleeting glance at a time. He knew better than to get involved. His rules were simple: no attachments, no complications.

Relationships—if you could call them that—were meant to be temporary. A mutual understanding of needs met and lines not crossed.

And yet, he kept going back. Initially, it was for her—a magnetic pull that, if he were honest, still lingered. With each visit, however, his fondness for the quaint little library grew. Accustomed to pursuing the pinnacle of excellence, he knew this place was far from grand. Its shelves were outdated, its walls wore the quiet patina of time, and it offered nothing lavish or modern. Yet, in a life fixated on sterile perfection, it radiated a raw, unpolished charm that he welcomed.

He browsed the shelves, picked up his usual selections, and—as if drawn by instinct—found himself in her line again. Their fingers brushed when she handed him his books. He let the touch linger just a fraction longer than necessary. A flicker of surprise crossed her features, subtle but unmistakable. And it gave him more satisfaction that it should have.

He hadn’t meant to say her name like that—low, deliberate, as if testing the feel of it on his tongue. But the way her breath caught, just slightly, didn’t go unnoticed.

By the time he stepped into the cool night air, he knew two things for certain.

One: Mabel was different.

And two: He was already breaking his own rules.

Back in his penthouse, Harry tossed his keys onto the sleek marble counter and loosened his tie, the city stretching before him in a sea of lights. But instead of the usual satisfaction that came with closing another deal, an unfamiliar restlessness hummed beneath his skin.

He poured himself a glass of scotch, letting the burn settle in his throat, trying to ignore the fact that his mind kept drifting back to her. The curve of her lips when she fought back a nervous smile. The way color rose in her cheeks when their eyes met. The quiet defiance in the way she carried herself, as if daring the world to expect less of her.

He shouldn’t care.

But he wanted to see her again.

Not just as the reserved librarian behind the counter. He wanted to know what lay beneath that carefully composed exterior.

What made her sigh. What made her moan. What made her finally let go of that rigid control she clung to so tightly.

Even before he reached into his briefcase, he was certain: those books would be returned far sooner than he could ever hope to finish reading them.

***

Read chapter two here.

59 notes · View notes

golden-reverie · 5 months ago

Text

Burnt Out

Author’s note: Hello to anyone who sees this! I’m Elodie, 24, from the Midwest. I love to experiment with writing, and my guilty pleasure is anything to do with Harry Styles. I’ve been so inspired by all the amazing writers on here, so I finally decided to take a stab at something of my own. I hope you enjoy :)

Summary: You’ve been running yourself ragged over a work project, and Harry isn’t having it.

Word count: 4.2k

Warnings: MDNI, spanking, punishment, fingering, pre-established dom/sub relationship, stern dom!harry, sub!reader, fem!reader, aftercare, all actions and dynamics are consensual

The soft glow of the laptop screen flickered against the walls, casting restless shadows in the dimly lit house. Y/N’s fingers danced over the keyboard, her eyes locked onto the cascading lines of code. Stray wisps of amber hair had escaped the messy bun atop her head, and she absently chewed on the end of a pen—an old habit from her college days. The room was silent, save for the rhythmic clicking of keys and the quiet hum of the laptop’s fan.

Harry lingered in the doorway, arms crossed, watching her with a mixture of concern and quiet frustration. The faint aroma of the dinner he’d prepared still clung to the air, a cruel reminder that she had once again skipped a meal in favor of work. Outside, the streetlights cast a soft, silver glow through the thin curtains, tracing ghostly patterns on the floor. Y/N remained wrapped in the world of her screen, completely oblivious to his presence.

He cleared his throat, his voice cutting through the hush like a blade. “Y/N, it’s late. You need to come to bed.”

She didn’t look up. “Just a few more minutes, Harry. I need to finish this.”

Harry sighed, raking a hand through his unruly curls. “You’ve been saying that for the last three hours. You need a break.”

This time, she did glance up—just long enough for him to catch the flicker of exhaustion in her gaze before she turned back to her work. “I can’t. This project is a big one. I have to get it done.”

Harry pushed off the door frame and strode toward her, his presence heavy, unyielding. A warm hand landed on her shoulder, grounding her. “You’ve been at this nonstop for weeks. You need to take care of yourself.”

She shrugged off his touch. “I will. Just not tonight.”

His jaw tightened. “That’s not how this works, Y/N. You know the rules. You agreed to them.” His voice remained level, but there was an edge to it now, a quiet authority that she could no longer ignore. “Your body needs food, rest… You’ll burn out if you keep this up.”

Y/N’s fingers hovered over the keyboard, but for the first time in hours, she hesitated. She exhaled slowly, her voice softer, but still laced with defiance.

“I just… need to finish this. Can’t you see that?”

Harry’s expression didn’t waver. He stepped closer, lowering his voice. “You can finish it tomorrow. During normal hours. Right now, you need sleep. I already let you skip dinner, and we both know that wasn’t the first meal you’ve ignored lately.” He leaned in, his voice dropping to a murmur. “I’ve run out of patience, love.”

Y/N stilled. She understood the implication behind his words. Her breath hitched, cheeks heating.

“Harry, I can’t just—”

“Yes, you can.” His tone was gentle, yet immovable. “And you will.” With deliberate ease, he reached out and closed her laptop, the sudden silence deafening.

She finally looked at him, her eyes flashing with something between defiance and reluctant surrender. “You’re being over the top,” she muttered.

Harry smirked, tilting her chin up with his fingers, forcing her to meet his gaze. “Maybe I am. But someone has to be.” His thumb brushed against her cheek, slow and deliberate. “You’re not taking care of yourself. And that’s not acceptable to me.” His voice was softer now, but it carried an unmistakable weight.

The air thickened, charged with something unspoken yet undeniable.

He took a step back, nodding toward the staircase. “C’mon. Up you get.”

Y/N hesitated for half a second before pushing up from her chair, her body drawn to his like a tide to the shore. As much as she wanted to argue, she knew he was right. This project had pushed her past her limits—late nights, skipped meals, unanswered texts and calls—Harry had let a lot slide. But tonight, that grace had run out. And now that she had been pulled from the blue-light-induced trance she had been under, she found herself grateful for his insistence.

As they ascended the stairs, a different kind of tension coiled low in her stomach. She knew exactly where this was going, and she could already feel the electricity crackling in the space between them.

Harry sat on the edge of their bed, his eyes steady as she hovered in the doorway. He extended a hand, beckoning her forward.

“C’mere,” he commanded.

She found her place in between his legs. His hands fell to her hips and slinked around to the soft flesh under her ass, holding her in place. She looked down at him, anticipating his next move.

“I think you have a pretty good idea of where this is headed, yeah?” His eyes held a quiet patience that stood in sharp contrast to the inevitable sentence looming over her head.

“Yes, Sir,” she whispered, avoiding his gaze.

Harry hummed in approval. “I’ve let a lot slide these past couple of weeks,” he said, tilting his head forward in search of her eyes. “I know big projects come up and that they sometimes get the better of our judgment. That’s just life. But you’re not doing yourself any favors by skipping meals and running on two hours of sleep each day… I know you know that.”

She rested her hands on his shoulders, fingers toying with the fabric of his shirt. A nervous habit.

He blows out a soft sigh, brushing his fingers against her skin, “I gave you plenty of chances to course-correct, Y/N. I wasn’t expecting perfection, but you’ve been running yourself into the ground, and that’s not something I can just overlook.”

She chewed her lip, her gaze flickering anywhere but his face. “I know. I’m sorry.” A frustrated breath escaped her lips, “It’s just… this project is important to me, and you know how cutthroat my coworkers can be. I can’t afford to fall behind.”

“I understand,” he says, lightly squeezing her flesh beneath his hands. “And I love how hard you work, but regardless, you know you can’t be on your A-game if you’re not taking care of yourself… That’s why we put these rules in place, remember? He moves his right hand up to her jaw in a silent command to meet his stare, “Because I love you and I care about you.” His voice was steady, eyes unwavering. “And sometimes you need a reminder to care about yourself, too. Yeah?”

She maintained eye contact this time, the guilt she had been trying to push aside settled heavily in her chest. “I love you too.” she mumbles, her voice barely audible. “I’m sorry.” It wasn’t just an apology—it was an admission. She had ignored the rules, brushed aside her own well-being for weeks, and now the weight of it all felt like it was seeping out of her pores, pooling at his feet.

Harry lets his hand drop from her chin, his expression firm but not unkind. “And I appreciate that,” he says, his tone shifting, sharpening. “But you know the deal.”

It wasn’t necessarily a question, but she answered him, nonetheless.

“Yes, Sir.”

“Alright, over my knee,” he said, his voice leaving no room for argument. He patted his thigh—a silent summons, firm and absolute.

Y/N hesitated for a moment. Not out of reluctance, but out of the sheer pleasure of the moment—this dance between them—the thrill of defiance followed by sweet surrender. She always wanted this, always needed this, and until right now; she hadn’t realized how much she’d been craving it.

He didn’t rush her. He never did. He simply waited, watching her with steady, knowing eyes. The weight of his gaze alone sent a shiver through her, anticipation thrumming beneath her skin. Taking a slow, measured breath, she finally relented, placing her hands on the mattress for balance as she draped herself over his lap.

He took a moment to admire the sight before him—the gentle arch of her back, the delicate vibration in her limbs, betraying her excitement. His hands smoothed over her spine, warm and comforting, a soothing contrast to the tension coiling inside her.

He could feel her trembling almost imperceptibly as she laid there—a quiet, unspoken longing bubbling up from her core. He hooked his fingers into the waistband of her leggings, peeling them down her legs with deliberate ease before tossing them aside.

His palms roamed over the swell of her ass, his touch featherlight, teasing. Y/N bit her lip, resisting the instinct to press her thighs together as he traced the lace trim of her panties, feeling her heat radiating through the delicate fabric. That alone nearly unraveled him. His cock strained painfully against his sweatpants, but he forced himself to linger in this moment—the exquisite torture of making her wait, of drawing it out until she was teetering on the edge.

His hands traveled upward, finding the hem of her shirt, fingertips grazing the sensitive skin beneath. He heard the small hitch in her breath, watched as goosebumps bloomed across her flesh. Slowly, agonizingly, he lifted the fabric, removing it from her body, letting the cool air kiss her bare back as she shivered in his grasp.

He towered over her, his presence commanding every ounce of her attention. His voice, low and unwavering, wrapped around her like a steel chain. “Is your work more important than your own health?”

Y/N inhaled sharply, steadying herself before she answered. “No, Sir.”

“And who decides when you’ve had enough?” His head tilted slightly, waiting—expecting.

His voice rumbled through her, a dark, velvety vibration that settled deep in her bones. Her breath hitched. “You do, Sir.”

A flicker of approval danced in his eyes. “Good girl.”

His palm ghosted over the curves of her ass, tracing gentle circles that did little to soothe the anticipation humming in her nerves. “I want you to count for me.”

She barely had a moment to brace herself before his hand left her skin—only to return with a sharp, resounding crack.

“One!” she gasped. But before she could stop herself, her right hand shot back instinctively, trying to shield herself from the sting.

Harry was faster. He caught her wrist effortlessly, pinning it against the small of her back. His fingers wove through hers, the delicate touch at odds with the firmness of his next words.

“You know better than that.” His voice carried a quiet, heavy disapproval that made her stomach flip. “We’re starting over. Every time you squirm, we’ll go back to one again. Understood?”

Y/N swallowed hard, resisting the urge to whimper. He meant business tonight. “Yes, Sir.”

The next blow landed just as hard.

“One, Sir.” This time, she tagged on the honorific—not required, but a subtle touch she knew he'd appreciate. A ghost of a smile tugged at his lips.

Then came the next. And the next.

“Two, Sir… Three, Sir!” The quick succession stole the breath from her lungs, leaving her voice edged with both pain and something deeper, something needier.

He could feel it—the way her body responded, her skin flushing beneath his touch, heat rolling off her in waves. His palm burned against her flesh, but he reveled in it. He lived for this part: the slow, deliberate breaking down of everything but sensation.

By number twelve, the sharp slap landed against the tender flesh of her lower thighs, and she wailed, the sound raw and unfiltered. Tears pricked at the edges of her vision, but still, she forced the number past her lips.

Harry knew her body better than she did. He knew exactly how to unravel her, how to make her cry out first from frustration—then from sheer, unadulterated pleasure. He wanted her mind empty, consumed only by this, by him.

The next set of strikes sent waves of something heady through her, an intoxicating blend of pain and euphoria. Her breath stuttered. She barely managed to grunt out the numbers between each punishing impact, her body trembling, craving.

By the time he reached twenty-eight, her head had fallen slack against the bed, silent tears soaking into the duvet. This was the most Y/N had ever taken. Normally, he didn’t have to go past twenty before she surrendered completely, but tonight—tonight she had been stubborn. Each slap chipped away at the stress, the tension, the weight she had been carrying for weeks.

He felt the moment her body gave in. The way her fingers went limp in his grasp, her voice raw, spent. She wasn’t resisting anymore—just accepting.

“Thirty, Sir,” she sobbed, the words almost lost in the haze of exhaustion and relief. Then, softer still, “I’m sorry.”

Harry let his hand relax, fingers tracing slow, soothing circles over the heated expanse of her skin. Her body was still shaking, but not from pain. Not anymore. He knew she had slipped, drifting into that quiet, blissful space where nothing existed beyond the warmth of his touch and the safety of his presence.

And he wasn’t about to pull her out. Not yet.

For a long moment, the only sound was the steady rhythm of his palm smoothing over her, and the lingering, uneven sniffles escaping her lips. He let her breathe, let her be.

After a couple minutes, he leaned down, his lips brushing the shell of her ear as he murmured, “You did so good baby. I’m proud of you.”

He pressed a few final, featherlight kisses along the curve of her lower back, his breath warm against her skin as he murmured, “Are you ready for me to check on you?”

He already knew the answer. Knew what he would find when his fingers slipped between her thighs. The anticipation sent a thrill down his spine as he let his hand drift lower, tracing the seam of her slick folds, drinking in the heat that seeped into his skin.

She was dripping.

Harry was hard beneath her, the evidence pressing insistently against her stomach, and he knew she could feel it too. But tonight wasn’t about him. Yes, she had broken the rules—deserved the punishment she had just endured—but more importantly, he wanted to strip away the weight she had been carrying. He wanted to unmake the stress that had hardened her and replace it with something softer.

His thumb found her clit, circling with just enough pressure to make her squirm, a broken whimper muffled against the duvet.

“Good girl, Y/N,” he praised, his voice a low hum of satisfaction.

“Just gonna make you feel good now, yeah?”

He slid a finger inside her, slow and deliberate, while his free hand threaded into her hair, stroking, grounding her.

Her nod was small, but he felt the way her body melted, giving in to his touch. Wetness seeped onto his thigh, further proof of how much she needed this—needed him.

He pushed a second finger inside, reveling in the way her walls clenched around him, her body trembling from the overwhelming sensations. With every stroke, he could feel her tension unraveling, her muscles slackening, the last remnants of restraint slipping away.

The world around him dissolved as his fingers curled inside her, seeking out the spot he knew would make her crumble. “You’ve been so good for me,” he whispered, his lips grazing the damp skin of her shoulder. “Took your punishment like a champ. Now, I want you to come for me. Just like this.”

Her skin tasted of sweat and salt, the scent of her arousal thick in the air.

Y/N was a paradox—a perfect blend of submission and defiance. As obedient as she was, that stubborn streak of hers ran just as deep, a constant challenge that kept him on his toes. But nights like this? When she surrendered completely, yielding every inch of herself to him without hesitation?

He savored it. Relished it. Worshipped it.

Because having all of her—mind, body, and soul—was a privilege he would never take for granted.

He studied her like an artist captivated by the final stroke of their masterpiece, burning the view into his memory—the flutter of her lashes as her eyes turned glassy, the flush that crept down her neck, the way her cunt clenched so tightly around his fingers as if trying to keep him there forever. He wanted to teach her to let go. To release all the anxiety, frustration, and exhaustion that had been suffocating her for far too long.

But he needed it to come from her—wanted her to own her pleasure as much as he did—to know that she was worthy, desired, loved.

Harry’s fingers slid deeper, moving with deliberate slowness as they arched just right, pressing against the spot that had her moaning, her body instinctively grinding against his palm. Her face was buried in the duvet, eyes squeezed shut as she gasped, overwhelmed by the rush of sensations flooding through her.

“Come on, Y/N. Let go for me,” he coaxed, his voice dripping with filthy promise.

Her body tensed, and he knew he had her. She trembled on the precipice before the dam broke. A shattered moan tore from her lips as pleasure ripped through her, muscles spasming in tight, rhythmic waves. The heat of her release coated his figures, and he didn’t stop—not yet.

He worked her through it, his thumb never relenting from the steady, precise strokes against her clit. He wanted everything. Wanted to hear her cry out for him, to watch the pleasure drag her under until she had nothing left to give.

And under she went.

Her cries turned breathless as the last tremors wracked her body, her limbs going boneless beneath his touch. Slowly, he withdrew his fingers, smirking at the needy little whimper she made at the loss. He soothed the ache with soft strokes along her trembling thighs, grounding her as she came back down.

“Atta girl, sweetheart,” he cooed, voice laced with satisfaction. “That feel good?”

A slow, exhausted nod was all she could manage. As the haze of pleasure lifted, she became aware of everything at once—the damp strands of hair sticking to her nape, the tingling in her limbs, the lingering warmth radiating from her backside.

But nothing could pull her back to reality quite like his voice.

“Can you sit up for me, sweet girl?”

***

Water cascaded from the shower head in silken ribbons, a warm, soothing contrast against the cool tile. Steam curled in the air, thick and languid, blurring the edges of the room until it felt like they existed in their own private universe. The scent of eucalyptus clung to the mist, wrapping around them like an embrace.

Harry held Y/N close, his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm, the quiet strength of him anchoring her. Her head rested against his collarbone, the sound of his heartbeat a calming metronome against the storm that had been raging inside her for weeks.

His hands moved slowly over her damp skin, drawing soothing circles along her spine, his thumbs tracing the delicate ridges of her back. She shivered—not from the cold, but from the contrast of sensations: the warmth of the water, the cool air beyond it, the roughness of his calloused fingers against the softness of her flesh.

She tilted her head up, meeting his gaze through the water’s shimmering veil. Her lips were parted, her lashes heavy, surrender written in every line of her expression. Harry felt something deep and primal stir in his chest.

With a lingering kiss, he turned her around, his fingers threading through her hair as he worked the shampoo into a gentle lather. His touch was reverent, a contradiction of tenderness and strength, his large hands cradling her head with the kind of care that made her stomach flutter. She sighed softly, melting into the sensation as she rested against his muscled body, her small noises of contentment filling the air like music.

When the last suds had been rinsed away, Harry reached past her to shut off the water, the sudden absence of sound leaving them in an intimate hush. Without hesitation, he grabbed the towels he had set out earlier, wrapping her in one before she could feel the bite of the air. He took his time drying her off, the plush fabric gliding over her sensitive skin like a gentle breeze, coaxing a soft sigh from her lips. Then, with the same quiet devotion, he slipped one of his t-shirts over her head, the oversized fabric swallowing her smaller frame.

As Y/N moved through the final steps of her skincare routine, Harry retrieved a bottle of lotion from the cupboard across the room. He approached her with the grace of a shadow, gently tapping her on the bum.

“When you’re done, I want you to lay on the bed on your tummy. Ok?” His voice a smooth, honeyed command.

She finished up and did as she was told, sinking into the mattress, her head resting on her folded arms. Her damp hair spread across the silk pillow like a river of dark water, cool and smooth against the fabric.

The bed dipped beneath his weight, and she heard the soft sound of lotion being smoothed between his hands. A moment later, the hem of her shirt lifted, and his warm palms met the tender skin of her backside. Y/N sighed deeply, the coolness of the lotion a welcome relief to the heat lingering from earlier. His hands moved with slow, deliberate strokes, massaging away the sting, his fingers tracing the curves of her body with intimate familiarity.

The room was quiet, save for the rustle of sheets and the steady rhythm of their breathing. Y/N felt herself unraveling beneath his touch, sinking into the present moment, leaving behind the weight of the stress that had knotted itself into her muscles. He always knew how to bring her back—how to pull her from the depths of her mind and remind her that she didn't have to handle everything on her own.

When he was finished, he leaned down, brushing a stray lock of hair from her neck before pressing a gentle kiss to the delicate skin there.

“How do you feel?” His voice was a low murmur against her ear, thick with warmth and something deeper—something unspoken but understood.

Y/N swallowed, taking a moment to gather her words. “I—I feel good, Sir,” she admitted, her voice still laced with the remnants of pleasure and submission. “Still a little out of it… but good.” She paused for a moment, then continued, “I’m glad for the punishment. I really needed that.”

She shifted to sit up, and he caught her chin between his fingers, maneuvering her head to face him.

Harry’s lips curved into a soft smile, his thumb tracing slow, reassuring patterns along her cheek. “You did well tonight. You know that, right? M’proud of you.”

The weight of his words settled over her like a blanket—warm, protective, unwavering. She smiled softly into his touch.

A beat of silence stretched between them before he spoke again. “When you feel like things are spiraling, I need you to know you can come to me.”

Then, without waiting for a response, he leaned in and kissed her. It was slow and deliberate, filled with everything he didn’t need to say—everything he had already proven.

When she finally pulled away, her voice was softer, more certain. “I do know that. And I’m sorry I didn’t come to you sooner. It’s… a habit, shutting people out when I’m stressed. But regardless, you didn’t deserve that.”

Harry exhaled a quiet laugh, “Yes, I’m well aware of that habit of yours, which we’ll crack one day. But in the meantime, you can push all you want, sweetheart. Unfortunately for you, I’m not going anywhere.”

She giggled, letting him pull her into his chest. “On the contrary. Very fortunate for me,” she corrected, her voice tinged with affection.

He grinned, maneuvering the covers so she could slide beneath them. Reaching over, he switched off the lamp on his bedside table, casting the room into a velvety darkness.

As Y/N melted into him, the last of her tension slipping away, he pressed a soft kiss to the top of her head.

“Get some sleep. I love you.”

“I love you too,” she whispered against his skin, finally surrendering to the quiet lull of sleep’s embrace.

...

Ahhh! Kind of out there for my first post but ¯\_(ツ)_/¯. Hope you enjoyed!

706 notes · View notes