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harryspurpleloofah · 2 months ago

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𝑨𝒏𝒅 𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑶𝒔𝒄𝒂𝒓 𝑮𝒐𝒆𝒔 𝑻𝒐𝒐… | (𝒇𝒂𝒎𝒐𝒖𝒔!𝒉𝒂𝒓𝒓𝒚 𝒙 𝒇𝒂𝒎𝒐𝒖𝒔!𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓)

Summary: It’s Y/N’s first real award season, and tonight she’s headed to the Oscars—nominated for Best Actress (!!) and all dolled up like an actual goddess. With Harry Styles as her boyfriend and #1 hype man, the night should be magical… and it is, especially when she wins. But while the cameras capture joy, champagne, and golden statues, the internet tells a different story. Insecure and hurting, Y/N finds herself drowning in criticism—until Harry reminds her why none of that matters. This is a soft, emotional comfort fic with forehead kisses, whispered affirmations, and a very sparkly dress.

A/N: This fic is based on the cutest request from @dipmeinhoneyh (thank you, angel!!). I saw the ask and immediately went full ✨Oscar glam✨ in my head. It’s soft, it’s sparkly, it’s got just the right amount of angst, and of course… our boy Harry being the most supportive, sweet, temple-kissing, back-rubbing dreamboat of a boyfriend ever.

That said… I don’t actually think this is my best writing 😭 I’ve been in my head a bit and totally overthinking every sentence—like does this metaphor even make sense? and is this dramatic or just cringe?? But I still love the heart of it. So if you’re in the mood for something sweet, sad, and healing, I hope it brings you comfort. I promise the next one will be even better. Plus I haven’t really proofread since I didn’t really like it all that much; so if there are any mistakes lemme know!❤️‍🩹

Word Count: 10k

Warnings:

Soft Angst (emotional hurt/comfort)

Public scrutiny / social media hate

Insecurity and imposter syndrome

Supportive partner Harry Styles

Kisses, cuddles, and affirmations

Glittering dresses and red carpet glamor

Mention of alcohol/champagne (mild)

Mild swearing

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆

The sun rose with a gentle persistence over Los Angeles, casting a soft, golden light through the floor-to-ceiling windows of their home in the Hollywood Hills. It was still early—barely 7 a.m.—but the energy in the house was already quietly humming. Today wasn’t just any Sunday. It was the Sunday. The Oscars.

Y/N stirred in bed, tucked deep beneath the plush white duvet, reluctant to leave the cocoon of warmth and quiet that had settled around her during the night. Despite the buzzing anticipation that had followed her into sleep, she’d managed to rest—though now, with the day officially begun, her nerves were waking up right along with her.

The door creaked open softly.

"Morning, sleepyhead," Harry’s voice came, gentle and low, already laced with amusement. The smell of coffee preceded him—rich, freshly brewed, and perfectly timed.

She cracked one eye open to see him leaning in the doorway, a tray balanced in one hand: her favorite oat milk latte, a small bowl of strawberries and cream, and a folded linen napkin. He wore one of his silk robes loosely tied at the waist, his curls still slightly damp from a shower.

“Big day, darling,” he murmured, walking over and placing the tray on the bedside table. He leaned down and pressed a kiss to her forehead, lingering for just a second longer than necessary.

Y/N groaned softly, pulling the covers over her head. “Why does it feel like a big day already? It’s barely even light out.”

Harry chuckled, slipping into bed beside her, careful not to spill the coffee. “Because you’re about to knock every single person dead on that red carpet. And maybe win an Oscar while you’re at it.”

She peeked out from under the duvet, eyes still sleepy but soft. “You’re too confident in me.”

“No such thing,” he replied, passing her the latte. “Drink up. You’ve got a team of glam fairies arriving in thirty minutes.”

From there, the day began in earnest.

Y/N sat in a tall makeup chair in the sun-drenched guest room that had been converted into a makeshift dressing suite. Mirrors lined one wall, surrounded by globe lights. Racks of gowns in garment bags stood nearby, and a team of stylists, makeup artists, and assistants bustled quietly, respectful of the sacred, slightly frantic energy of the morning.

A playlist pulsed low in the background—early Beyoncé, a touch of Fleetwood Mac, something mellow to keep the mood steady.

Her stylist, Lena, was crouched beside a hanging gown: an ethereal floor-length number in deep emerald satin with a plunging neckline and a daring backless silhouette. The kind of dress that whispered elegance but screamed power when worn with the right attitude. The kind of dress that required exactly the kind of confidence Y/N was still trying to summon.

Meanwhile, her hair was being sectioned off and curled by a stylist named Ramon, who moved with the ease of someone who’d done a thousand of these before. Every so often, he’d step back and tilt his head, studying her like a sculpture in progress.

“You’re going classic tonight, babe,” he said. “Hollywood waves, little volume at the crown. Timeless. You’ll look like you walked off a 1950s movie poster.”

She gave a half-smile, eyes flicking toward the reflection in the mirror. “Just make sure I don’t look like I’m in costume.”

Ramon met her eyes in the mirror. “Trust me. You’re not going to look like anything other than the main event.”

As the hours slipped by, there were brief interludes. Harry, dressed down in a crisp white T-shirt and grey sweatpants, would peek in between tasks—whether it was a meeting with his own team or finalizing details about their arrival time. Every time, without fail, he brought her something: a bottle of water, a calming lavender mist spray, a slice of toast she forgot she asked for. Or sometimes, he brought nothing but himself—a quiet hand resting on her shoulder, a whispered, “How are you doing?” pressed into her ear.

Once, while Lena zipped her into the gown for the final fitting, Harry wandered in, paused, and let out a slow exhale.

“You’re joking,” he said under his breath, his eyes raking over her. “You’re absolutely joking.”

Y/N blushed but stood tall, arms slightly outstretched as Lena adjusted the hem. “Good joking or bad joking?”

Harry walked over, placed his hands on her hips gently, and kissed her bare shoulder. “Devastating joking. I can’t let you out of the house like this.”

She rolled her eyes, biting back a smile. “You’ll be in a tux. You’ll survive.”

“I’ll barely survive,” he said dramatically, then leaned in to kiss her again—this time, on the lips. “You’re stunning, Y/N.”

By late afternoon, the house was empty again except for the two of them. The glam team had left, Lena was already at the venue making sure everything was set for their arrival, and all that remained was the car outside, waiting to take them to the Dolby Theatre.

The SUV’s interior was sleek and black, the windows deeply tinted to block out the chaos of paparazzi that had already begun to gather on the outskirts of the route. Y/N sat stiffly, trying not to wrinkle the delicate folds of her dress, but her nerves had returned—stronger than they’d been in the morning.

She bounced her knee unconsciously, fingers fidgeting in her lap. Harry, seated beside her in a perfectly tailored black tux with a velvet lapel and a custom silver pin on the lapel—something small and symbolic just for her—reached over and covered her hand with his.

“Hey,” he said softly, grounding her. “You’re good.”

She turned to look at him. “I feel like I’m gonna throw up.”

He squeezed her hand, thumb brushing across her knuckles. “That’s how you know it matters.”

Y/N let out a shaky breath and leaned her head back against the seat. “What if I trip getting out of the car? What if I say something dumb in an interview? What if—”

“Then I’ll laugh, and everyone else will laugh, and you’ll still be the most brilliant person on that carpet,” he said, eyes never leaving hers.

She studied him for a moment, the way his calm energy seemed to bleed into hers just by proximity. “How do you always know what to say?”

“Because I know you,” he replied. “And because I believe in you more than anyone else on this planet.”

The car turned a corner, and they caught their first glimpse of the towering Oscars signage outside the theater. Flashes from cameras sparked like a distant lightning storm. The energy in the air shifted again—thicker, more electric.

Y/N took a deep breath and straightened her shoulders. “Okay. Let’s do this.”

Harry smiled, brushing a stray hair from her cheek. “Let’s go make some history.”

Y/N could feel the thrum of energy through the car door.

She didn’t move yet. Her fingers curled tighter around Harry’s hand, her eyes scanning the flashes beyond the glass like they were lightning bolts about to strike.

Harry glanced at her. “Ready?”

“No.”

He smiled, turning slightly in his seat. “Good. That means you're present. And present means powerful.”

She shot him a look. “Did you just come up with that?”

“Maybe.” He leaned in, brushing his lips against her cheek. “Let them see what I see. You don’t need to try anything. Just exist. They’ll fall in love.”

Y/N laughed under her breath, nervous and grateful all at once. “God, you’re annoying when you’re poetic.”

The door opened.

A handler appeared on her side, extending a hand to help her step out. As she emerged, the first wave of camera flashes hit like a tidal surge—rapid-fire strobes accompanied by a sudden swell of shouting.

“Y/N! Over here!”

“Look left! Y/N, to your left!”

“Harry! Y/N and Harry, can we get one together?”

Her heels hit the carpet with a soft click, the weight of the dress trailing behind her in elegant folds. The emerald green gown shimmered under the lights, catching the lenses at just the right angle. Her posture snapped into place like a reflex—shoulders back, chin slightly tilted, lips parting in that calm, camera-ready smile she’d practiced but never quite perfected.

Harry stepped out right behind her, tall and confident in his tux, the subtle gleam of his shoes catching under the lights. As soon as he was beside her, his hand found the small of her back. He leaned in to say something that didn’t carry over the noise.

Y/N gave a small laugh, genuine and involuntary, and the cameras clicked even faster.

They moved slowly along the carpet, pausing when called, posing at marked spots where publicists and assistants gently guided them with earpieces and hand gestures. Harry kept one hand loosely entwined with hers, the other occasionally adjusting the train of her dress when it caught on the carpet. It didn’t matter how many stylists had prepped it—once she started walking, the real test began.

She glanced down, saw it bunched slightly at her heel, and before she could bend down, Harry was already there, crouching gracefully to sweep it back into place.

“Got it,” he said, brushing invisible lint off her hip with practiced ease.

“You’re like a well-dressed stagehand,” she joked under her breath.

“Happy to be your personal crew.”

Another camera flash. Another shout. Another round of her name echoing across the fan barricade. She heard her name interspersed with his—sometimes chanted together, sometimes in waves.

“Harry! Y/N! We love you!”

Someone screamed, “Y/N, you look stunning!”

And someone else, “Marry him already!”

They both laughed at that one.

He leaned toward her and said, “I mean, it is good advice.”

She rolled her eyes and whispered back, “Focus. This is your Oscar-wife-in-the-making’s moment.”

He raised his eyebrows in mock awe. “Oscar-wife. I like that. Very regal.”

They paused before the press line, where the velvet ropes gave way to a gauntlet of microphones, cameras, and media crews from around the world. It was the most intense stretch of the carpet—the part where charm, poise, and grace mattered more than the couture itself. One wrong answer, and you'd trend for all the wrong reasons.

Y/N took a breath, nerves coiling again.

Harry felt it.

He turned to her, gently tugging her hand so she’d face him fully.

She looked up at him.

“Hey,” he said, barely audible over the buzz. “Look at me.”

She did.

“You’ve got this.”

She blinked, her eyes shining just slightly. Not from tears—yet—but from the sheer pressure of everything. From the weight of the moment. The stakes. The past months of award season, interviews, photo shoots, critics, dresses, rehearsed speeches, and that one role that had changed everything.

He didn’t need to say anything more. He just squeezed her hand—once, firmly.

That was all. I’m here. I believe in you. You’ve already won, whatever happens.

And she nodded. Just once. That was all she needed too.

A reporter from Entertainment Weekly waved them over, her laminated credentials swinging around her neck and a microphone already raised. Her eyes sparkled with recognition and excitement.

“Y/N! Harry! You both look incredible tonight. Can I steal you for a quick one?”

They stepped up, the camera behind the reporter going live.

Y/N smiled, adjusted her stance, and waited for the question she knew was coming.

“So Y/N,” the reporter began, cheerful and polished, “congratulations on your nomination. This is your first Oscar night—and you’re up for Best Actress. How does it feel to be here right now?”

There was a half-second pause.

Y/N’s mouth opened slightly. The question was expected, but somehow her mind still spun. The noise behind them, the adrenaline, the surreal glow of it all. She blinked, trying to find the perfect response, something articulate and meaningful—

But Harry stepped in, smoothly and warmly.

“She’s incredible,” he said, not stealing the spotlight, just grounding it. “No matter what happens tonight, she’s already won in my book. What she did in that role—what she poured into it—it changed people. And I’ve seen firsthand how hard she worked. How much heart she gave. This nomination’s just catching up to what the rest of us already know.”

Y/N turned to look at him, caught off guard by the depth in his voice, the sincerity. It wasn’t a sound bite. He wasn’t performing. He meant every word.

The reporter lit up. “Oh my god. Are you two trying to end us on this carpet?”

Y/N laughed softly, cheeks warm. “I swear I didn’t pay him to say that.”

Harry gave her a look, playfully serious. “You can, though. I’m open to bribery.”

The moment was perfect—genuine and golden. The camera caught the laugh, the subtle glance between them, the way he looked at her like she was the only person in the crowd.

And the fans ate it up. Social media would have the clip trending before the show even started.

As they wrapped the interview, they moved toward the entrance of the theater. The crowd was even thicker near the doors, the press giving way to fans, seat fillers, and the final frenzy of arrivals.

Security held the gates, and the calls of their names grew louder, more impassioned.

A girl near the barricade waved a sign: Y/N DESERVES THE OSCAR.

Another had painted her nails with tiny pictures of the film’s poster.

Y/N turned, smiled, and waved. Harry nudged her gently, nodding toward one young fan in the front who was visibly trembling, holding a poster with her face on it.

Y/N walked over.

Security parted just enough for her to sign the poster, say a quick thank you, and take a selfie. The fan gasped, crying before Y/N even stepped back.

As they rejoined the path toward the theater doors, Harry looked over. “You just made her whole year.”

Y/N exhaled, her eyes misty now. “This is wild.”

“You earned it.”

They paused at the top of the short staircase leading into the venue. One last look back at the storm of lights and color. One more deep breath.

Then they stepped inside.

Y/N sat beside Harry, both of them just left of center in the third row. Prime placement. Visible. Important. Close enough to the stage that the nerves felt like heat waves.

As the show began, hosts made their jokes, montages played, musical numbers dazzled. But for Y/N, everything was blurry around the edges. Every laugh, every applause line, every standing ovation—it all felt like static until her category approached. Until that moment came.

The show was nearly two hours in when it happened.

The presenter for Best Actress in a Leading Role was introduced. A hush rippled through the room—not silence, exactly, but a collective holding of breath. Y/N’s stomach twisted into a slow, tight knot.

The presenter—a respected actress with decades of gravitas in her voice—stepped up to the microphone with a glint of joy in her eyes. She held the envelope delicately, as if it contained a spell.

Y/N could feel her pulse in her throat.

Harry’s hand tightened around hers. She glanced at him. He didn’t look nervous—he looked steady. Focused. He leaned slightly toward her, their shoulders brushing. His thumb moved slowly over the back of her hand in the rhythm they both knew well. Comfort. Presence. I’m here.

She wanted to breathe, but her chest felt too full.

The camera panned to the nominees. She caught the shift of the lens in the corner of her eye as the image was cast live to millions of screens around the world. Her face—composed but pale—flashed on screen. She gave the tight, polite smile expected of a nominee, but her fingers clung to Harry’s like she was gripping a lifeline.

“And the nominees for Best Actress are…”

The presenter began listing them, one by one, and Y/N heard the first name like it was underwater. Applause. Another name. Louder applause. Then hers.

“Y/N Y/L/N, for The Last Garden.”

The room responded with a round of strong, respectful clapping. The sound struck her ears like a wave but didn’t quite reach her. All she could hear was her heart. All she could feel was Harry’s thumb, steady on her hand, anchoring her to the moment.

She blinked slowly, trying to commit the feeling to memory. This was it. This was the peak she’d dreamed about as a teenager watching old Oscar clips on YouTube, half-believing this kind of thing was for other people. Famous people. Not her. Not really.

She caught her breath, realizing she hadn’t even been listening to the rest of the names.

Then the envelope.

The presenter smiled. There was that little pause. The iconic pause. The weight of anticipation, curated over decades of cinematic tradition.

She unfolded the envelope with deliberate care.

“And the Oscar goes to…”

Everything went still. Y/N’s vision tunneled. Her ears rang.

Harry’s grip tightened, just slightly.

In the silence, she swore she heard her own name before it was even said. A strange premonition. A gut scream. But maybe it was just hope masquerading as instinct.

Then—

Let’s rewind a little.

Even before the envelope was opened, the weight of the entire journey was pressing down on her shoulders. She remembered the first table read for The Last Garden. The gritty rehearsal room in downtown L.A., the dim yellow lighting, the folding chairs. She remembered sitting with the script in her lap, dog-eared and covered in notes, fingers trembling as she read her lines for the first time. She remembered how she doubted herself at first—wondered if the role was too heavy for her, too exposed.

And then the shoot—months in cold weather, brutal emotional scenes, sixteen-hour days, moments when she thought she was completely spent only to find more inside her. Moments she didn’t think the camera could possibly capture. But it had. It had captured everything.

Harry had been there through it all. In every phone call. Every wrap-day. Every night when she came home exhausted, unsure of whether she was enough.

And now she was here.

She glanced sideways at him again.

He wasn’t looking at the stage. He was looking at her.

Like he was taking a mental photograph of this moment, this version of her—nervous, radiant, right on the edge of history.

He smiled slightly. Nothing big. Just for her.

It grounded her more than any deep breath could have.

Around them, the theater shifted in micro-expressions. Cameras zoomed in. Other nominees sat poised. Their loved ones gripped their hands. Publicists prayed behind curtains. Somewhere, the world paused.

The presenter cleared her throat slightly, unfolding the card, her eyes scanning the name.

Harry squeezed Y/N’s hand again.

She didn’t look at him this time.

She couldn’t.

She was trying to hold herself together in that two-second eternity between the words “And the Oscar goes to…” and the name that would follow.

Her entire body felt electrified. Her palms were cold, but her face burned. The air seemed too thick to swallow.

She was inside the moment—and floating just above it.

The presenter inhaled.

Y/N braced.

The card was lifted. The envelope unfolded. The air inside the Dolby Theatre was thick with anticipation. Even the orchestra seemed to pause mid-breath, violins poised, trumpets silenced. The presenter’s voice carried clearly, impossibly loud in the stillness:

“And the Oscar goes to… Y/N Y/L/N!”

For one full second, there was no reaction.

Not from her.

Not because she didn’t hear it—she did.

But her brain simply refused to compute it.

It was like her name echoed down a long corridor, bouncing between disbelief and dream. Her hands flew to her mouth instinctively, fingers trembling as they pressed against her lips. Her eyes widened, glassy with shock, and her breath caught in her throat like it didn’t know where to go.

She didn’t move.

Couldn’t.

Then the room erupted.

Applause thundered around her. Cheering, clapping, laughter, the swell of people rising to their feet. The orchestra hit a triumphant chord and she blinked hard, trying to keep her vision clear as her name flashed across the massive screen behind the stage.

Y/N Y/L/N – Best Actress

Harry was already on his feet, hands raised in celebration. His face lit up with joy—not surprise, not pride, not even awe. Just pure, visceral joy. Like every molecule in his body was exhaling at once.

He turned to her, pulled her up, wrapping her in a fierce hug.

Her hands still covered her mouth as she collapsed against his chest, overwhelmed, trembling.

He pressed his lips to her ear. “Go get what’s yours, my love.”

She nodded blindly against his shoulder.

A producer was already motioning from the aisle. People around her were smiling, clapping her back, congratulating her in a blur she couldn’t fully absorb. She stepped into the aisle on shaky legs, heart pounding so loudly it drowned out the music. The hem of her dress caught under her heel and she nearly stumbled, but caught herself just in time.

Harry’s voice followed gently from behind: “Take your time. Own it.”

She did.

It was the longest, shortest walk of her life.

The aisle stretched before her, flanked by rows of glittering nominees and movie royalty. The stage felt impossibly far away and somehow already beneath her feet. Every step was a battle against the tears threatening to spill over.

She passed familiar faces—fellow actors, directors, crew—some of whom had hugged her backstage earlier in the season, win or lose. Some of whom she admired from afar. All of them were on their feet.

She didn’t look at any of them.

Her eyes were locked on the podium. On the golden statue waiting patiently for her. The symbol of everything she’d fought for.

Her heart pounded.

She could feel her pulse in her wrists, in her ribs, behind her eyes.

She reached the stairs.

Someone offered a hand—she wasn’t even sure who, maybe a stage manager or the presenter. She took it blindly, half-aware, as she climbed the steps in her heels, praying her legs wouldn’t give out beneath her.

Then she was there.

Standing in front of the microphone.

The applause was still going. The house was still on its feet. The lights blinded her slightly—hot and white, isolating her from the crowd but also making her the sole focus. The Oscar was placed in her hands. It was heavier than she’d imagined. Cold and solid and real.

She looked down at it for a moment, stunned.

Then she looked out at the audience.

And for the first time since her name was called, she exhaled.

It was happening.

This was real.

The applause began to die down slowly, people settling into their seats, the room hushed once more. The orchestra faded.

She stepped to the mic.

She opened her mouth—and for a second, nothing came out.

She laughed, just once, breathless and disbelieving.

“I—wow,” she said, voice shaking. “I… I don’t even know where to start.”

Laughter echoed softly through the room, warm and encouraging.

She swallowed hard, gripping the Oscar with both hands.

“I’ve dreamed about this moment since I was a teenager, watching from my couch with my mom, hoping—praying—that maybe, someday, somehow, this could be me. And now I’m standing here… and I still don’t believe it.”

Her voice cracked slightly. She took a moment, blinking fast. The prompter was blank—this part wasn’t rehearsed. This was all instinct.

“I want to thank the Academy… my fellow nominees, who I admire so deeply… and my incredible director, who trusted me with this role before I even trusted myself. You believed in what I could bring to this character, and you never stopped pushing me to go deeper.”

Applause.

She shifted slightly, breath catching.

“To my cast—thank you for your generosity, your brilliance, your friendship. You made every day on set something special. To our crew, who worked harder than anyone ever saw—this is yours too.”

She paused. Her fingers curled around the statue, knuckles white.

“And to my family,” she said, voice quieter now, thick with emotion. “You were the first ones to believe I had something. Even when it was small, and scared, and messy. You told me to go for it. You never let me quit.”

A pause.

Then she looked out into the crowd.

Her eyes found Harry, like magnets locking.

He was standing now, hands clasped in front of him, a quiet smile on his lips, eyes shining with pride and something deeper. Something unshakable.

She took a breath.

“And to my Harry…” she said softly.

The room seemed to still again, leaning in.

“…who has been my anchor through this all. Who saw this version of me—this strong, brave, relentless version—before I ever did. You’ve held me up through every doubt, every hard day, every ‘I can’t do this.’ You reminded me I could. And I did.”

A pause. Her lip quivered, but she smiled through it.

“Thank you for believing in me, even when I didn’t.”

The camera cut to Harry.

And his face—his face—said it all.

He wasn’t just proud. He wasn’t just emotional.

He was in awe. Looking at her like she had hung the stars in the sky and lit each one with her bare hands. His expression was soft and unguarded, as if he was seeing her for the first time all over again.

A beat.

She looked back at the mic.

“And lastly—thank you to everyone who’s ever dared to tell their story. This role changed me, and I hope it reaches someone out there who needs to know they’re not alone.”

More applause.

The orchestra swelled again, gently this time—cueing her to wrap up, but respectfully, giving her a few more seconds to breathe.

She nodded once more, eyes wet but clear, voice stronger now.

“This means everything. Thank you.”

She turned to exit, holding the statue close to her chest. Backstage staff welcomed her with congratulations, flashbulbs from press flickering again—but it was all a blur.

She just wanted to get back to him.

And when she stepped off the stage and rounded the corner, there he was.

Harry, waiting just past the curtain.

Before she could say anything, he wrapped her in his arms, lifting her slightly off the ground in a crushing hug.

“You did it,” he murmured into her hair. “You fucking did it.”

She held on tight, burying her face into his shoulder.

“I can’t believe it,” she whispered.

“I can,” he said simply. “I never doubted it for a second.”

They stood like that for a while. Her award between them, clutched awkwardly between the fabric of her dress and the lapel of his tux, but neither one caring.

Just the two of them, suspended in a perfect, golden moment.

She could barely make it two steps before someone stopped her with wide arms and a glass of champagne, cheeks flushed with joy or alcohol or both. Someone else pulled her in for a hug. A famous director whose movies she grew up worshiping leaned in to say how stunning her performance was. A fellow actress, nominated in a different category, clinked glasses with her, grinning, eyes shining. There was confetti somewhere. Music swelling from a DJ booth set up by the balcony. The night was alive and on fire, and she was at the center of it.

And yet, none of it felt quite real. The noise, the faces, the cameras clicking in staccato bursts. Everyone saying her name—her name—with that reverent kind of awe like it belonged to a myth now. She could barely hold onto a thought. Everything felt like a dream, hazy and lit from behind, like an old film reel playing too fast.

But Harry was real. His hand was real, warm and grounding in hers. Every time she looked at him, she was brought back down to earth. He never let her go far. Not for long. Even when she got pulled into conversations or introduced to people she’d only ever seen on screens, he stayed within reach, close enough to lock eyes with her when she needed a moment to breathe. Every time she looked overwhelmed, he caught her gaze and gave her that little nod—the same one he gave her in the car before they arrived, the same one he gave her right before her name was called. You’ve got this.

At some point, someone tugged the Oscar out of her hands to set it down for safekeeping—someone on her team, smiling gently, promising it would be watched like a crown jewel. She let it go without protest, her arms immediately finding their way back around Harry’s waist.

A photographer called their names from across the room, gesturing toward the backdrop. They obliged, standing side by side as flashes lit up around them. She was still beaming, cheeks sore from smiling, but it didn’t stop. She leaned her head on Harry’s shoulder for a few shots, and he kissed the top of her head in another. One photo caught her looking up at him, totally lost in him, while he looked right at the camera like he knew exactly how good he had it.

“Do you want to sneak away for a second?” he murmured near her ear when the photographer finally lowered the camera.

She nodded instantly.

They weaved their way out of the ballroom and down a quiet hallway lined with closed doors, the party still a low thump behind them. The air here was cooler. Quieter. She leaned against the wall, catching her breath, finally able to hear her own thoughts. Harry stepped in front of her, one hand braced on the wall beside her head, the other resting on her hip.

He looked at her like he didn’t quite believe her. Like he was still processing what had just happened. “Oscar-winning actress,” he said softly, almost to himself.

She laughed, the sound light, delighted, bubbling up without control. “Don’t start with that.”

“Oh, I’m going to be insufferable,” he said, leaning in, pressing a kiss just below her jaw. “I’ve been sitting on this line all night.”

She arched a brow, breath catching. “What line?”

He pulled back just enough to look her in the eye, his grin slow and crooked. “I always knew I was dating an Oscar winner. I’m honestly kind of surprised it took the Academy this long to catch up.”

She snorted, smacking his chest. “You’re such a menace.”

“And you’re incredible.” His voice shifted then—less teasing, more tender. “You were so beautiful up there. Brave. You held it together like a pro.”

“I almost tripped.”

“You didn’t, though. You floated.”

She shook her head, overwhelmed again, and his hand moved up to her cheek, thumb brushing beneath her eye. She didn’t realize she was tearing up until then.

“Hey,” he said softly, stepping closer, crowding her gently against the wall, “look at me.”

She did.

His eyes searched hers, tender and sure.

“I’m so proud of you, baby. So, so proud.”

She swallowed hard, nodded, resting her forehead against his. “I don’t know how to come down from this.”

“You don’t have to. Just ride it for a little while.”

Then he kissed her.

Slow. Deep. Like the world had stopped again, like time bent just for them. His hand curled around her waist and her fingers slipped into the curls at the nape of his neck. It wasn’t a rushed kiss, or one for show, or even one born of adrenaline. It was something else—steady, grounding. Like a reset. Like home.

When they pulled apart, she blinked slowly, dazed.

“That helped,” she whispered.

He smiled, brushing his nose against hers. “Good.”

They stayed in that quiet hallway a little longer, just the two of them. No cameras. No crowds. Just quiet breath, soft smiles, a moment to recalibrate.

Eventually, the party pulled them back. The night wasn’t done celebrating her yet.

More glasses were raised. More toasts. A few actors she idolized gave her hugs that lingered, offering real praise. A veteran screenwriter told her she’d made him cry. She tried to keep up, tried to stay in every moment, but it was hard to grasp the edges of something so surreal. Every time she needed to recenter, Harry was there. A hand on her back. A whisper in her ear. A smirk from across the room that made her bite back a grin.

They danced for a while, the two of them swaying in the middle of a crowd that couldn’t stop buzzing. Someone had switched the playlist to a retro mix—Fleetwood Mac, Queen, a little Bowie. She had her arms around Harry’s neck, his hands at her waist, the hem of her dress brushing his shoes.

“I can’t feel my feet,” she said, resting her head on his shoulder.

“I’ll carry you home.”

She laughed. “I believe you would.”

“Course I would.” He pulled back just enough to look at her again. “I’d carry you to the ends of the earth if you asked.”

“You really do like the Oscar-winner lines, huh?”

“Can’t help it. You make me dramatic.”

She kissed him again, this time quick and giddy, a burst of affection she couldn’t contain. He tasted like champagne. She probably did too.

Eventually, the party began to thin. The most chaotic of the press disappeared, and even the most energetic guests started slipping out. But she stayed until the end, still barefoot by then, heels dangling from one hand, Harry’s jacket draped over her shoulders. The Oscar was back in her grasp, solid and surreal.

It was sometime around four in the morning when they finally left, stepping out into the cool early air. The streets outside were quiet. The night had shifted, a slow descent from euphoria into something softer. Calmer.

They slipped into the back of a black SUV, the Oscar carefully nestled between them. Her head dropped onto Harry’s shoulder, and he laced their fingers together, resting their hands in her lap.

“I’m scared this is all a dream,” she murmured.

“If it is,” he said, kissing the top of her head, “we’re having the same one.”

She smiled against his jacket. Her lashes fluttered. Her limbs ached. Her chest was full.

Everything shimmered.

Everything felt impossibly light.

And even though something unnamed hovered just on the edge—some strange weight she couldn’t place yet—she didn’t reach for it. Not yet.

Not tonight.

Tonight, she had the gold in her hands, the man she loved beside her, and a sky full of stars blinking down in quiet approval.

The city was quieter now. Even in the early-morning buzz of LA, there was a strange hush, like the world itself had fallen asleep while they kept dreaming. The SUV moved through the near-empty streets with a steady hum, headlights painting soft gold across pavement and palm trees. Her head was still resting on Harry’s shoulder, his fingers drawing slow, absent-minded circles on her hand. She could hear his heartbeat. Could feel the steady rhythm of his breath.

She hadn’t wanted the night to end. Not really. But exhaustion had started to crawl in, soft and slow, the way it does after the adrenaline wears off. Her body ached in places she didn’t expect—from the heels, the tightness of the gown, the constant tension of smiling, posing, holding herself together. Still, beneath the tiredness, she felt full. Like she was carrying something sacred.

The Oscar sat on the seat between them, catching the faintest bit of light every now and then, flashing gold like it was winking at her. Every time she looked at it, she half-expected it to disappear.

She didn’t remember pulling her phone out—just that, at some point, her fingers had found their way to her clutch. Maybe it was habit. Maybe she just wanted to see the love. The posts from friends. Her team. Maybe even some fan edits or Tweets with her name in all caps, exclamation marks trailing like confetti. She wasn’t looking for anything specific—just something to hold onto. Something to make the moment last a little longer.

But the second the screen lit up, the illusion cracked.

At first, it was what she expected—photos of her on the carpet, snippets of her acceptance speech, her name trending at the top. But then she scrolled. And scrolled. And there it was.

“She didn’t deserve it.”

“She just cried and looked pretty.”

“Should’ve gone to [insert other nominee].”

“She was fine, but not Oscar-worthy.”

“Nepotism at its finest.”

The words were sharp and cold, almost clinical in how efficiently they cut through her. There were dozens. Hundreds. Her stomach dropped like a stone. Her fingers tightened slightly around the phone. The air in the car seemed thinner suddenly, the buzz in her ears louder.

She blinked. Read them again. As if they might change the second time.

They didn’t.

She tried to pull back, to remind herself that it didn’t matter. That people were always going to have opinions. That this was part of it. But those thoughts were flimsy armor. The words still slipped through.

The high of the night didn’t just fade—it crashed, hard and fast, like a glass falling off a shelf and shattering on tile. She could still hear the echoes of applause in her head, but now it felt like a mockery. Her speech replayed in flashes—her shaking voice, the tears in her eyes—and now all she could think about was how many people were sitting behind screens, tearing it apart.

She didn’t say anything right away. Just stared at her screen, the scrolling continuing on autopilot even though every swipe made it worse.

Harry noticed the shift almost immediately. He always did.

“Hey,” he said softly, “what’s wrong?”

She didn’t answer at first. Didn’t know how to. Her throat felt tight.

He gently tugged the phone out of her hands, and she didn’t stop him.

He looked at the screen. Scrolled once. Twice. His expression didn’t change much, but his jaw tensed.

“Babe,” he said, “don’t read this shit.”

She stared out the window. “I didn’t mean to. I was just—checking. Seeing what people were saying.”

Harry sighed and slid her phone into his coat pocket. “People are always going to talk. Doesn’t mean they’re right.”

She nodded. But it didn’t help.

Because she knew, logically, that online hate was inevitable. Especially now. Especially at this level. She’d seen it happen to others. Seen people torn apart over performances, over speeches, over dresses and facial expressions and literally anything. She wasn’t naive. But it was different when it was you.

It was different when you’d just had the biggest night of your life and now, here you were, staring at a comment that casually dismissed your entire career like it was nothing. Like it was handed to you.

The SUV pulled up to their place and she got out slowly, the air even colder now. Her dress dragged slightly as she walked, and Harry had to remind her not to forget the Oscar in the backseat. She carried it in with both hands, but it felt heavier now.

Inside, the silence was thicker. Their place was dark, still. The quiet was usually comforting. Tonight it just made the buzz in her head louder.

She set the statue down on the kitchen counter, stared at it for a long moment.

“I shouldn’t have looked,” she said finally.

Harry walked up behind her, slid his arms around her waist, rested his chin on her shoulder. “No, you shouldn’t have.”

“It’s just—” She paused, then turned in his arms so she could see his face. “They’re saying I didn’t deserve it. That I only got it because of who I’m dating or who my mom is or whatever bullshit they think matters more than the work.”

Harry didn’t look away. “You do deserve it.”

“But what if they’re right?”

“They’re not.”

“You can’t know that.”

“Yes, I can,” he said, voice low but firm. “Because I watched you build this. Brick by brick. I saw you bust your ass for that role. I saw the nights you didn’t sleep, the days you pushed through when you were ready to quit. I saw what it cost you. I know what it took.”

She felt the tears building again, slow and helpless. She hated that she was crying. Hated that people she didn’t even know could get under her skin like this.

Harry cupped her face. “Baby, this doesn’t change anything. Those people on the internet? They didn’t watch you become her. They didn’t see the work. They just want something to be mad about. Don’t let them take this from you.”

She leaned into his touch, eyes fluttering shut.

“I just wanted to feel proud,” she whispered. “Even if just for a night.”

“You can be proud. You should be.”

He pulled her in then, held her tight against him, his arms wrapped around her like armor. She let herself sink into him, eyes burning, chest aching.

“I know it’s hard,” he murmured. “I know it hurts. But you can’t let strangers dim what you’ve done. Not after tonight. Not ever.”

She didn’t respond, just let herself be held.

Eventually, they moved to the couch. She curled up beside him, his hoodie now draped over her, the TV on low but ignored. Her phone stayed where he left it—out of sight. She didn’t ask for it again.

The Oscar stayed on the counter, catching the first hints of morning light.

And somewhere, beneath all the noise, she knew he was right.

She just couldn’t feel it yet.

It lingered in her bones—something invisible and heavy, dulling the edges of everything. No matter how many times Harry told her she deserved it, no matter how many friends texted congratulations or sent voice notes filled with giddy excitement, the comments still lived just beneath the surface of her thoughts. And when the sun finally rose, burning through the fog of the sleepless night, she felt like she hadn’t won anything at all.

They had booked a hotel suite for the night of the ceremony, a quiet place tucked above the city skyline with blackout curtains and room service. It had seemed luxurious yesterday—something special, celebratory. Now, it felt sterile. A holding cell between the high of last night and whatever came next.

She hadn’t even changed out of her dress.

The sequins that had once felt like magic now clung to her like armor she couldn’t peel off. Her hair was half undone, pins slipping loose. Her makeup was smeared, but she hadn’t looked in the mirror to check how bad. She didn’t want to see herself.

She sat on the edge of the bed, knees tucked up, her bare feet curled beneath her. Her phone glowed in the dim room, casting harsh light across her face. She scrolled.

And scrolled.

It wasn’t all bad. That was the hardest part—there was love in there. Kindness. Genuine joy. Fans posting her speech with heart emojis. A little girl in a homemade dress pretending to accept an Oscar “just like Y/N.” Colleagues praising her performance. Friends defending her in threads already riddled with hate. There were bright spots, but they were few and far between the barbed wire.

She kept tapping.

“She’s mid.”

“Can’t believe she cried like that—so performative.”

“She got it because she’s pretty.”

“This is why the Oscars don’t matter anymore.”

Every comment was a little pinprick, barely noticeable on its own, but bleeding her dry in slow drops. Her breath started to catch. She told herself to stop. To just stop. But the part of her that needed to see the worst—so she could maybe stop fearing it—kept scrolling anyway.

It was like digging your nails into a bruise.

When the tears came, they were sudden and angry. She didn’t even realize she was crying until her vision blurred and a hot tear rolled down the curve of her cheek, dropping onto her phone screen. She blinked hard, wiped her face, only for more to follow.

She set the phone down.

Then she picked it up again.

Locked it. Unlocked it.

Read the same comment for the third time just to be sure it stung as bad.

And then she threw it.

Not violently. Not dramatically. Just enough to get it away from her. The phone skidded across the bedspread and landed with a dull thud on the floor.

She sat there, hands trembling in her lap, chest tight, as the sobs built behind her teeth like a tidal wave waiting to crash. She didn’t want Harry to see her like this. Not after last night. Not after everything he’d said. He was still asleep, or so she thought—curled up in the other room, letting her have space. He’d offered to stay, to talk, but she’d told him she was fine. Lied through her teeth because it felt like the only way to not fall apart in front of him.

But now the tears wouldn’t stop.

Now her shoulders were shaking and her breaths came out in broken little gasps and she couldn’t tell if she was upset because of the comments, or because she believed them. Maybe both.

Because what if they were right?

What if she hadn’t been the best?

What if the role wasn’t as impressive as they’d made it seem? What if she’d just been lucky, caught in the swell of good PR and timing and a famous boyfriend by her side?

The gold statue felt a million miles away now, like it belonged to someone else.

Her hands came up to cover her face as the sob broke through her throat, loud and ugly and desperate. And that’s when she heard the door open.

“Y/N?”

Harry’s voice, groggy and low but instantly alert.

She didn’t respond. Couldn’t.

She felt the bed shift as he crossed the room, footsteps fast but quiet. He crouched in front of her without asking, his hands already reaching for hers, gently pulling them down from her face.

“Oh, baby,” he whispered. His thumb brushed under her eyes, catching a tear. “No. What happened?”

She tried to speak. Shook her head instead.

But he could see it—see the truth in the way her body was curled in on itself, the way her face was crumpled, eyes swollen and red. He glanced down and saw the phone on the floor.

“Is this about the comments?”

She nodded once, miserably.

“Fuck.” He sighed, ran a hand through his curls. “I knew I shouldn’t have left you alone with that damn thing.”

“I’m sorry,” she choked out, voice raw and paper-thin.

He looked up, startled. “What the hell are you sorry for?”

“I just… I should be happy. I want to be. But I can’t stop thinking that maybe they’re right.”

“Stop.”

She looked up at him, eyes blurry.

“I mean it,” he said, voice firmer now. “Stop. You’re allowed to have feelings, but don’t you dare say they’re right. Not about this. Not about you.”

She sniffled. “You don’t get it—”

“Then make me get it. Talk to me.”

She tried. She tried to form the words. To make sense of the mess in her head. But all that came out was a broken whisper: “I feel like a fraud.”

His heart cracked at the sound of it. He cupped her cheeks, holding her steady, grounding her.

“You’re not a fraud. You’re the realest thing in this whole fucking industry. I’ve watched you doubt yourself, question every move, pour your whole heart into every scene. You didn’t get lucky. You got good.”

She swallowed hard, tears still spilling.

“I don’t know how to believe that right now.”

“I’ll believe it for both of us, then.”

His hands moved to her back, guiding her into his chest. She folded into him, clinging like he was the only solid thing left. And maybe he was. He didn’t speak right away, just held her while her shoulders heaved with the force of her grief. Let her sob into his shirt, into the quiet.

When her breathing finally slowed, when her tears ran dry, he kissed her temple and said, “We’re going to get through this, yeah? One comment, one panic spiral, one deep breath at a time.”

She didn’t answer, but she nodded. And for now, that was enough.

They stayed like that for a long time, the sun crawling higher behind the curtains. The dress still clung to her, uncomfortable and stiff, but she didn’t have the energy to take it off. Not yet.

Eventually, Harry shifted, his voice gentler now. “Let me run you a bath.”

She hesitated, then nodded again. He kissed her forehead and disappeared into the bathroom, the sound of running water filling the space soon after. She leaned back against the headboard, eyes closed, trying to remember how the night had felt when everything was still perfect.

She still didn’t feel it.

But maybe she would. Eventually.

Maybe this was just the fall before the rise.

Maybe, in time, she’d find her way back to the version of herself who stood on that stage, gold in hand, voice shaking but steady, thanking the man she loved and the person she was becoming.

But right now, she let herself be small. Let herself be held. Let herself fall apart.

Because tomorrow was another day.

And she’d need all her strength to begin again.

She stayed curled in the safety of his arms, the room dim around them, muted and quiet except for the faint hum of traffic outside and the occasional creak of old floorboards settling. She didn’t speak, didn’t need to. Her body said everything. The tightness in her shoulders, the exhaustion radiating off her in waves. Harry felt it the second she walked in, her face crumpling the moment the door closed behind her. He didn’t need an explanation. He already knew.

He said nothing, just opened his arms and waited. She stepped into him like muscle memory, like this was the only place in the world that made sense right now. And when her body gave out—when her knees buckled from the weight of it all—he caught her without hesitation. No questions, no demands. Just held her against his chest, one hand cradling the back of her head, the other wrapping tight around her waist, anchoring her.

“Don’t do this, baby,” he whispered, voice low and rough, lips close to her temple. “Don’t let them take this from you.”

She shook her head, barely. A few stray tears clung to her lashes before falling, soaking into the collar of his shirt. Harry didn’t flinch. Just kept holding her like she was something sacred, something that couldn’t break as long as he had her.

His fingers moved in slow, soothing circles across her back. Sometimes he pressed a kiss to her forehead, other times he just breathed her in, grounding her in his steady presence. She didn’t know how long they stayed like that—minutes, maybe longer. Time bent weirdly when pain was involved.

“They weren’t there,” he said quietly, when her breathing started to even out. “Not when you spent months pouring yourself into this role. Not for the late nights, the rejections, the silence between auditions that made you question everything. They weren’t there for the nights you couldn’t sleep because your mind wouldn’t stop picking apart every scene you did. But I was. And I saw every second of it.”

Her grip on his shirt tightened. Her voice cracked as she whispered, “I just… I thought I’d feel different. I thought winning would make it all worth it.”

Harry leaned back just enough to see her face. She avoided his eyes at first, but he gently tilted her chin up until she had no choice.

“It is worth it,” he said, firm but tender. “You just have to believe it.”

She blinked, and another tear slipped down her cheek. He brushed it away with his thumb, slow and soft.

“I don’t know how to believe that,” she said. “Not when everything still feels so—empty.”

He nodded like he understood. Because he did.

“You’ve been running on fumes for months,” he said. “Running so fast you didn’t stop to feel anything. Now it’s over and you finally have a second to breathe, and all of it—the stress, the pressure, the fear—it's crashing down. That doesn’t mean it wasn’t worth it. It just means you're human.”

She pressed her forehead to his. Closed her eyes. Let herself stay there.

“You didn’t do this for the validation,” he murmured. “Not really. You did it because it mattered to you. Because you had something to say and this was your way of saying it. And you did. You did.”

Her lips quivered, but she stayed silent.

“And maybe right now it doesn’t feel like enough. That’s okay. You don’t have to feel grateful or proud tonight. You just have to let yourself feel whatever the hell this is.”

He paused, then added, quieter, “Just don’t let them convince you it wasn’t real.”

She opened her eyes. Met his gaze. There was no judgment there. Just love. Steady and quiet and patient.

“I don’t want to be this person,” she said. “The one who breaks down after everything goes right.”

Harry gave a soft laugh—not mocking, just real.

“Babe, if you didn’t break down after all that, I’d be worried. You’ve been holding it all in for so long. Letting go doesn’t make you weak. It means you're still here. Still trying.”

Her breath hitched again. But this time, it wasn’t a sob. It was something closer to relief.

“Remember when you almost quit last year?” he asked.

She nodded, slowly.

“You told me, ‘If I walk away now, I’ll regret it forever.’ And you were right. You didn’t walk away. You stayed. You fought. And you fucking won.”

His voice cracked just slightly on that last word. Like he was feeling it too.

She laughed through a tear. “You’re gonna make me cry again.”

“Good,” he said, kissing her forehead again. “You need it.”

For a moment, they just sat there—her curled against him, his hand in her hair, their breaths syncing up in the quiet. It was the kind of silence that didn’t need to be filled. The kind that said: I’ve got you.

She shifted, not away from him, just enough to rest her head on his shoulder.

“Sometimes I feel like they’re waiting for me to mess up,” she said, voice barely above a whisper.

“They probably are,” he said honestly. “That’s what people do. They build you up, then wait for you to fall. But screw them. You don’t owe anyone your peace.”

She nodded slowly, like she was letting the words settle somewhere deeper than her mind.

“You’re not a product,” he continued. “You’re not a headline or a photo op or whatever bullshit story they’re trying to spin. You’re a person. An artist. You don’t have to carry their expectations.”

“I want to enjoy this,” she said. “I want to be proud without second-guessing everything.”

“And you will,” he said. “Not tonight, maybe. But soon.”

They fell quiet again, the weight between them not gone but easier to hold now that it was shared. Eventually, she pulled back just enough to look at him, really look.

“I don’t say it enough,” she said.

“You don’t have to,” he replied.

“No, I do.” She took a breath. “Thank you. For always seeing me. Even when I can’t see myself.”

Harry didn’t say anything at first. Just reached up to tuck a piece of hair behind her ear, his eyes soft.

“Always,” he said simply. “I’ve got you. No matter what.”

She leaned in, resting her forehead against his again.

“I think I just need tonight to fall apart,” she said.

“Then fall,” he whispered. “I’ll catch you.”

And she did.

No performance, no poise, no pressure to be anything other than exactly who she was in that moment. Messy. Tired. Raw.

He held her through it all.

And when her breathing finally slowed, when the sobs turned to sighs and her muscles stopped shaking, he didn’t let go. Just sat there with her in the dark, rubbing slow circles on her back, anchoring her to the here and now.

Because tomorrow, she’d get up again.

Tomorrow, she’d face it all with the strength she’d rebuilt in his arms tonight.

But tonight—tonight was hers to fall apart.

And his to hold her together.

Tomorrow, she’d face it all with the strength she’d rebuilt in his arms tonight.

But tonight—tonight was hers to fall apart.

And his to hold her together.

And she’d need all her strength to begin again.

She stayed pressed against him, the rise and fall of his chest steady under her cheek. The storm inside her had softened—not gone, not yet, but no longer spinning out of control. Just quiet enough to think. To breathe.

She let out a slow, shaky breath. Her fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt as she nodded once, against the warmth of him.

Harry didn’t rush her. Just kissed the top of her head and said softly, “C’mon. Let’s get you out of this dress and into something comfy.”

She managed a small hum of agreement, the words too heavy to speak just yet. Her limbs were sluggish as she moved, like wading through the aftermath of a tidal wave. He helped her to her feet with quiet care, hands on her waist steadying her as she stood.

The dress felt heavier now, weighed down by everything it had come to represent—expectation, perfection, performance. She peeled it off slowly, letting it slip to the floor in a pool of satin and silence. And when Harry handed her one of his oversized shirts, she didn’t hesitate.

It smelled like him. Safe. Familiar. Like home.

She tugged it over her head and sank onto the edge of the bed, her bare legs curled up beneath her. The award sat on the nightstand where Harry had placed it earlier. Her name gleamed on the plaque, etched into gold, definitive and real.

She stared at it for a long moment. Then, without really thinking, reached out and ran her fingers over the engraving.

Her name.

Not a character’s. Not a role. Hers.

A breath caught in her throat—not from pain, but something quieter. Something close to pride.

It didn’t crash over her all at once. It came in fragments. The way the room had gone still when they’d called her name. The walk to the stage she barely remembered. The weight of the statue in her hand. The applause that had felt both thunderous and far away. And the silence afterward, when the noise faded and doubt tried to creep in.

But now, in this quiet, with the weight of the moment behind her and the warmth of him beside her, something shifted.

She let herself smile. Just a little. Just enough.

Harry crawled into bed behind her, pulling the covers up and wrapping himself around her. One arm slid around her waist, his hand finding hers. He laced their fingers together like he always did when he needed her to know she wasn’t alone.

“You deserved this,” he whispered. “And nothing they say can change that.”

She didn’t answer right away. Just let the words sink into her. Not like before, when she heard them but couldn’t feel them. This time, they landed differently. This time, they stayed.

“I know,” she whispered back, surprised by how much she meant it.

It wasn’t total belief yet. Not full, not unwavering. But it was a start. A crack of light in a door she’d kept locked for too long.

Harry kissed the back of her shoulder, soft and lingering. “You’re incredible, you know that?”

She smiled again, this time a little fuller. “You keep saying that.”

“Because it’s true.”

She turned her head, just enough to look at him over her shoulder. His eyes were half-lidded, tired but still full of that same quiet conviction. The kind that never asked her to be anything more than exactly who she was.

“Thanks for staying,” she said.

“I always will.”

They didn’t need to say more. He pulled her closer, and she let him. Their bodies molded together under the covers, legs tangled, his breath brushing the back of her neck.

Outside, the city kept buzzing. Somewhere out there, people were already dissecting the night. The speeches, the dresses, the wins, the losses. Her name would be in headlines tomorrow—already was, probably. But that noise felt far away now. Muted.

In here, in this room, there was only warmth. Only quiet.

Her eyes flicked to the award one last time. The way the light caught on its edges. The way it stood there—solid and still and real.

She’d earned it.

No matter what anyone said. No matter how loud the voices got.

She closed her eyes with a slow breath.

And for the first time that night, she let herself believe it.

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆

Thank you so much for reading, you’re a total angel! Don’t forget to like, comment, and reblog if you enjoyed! It means everything to me! 💖

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harryspurpleloofah · 3 months ago

Text

Baggage Claim

Summary: Harry needs to rush to a meeting gate his flight so grabs the first suitcase that looks like his. When he hears Y/N complaining to the staff about how she her bag he pieces together that the suitcase isn’t his. Later they're drinking together and the same lingerie he found in her bag is now being modelled to him.

TW: p in v sex, oral fem receiving, swearing, mentions of drinking, size kink if you squint hard

Harry’s footsteps are quick as he moves through the crowded airport terminal, his mind already halfway to the hotel. The long flight from London had drained him and he can feel it in the tightness of his neck, the way his body wants to slump with every step. But there’s no time for that. He’s used to flying in and out of places, managing the pressure of tight schedules. The job, the meetings, the expectations. It all blends together until it feels like muscle memory.

He’s barely registered his manager’s voice on the phone, rambling in the same tone that’s both familiar and grating.

"Harry, where the hell are you? You need to be at the hotel in twenty. No more delays, okay? Straight to your room, change, and the meeting's at six. Be there. Got it?"

Harry exhales, dragging a hand through his hair as he rounds a corner toward baggage claim. "Yeah, I hear you. I’m on it," he mutters, though his mind is already a million miles away. The meeting is looming, but so is the exhaustion that’s been chasing him for the past few days. He doesn’t even know how long it’s been since he had a proper night of sleep. Two days? Three? It doesn’t matter. He’s just got to power through.

His eyes scan the conveyor belt for his bag, but it’s all a blur now, the usual haze of too many flights and too much noise. His fingers absently swipe at his phone screen, checking messages from his team, seeing another reminder from Jeff: don’t be late.

The airport’s always a strange place for him...people rushing in all directions, tired travelers slinging their bags over their shoulders, strangers walking right past each other without a second glance. He’s used to it, but sometimes, the loneliness of it all gets to him. He’s here, in a strange city, surrounded by people but still alone.

A bag thumps down on the conveyor, and Harry snatches it without a second thought. It’s black, the same style as his, the same size. He could’ve sworn this was his, but then again, in a place like this, things blur. Luggage all looks the same.

He starts to turn away when the woman’s voice cuts through the noise again, louder this time, more frustrated.

"No, I’m telling you, this is not my bag! I know what it looks like. I’ve had it for years!"

Harry’s pace slows, his attention flickering for a moment before he mentally shakes it off. There’s always someone losing their luggage. He’s seen it a hundred times. She’s just another frustrated traveller who’ll be fine once the staff finds the right bag. He doesn’t have time for this. He has a schedule to keep, and that’s the priority.

But then something catches him, maybe a gesture, a movement that pulls his gaze. The woman standing at the counter looks like she’s ready to cry, her hands gripping the counter as she argues with the staff.

For a moment, Harry wonders why he even cares. Maybe it’s the way she’s standing, the way her shoulders slump just slightly when the staff tells her they’ll have to check the lost and found again. He doesn’t know her, but there’s a flicker of something in him. Empathy, maybe? Or maybe it’s just a distraction from his own mental fog.

He moves on, his steps quickening again, but then his mind flashes back to her voice. He thinks he hears her mention something about how important her bag is.

He shoves his phone back into his pocket, his eyes flicking over his shoulder one more time as the staff tries to calm her down. He feels a slight pang, but he pushes it away. It’s not his problem. He needs to focus.

Harry strides to the exit with his suitcase, barely looking down at it. The airport doors slide open, and the cool breeze of the city hits his face. The car he’d booked is waiting, a familiar black SUV, and he climbs in, pulling the door shut behind him.

He tosses the suitcase onto the seat beside him, half-heartedly checking his phone again, and his manager’s message flashes in his mind.

Don’t be late.

But something still feels off. The bag...it didn’t feel quite right.

The ride to the hotel is too short, and Harry’s lost in thought, replaying the earlier scene. He doesn’t know why it sticks with him.

In his hotel room, he’s quick to shed his jacket, moving around like he’s in autopilot, wanting to get it all done and over with. There’s no time to linger, no time to think. He’s got a meeting in less than an hour, and he can’t afford to be late.

But then he stops, his hands hovering over the suitcase. It’s still sitting there on the bed, like a random, inconsequential thing. He starts to unzip it, the dull sound of the zipper breaking the silence of the room.

The first thing he pulls out is a lace black lingerie set. He doesn't exactly remember packing this.

His mind spins for a moment as he pulls out more items...a tube of lipstick, a small notebook with a faded sticker on the front. And suddenly it clicks. This isn’t his suitcase.

His stomach flips. There’s no way he grabbed the wrong bag. He’s been through this a thousand times, and he’s careful.

He quickly shoves everything back inside and zips it shut, his mind racing. Of all the things he could’ve done wrong today, this was not it. He had to fix this.

His fingers tremble slightly as he picks up the phone again and checks the time. He doesn’t have much time before he needs to be at the meeting, but he can’t let it go. He needs to go back. To find her.

He runs a hand through his hair, sighs, and grabs the suitcase. His shoes click against the marble floor of the hotel lobby as he heads back out, trying to act like this is no big deal. It’s just a mix-up. An honest mistake. But deep down, he knows he has to make it right.

The airport isn’t far. The car ride feels even shorter this time. He doesn’t mind the silence. His thoughts are all over the place. What if she’s already gone? What if she doesn’t even care about the mix-up? Or worse..what if she’s angry?

As soon as he steps back into the terminal, Harry scans the area for her. He doesn’t see her at first, but then he hears it. That same sharp, frustrated voice from earlier.

“No, this is unbelievable! You lost it, not me. I’m telling you!”

Harry feels a jolt in his chest. There she is, standing at the lost-and-found counter again, her arms crossed tightly over her chest as she argues with a staff member. Her voice is almost shaking with anger.

He hesitates for a moment, watching her. Something pulls at him. It’s stupid, but he can’t just walk away. This is his mistake. He needs to fix it, if only to give her some peace.

“Excuse me,” he says softly, tapping her gently on the shoulder.

She spins around, eyes wide, and for a split second, Harry almost forgets how to breathe. She looks...well, not happy, but definitely surprised. She’s got this look on her face, like she’s not sure whether to punch him or smile.

“I’m really sorry,” Harry starts, running a hand through his hair. “I think I’ve got your bag.” He holds it out, an apologetic smile on his face. “I grabbed the wrong one earlier. Didn’t realize until I got back to the hotel.”

For a moment, she just looks at him. Her expression softens, but there's still a trace of annoyance lingering behind her eyes.

“You—” she starts, but then sighs, rubbing her temples. “Of course. Of course you did. What a mess. My day’s been just perfect so far.”

Harry winces at the sarcasm, but he can’t help the slight chuckle that escapes him.

“I know, I know. I’m sorry again,” he says quickly. “I really didn’t mean to make things worse for you. But if you want, I—” He pauses, glancing at her. “If you need a drink or something, to take the edge off, I’d love to make it up to you. My treat.”

She looks at him, a slight skepticism in her eyes, but then she softens a little. It’s clear she’s still a bit on edge, but she’s not rejecting the idea outright.

“Well,” she says, eyeing him with a mix of curiosity and suspicion, “I am pretty pissed off. A drink might help.”

“Good.” Harry grins, the tension between them slowly easing. He lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “I’ll take you somewhere nice, I promise. Least I can do.”

She nods, finally accepting the bag. Harry watches her for a second, a small sense of relief flooding through him. She might be frustrated, but there’s something in the way she’s talking to him now, less sharp, more resigned, that makes him think this might just work out.

She eyes him for a second, still cautious. “You’re lucky I’m not calling security right now,” she adds, the faintest trace of a smile tugging at her lips.

Harry chuckles. “I’ll take my chances. You’d make a pretty scary security guard, you know.”

Her smile widens just a little, and for the first time today, Harry feels like he might be able to breathe again. Maybe he hadn’t completely messed everything up after all. His meeting would have to wait. Jeff could handle it.

The bar is dimly lit, the kind of place where the drinks are strong, the music is just low enough to talk over, and the walls are lined with leather booths that make everything feel a little more intimate. Harry swirls the amber liquid in his glass, leaning back against the cushioned seat, his limbs loose and relaxed from the drinks they’ve had.

She’s next to him, just as tipsy, her cheek resting against her hand, fingers lightly tapping against her jaw as she looks at him with a lazy sort of amusement. The frustration from earlier is long gone, melted away with every sip of whiskey and the gradual ease of conversation.

“So,” she says, her words slightly drawn out, “when did you see it wasn’t your bag?”

Harry exhales a soft laugh, shaking his head as he takes another sip. “Would you believe me if I said I only got it after I opened it?”

She tilts her head, smiling. “What gave it away? Not a fan of my taste in heels?”

“Actually, I thought the shoes were alright,” he says, lips curling up at the corners. “But I usually don’t pack lingerie. Especially not for work trips.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then she blinks.

“Oh my God.” She groans, eyes squeezing shut as her head drops forward onto her arms. “That’s so embarrassing. Please tell me you didn’t—like—look at everything?”

Harry chuckles, leaning forward to rest his forearms on the table. “Didn’t dig through it or anything. Just opened the zip, saw a very lacy little number right on top, and I didn’t need anymore to know it wasn’t mine so why would I keep digging?.”

She lets out another groan, though she’s laughing through it now. “Fantastic. Love that for me.”

Harry’s still smiling, but there’s something softer about it now, a warmth in his gaze as he watches her squirm. He nudges his glass against hers.

She leans over a bit to explain, “basically I went to Italy to see my boyfriend-”

“Boyfriend?”

“Ex. So yeah I went to see him and the lingerie was for that too but it didn’t really go to plan and let’s just say it didn’t serve the purpose of making me feel prettier.”

“He told you it looked bad?”

“Not directly. But he clearly wasn’t bothered by it since I showed it to him and told him I’d wear it that night but he spent the night god knows where. Honestly, it probably led to the breakup.”

“For what it’s worth,” he says, voice a little lower now, “I think you’d look great in it.”

It’s quick, but he sees it—the way her breath hitches, the way her fingers tighten slightly around the base of her glass. There’s a flicker of something in her eyes when she finally looks back up at him, something that makes his stomach flip in a way the alcohol can’t take credit for.

She laughs, but it’s quieter now, and when she reaches for her drink, she takes a long sip, like she’s giving herself a moment to think. When she finally speaks, her voice is a little different—lighter, but with an edge of curiosity.

“That so?”

Harry hums, tilting his head slightly as he watches her.

The air shifts between them, something subtle but undeniable. It’s not just the drinks. It’s the way they’ve been leaning in a little closer with each refill, the way her knee brushed his under the table twenty minutes ago and neither of them moved away. It’s the way she’s looking at him now, eyes flicking down to his mouth before snapping back up, like she hadn’t meant to do it.

The tension stretches, coils tight, and then she moves first.

“Maybe I should go see if you’re right,” she says, her voice lilting slightly at the end like she’s teasing, but her eyes are saying something else entirely.

Harry’s grip tightens around his glass. His pulse kicks up, but he keeps his expression the same, matching her energy like it’s just a game.

“Well,” he murmurs, “don’t let me stop you.”

She holds his gaze for a beat longer, then slides out of the booth, smoothing her hands down the sides of her dress as she turns toward the exit.

She pauses just before walking away, glancing at him over her shoulder, her lips curling into the faintest smirk.

“Coming?”

Harry’s up before he even realizes he’s moving.

When she changes and comes back out, she barely has time to turn around before Harry’s on her, hands bracketing her face as he crashes his mouth against hers. It’s desperate, messy, all lust and hunger, like they’ve been holding back from the second they sat down at that bar. Her fingers tangle in his hair, nails scraping against his scalp, and he groans into her mouth, pressing her back against the door.

“Should’ve never said that,” she murmurs between kisses, breathless and drunk on the way he’s touching her.

“Said what?” he mumbles, lips trailing down to her jaw, then lower, dragging against the skin of her throat.

“That you thought I’d look good in it.”

Harry laughs softly, but it’s rough at the edges, his teeth grazing against the sensitive spot just below her ear. “I was just being honest.”

Her hands move to his shirt, tugging it up and over his head. The fabric barely hits the floor before he’s gripping her thighs and hoisting her up against the door, her legs wrapping instinctively around his waist. The first press of him against her makes her gasp, fingers tightening on his shoulders

He rolls his hips once, deliberately slow, just to make her whimper.

“Think I’d rather see for myself now,” he mutters. She doesn’t argue.

He carries her to the bed, laying her down before leaning back just enough to strip her out of her dress. His eyes darken as he takes her in, sprawled out beneath him in that same black lace set he found in her suitcase.

“Jesus,” he exhales, dragging a hand through his hair. His gaze drags over every inch of her before he reaches out, running a slow finger along the strap of her bra. “Knew I was right.”

She bites back a smirk. “And here I was thinking you were all talk.”

“Guess I’ll have to prove you wrong then.”

He does.

His mouth trails lower, tracing every delicate detail of the fabric, his hands smoothing down her sides before gripping her hips and pulling her closer. His fingers slide beneath the waistband of her underwear, taking his time, teasing her with slow touches.

When he finally pulls them down, his breath hitches. “Bloody hell,” he mutters, mostly to himself.

She barely has time to breathe before he’s kissing down the inside of her thigh, his hands holding her steady as he settles between her legs.

His mouth is warm, good.

Her back arches at the first swipe of his tongue in her cunt, her fingers finding his hair again, tugging just enough to make him groan against her. His grip on her tightens, like he needs to keep her there, like he’s got no plans of stopping until he’s torn her apart.

She tries to say his name, but it barely comes out, lost in a sharp gasp when he does that thing with his tongue. He hums against her, clearly pleased with himself.

“Feel good?” His voice is low, rough, vibrating against her skin.

She nods, thighs trembling slightly.

“Use your words, love.”

Her breath catches. “Yeah. Feels—God, it feels so good.”

He grins against her before diving back in, his pace slower now, more focused, like he’s savoring every second.

She comes beneath him, her whole body going almost limp before she shatters, her moan breaking apart in the air between them. He doesn’t move for a long moment, just presses soft kisses to the inside of her thigh, letting her catch her breath.

Then he shifts, crawling back up over her, his lips brushing against hers as he nudges his nose against her cheek.

“Reckon I’m not all talk then?” he murmurs, voice thick with amusement.

She laughs breathlessly, pulling him down for another kiss.

“Not even a little.”

He moves back up to her and slides inside her after making sure she’s wet enough. She groans out. He’s huge. She’s honestly a bit scared for a second she’s never had sex with someone who’s as big as Harry. She adjusts herself without making it obvious she’s nervous as he starts to thrust.

He snaps out of his own pleasure for a few moments to look over at her, “you ok? I can stop.”

“No-it’s great. I’m just getting used to you. Keep going.”

“Mm..is that why you’re so tight? Never felt a cock this big?”

She moans as she reaches for his curled locks again. She kisses him again sloppily this time, his tongue smashing onto hers.

He keeps moving in and out of her, his cock getting slicker and slicker as his breaths grow shaky and his lips find comfort in the crook of her neck where he kisses. He adjusts her under him again to get at a deeper angle causing her to arch half off the bed.

He could hear his phone vibrating on the bedside table, probably his manager scolding him but he didn’t give two shits anymore. He couldn’t name a single thing he’d rather be doing than her. He could feel his release coming and he didn’t want to come before she did.

He reached a ring hand down, the coldness making her slightly hiss. He rubbed at her clit trying to bring her there too. She groaned as the room filled with his last few desperate thrusts, their skins slapping a bit slower than they were a few minutes ago.

As soon as she came, he pulled out, spraying her with ropes of cum. It wasn’t the most he’d ever cum in his life but he’d honestly surprised himself even with this. It was certainly the most since he was about 25. And even in missionary? He couldn’t imagine how could it would be if he was actually feeling risky and tried something with her. But for now he needed to focus on cleaning her up.

After he was all done, he let her borrow a Nirvana shirt to wear to bed along with leggings she’d fished out of her own suitcase on her trembling legs despite him telling her to lay back down and that he’d do it. She turned to him in the bed.

“Do you do this often?”

“Mm?”

“Purposely take peoples bags so you can fuck them later?”

“Not usually no. Thanks for the idea though.”

She chuckled softly. “Was this a..um a one time thing?”

“Could be. Could be more.”

“Don’t be so cryptic.”

“Let’s just say next time I see you at the airport, taking your bag won’t be an accident.”

#harry styles #new writers on tumblr #harry fluff #fanfic #fluff #harries #new writing blog #reqs open #fluffy #harry styles one shot #harry styles smut #harry smut #harry styles writing #harry styles imagine #harry styles fanfiction #harry edward styles

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harryspurpleloofah · 3 months ago

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Thanks for all the recent likes, reblogs and follows they mean so much since in my mind I’m still sorta relatively new here. Sorry I’ve been inactive for a while but I should have a oneshot on this week. If anyone has any requests to get me back on track I’d love it 💜

#harry styles #new writers on tumblr #reqs open #fluffy #fanfic #harry styles one shot

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harryspurpleloofah · 4 months ago

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Reblog to let prev know their presence is wanted

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harryspurpleloofah · 4 months ago

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Eclipse (vamp!H.S)

Summary: Y/N finds out through subtle hints that her new boyfriend is a vampire but she’s not willing to give up on him when she sees him weak and on the verge of collapsing she lets him feed off her

TW: Harry’s a vampire so obvious mentions of blood but nothing alarmingly graphic or violent, swearing, he feeds from Y/N but again not too graphic, there is slight angst of him feeling guilty at the end, p in v sex, no condom but pill mentioned, description of sex

The hum of conversation filled the restaurant, blending with the soft clinking of silverware against porcelain plates. Dim candlelight cast amber shadows across dark wooden tables, creating pockets of intimacy in an otherwise bustling room. It wasn’t the type of place Y/N usually found herself in..a little too upscale, a little too quiet—but with Harry across from her, nothing else seemed to matter.

Harry sat reclined in his chair like he owned the whole place, wearing a perfectly tailored black suit that clung to him like sin itself. A single ring caught the candlelight as he casually twisted the stem of his wine glass between his fingers. His gaze, however, was far from casual…it was focused, unwavering, as if she was the only thing worth noticing in the room.

Y/N shifted under his stare, not uncomfortable, never uncomfortable, but hyperaware of the way he looked at her. Like she was both a puzzle and the answer to a question he hadn’t asked yet. “You’re staring again,” she said, a teasing edge in her voice as she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.

Harry’s lips curved into a slow, deliberate smile. “Can you blame me?”

The compliment was simple, but something in his voice..smooth as silk—sent a chill down her spine.

Before she could respond, the waiter appeared at their table with a practiced smile, launching into the specials of the night. Y/N tried to focus, but out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Harry’s posture shift ever so slightly as the waiter listed the dishes.

“…and our signature fettuccine comes with a garlic cream sauce—”

“I’ll pass on that,” Harry cut in smoothly, voice low but firm. The interruption was quick, almost too quick, and the waiter blinked in surprise. “I’m allergic,” he added, his tone softer this time, as if offering an apology wrapped in charm.

Y/N’s brows furrowed for a brief second, curiosity sparking beneath her skin. Garlic allergy? Odd, but she didn’t question it. Not yet.

The waiter recovered quickly, jotting down the rest of the order and leaving them in silence once again. Harry leaned back in his chair, the candlelight casting sharp shadows against his cheekbones, making his features appear almost…predatory.

“Garlic, huh?” Y/N asked lightly, trying to mask her curiosity behind a playful smirk. “That’s not one you hear every day.”

Harry’s gaze locked onto hers again, and for a moment, there was something almost ancient in his eyes….an emotion too deep for words. But then it was gone, replaced with that easy, dangerous charm. “Everyone’s got their weaknesses,” he murmured, swirling the deep red wine in his glass.

A beat of silence passed between them, heavy with unspoken questions she couldn’t quite bring herself to ask. Instead, she leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table, deliberately pulling him back into safer conversation. “So,” she began, voice soft, “tell me something I don’t know about you yet.”

Harry’s lips twitched, but the smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You assume there’s much left to know after five months?”

“Oh, I’m sure there’s plenty,” Y/N countered, her own smile playful but edged with curiosity. “You’re a bit of a mystery.”

He hummed low in his throat, a sound that made her stomach twist in ways she didn’t expect. “Mystery keeps things interesting, doesn’t it?”

“Or risky.” The words slipped out before she could stop them, but instead of being offended, Harry’s smile deepened, like she’d said exactly what he wanted to hear.

“Some things are worth the risk,” he murmured.

The conversation drifted then, moving from their usual banter to stories of childhood fun, favorite songs, and half-hearted debates about the best classic films. Yet, despite the ease of their conversation, Y/N couldn’t shake the sense of distance that always seemed to linger just beneath Harry’s charming surface. He never spoke about his family, never mentioned close friends, and every time she brought up future plans, he masterfully redirected the conversation with effortless grace.

The food arrived soon after, and Y/N dug into her dish with genuine hunger. Harry, however, merely picked at his plate, occasionally sipping from his wine glass but never taking more than a bite.

“You’re really not hungry?” she asked, setting down her fork and leaning forward again. “This place isn’t cheap, you know. Feels like a crime to waste the food.”

His gaze flickered up to meet hers, that shadow of a smile returning. “I had something earlier,” he said, voice soft—almost too soft.

“Late lunch?” she teased, trying to lighten the mood.

“Something like that,” he murmured, the words rolling off his tongue like the smoke from his cigarettes did when she had seen him on the rare occasion, sneaking to the balcony after a hookup. It got her thinking so far they had only ever met up at her place. What would his be like?

It was then that she noticed his hand resting on the table, fingers pale against the dark wood. Too pale. And if she wasn’t mistaken, cold. A chill crept over her, irrational and quick, but she pushed the thought aside.

“You’re always cold aren’t you?” she noted casually, trying to disguise her growing curiosity behind playful teasing.

Harry’s expression softened just a touch, but there was something hollow in his smile. “I’m used to it.”

Used to it.

That night, as they left the restaurant, Y/N couldn’t shake the feeling that there were pieces of Harry Styles she wasn’t meant to see yet…fragments of him locked away behind charming smiles, soft-spoken words, and shadows that stretched too long in dim light.

And she wasn’t sure if she wanted to find out what he was hiding..or if it was safer not to.

The city skyline stretched out like scattered stars beyond Harry’s apartment windows, glass panels cutting sharp shadows across sleek black countertops and dark wood floors. The place was elegant but strangely empty..like it had been staged for someone who didn’t really live there.

Y/N stepped inside, hugging a paper-wrapped bottle of wine against her chest. “I figured it’s only polite,” she said with a soft smile, holding it out. “For being brave enough to let me invade your personal space.”

Harry took the bottle, fingers cool against hers for a brief second too long. His eyes, green, deep, and unreadable, scanned the label with casual interest, though there was something about the way his thumb traced the glass that felt…deliberate. “You didn’t have to bring anything,” he murmured, voice smooth as velvet. “But I’ll never say no to good wine.”

“Didn’t seem like the kind of guy who would.” She grinned, stepping further in, her heels clicking softly against the polished floors. “Nice place. Very broody, very you.”

That earned her a soft chuckle as Harry turned toward the kitchen. “Broody, huh? You kill me, darling.”

As he busied himself with finding glasses, Y/N wandered further inside, gaze catching on little details—no family photos, no clutter, not even a stray jacket carelessly tossed over a chair. It was all too perfect. Too controlled.

“I like it,” she called over her shoulder. “It feels…private.”

“Privacy’s underrated these days.” His voice drifted from the kitchen, low and smooth like a secret meant just for her.

“I’ll be right back,” she said, finally spotting a hallway. “Bathroom?”

“First door on the right.”

The bathroom was pristine. Cool marble countertops, golden lighting, luxurious, but strangely sterile. Y/N moved toward the sink, hand automatically going up to fix her hair…but paused.

No mirror.

Her brow furrowed. Not even a small vanity, not even a smudge on the wall where one should’ve hung. Just a blank space, like the idea of reflection had been deliberately erased from this part of his life.

“Harry?” she called, stepping back into the hallway. “You forget something in here?”

A pause. A little too long. Then..“What do you mean?”

“The mirror,” she said, leaning against the doorframe. “It’s missing. You’re too pretty to not own a mirror, don’t you think?”

Harry appeared, wine glasses in hand, his expression perfectly calm—but something flickered behind his eyes, just for a second. “Mirrors freak me out,” he said with a half-shrug.

Y/N blinked. “Freak you out?”

“They’re…unsettling. Seeing yourself all the time, every little flaw amplified.” His voice was too casual, too rehearsed. “Besides, I’ve got a pocket mirror if I really need it. You can use the guest bathroom if it bothers you. I don’t use that one. Down the hall.”

“Right,” she said slowly, narrowing her eyes. “You’re weird, love.”

He stepped closer, offering her a glass. His presence filled the space between them so easily, like gravity itself bent around him. “You like weird,” he murmured, brushing a thumb over the rim of his glass, eyes not leaving hers.

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

Y/N took a long sip of wine, trying to hide the way her pulse quickened under his gaze. “So why don’t you use the other bathroom?” she asked, casually challenging. “Bad vibes?”

That flicker in his eyes returned, this time, more guarded. “Something like that.”

Before she could press further, Harry’s mouth curved into that familiar, dangerous smile. His hand slid around her waist, fingers resting lightly on her hip. “Forget the mirror,” he murmured, voice low enough to be a promise. “You’re perfect without one.”

Her breath hitched, warmth blooming under her skin as his lips brushed just below her jaw—a whisper of a kiss that left her dizzy.

“Harry—”

“Stay the night.” His voice was soft, but there was no room for refusal in it. A request disguised as an order.

“Is that supposed to be an order or offer?” she teased, though her voice came out quieter than she intended.

His smile deepened. “It’s whatever gets you to say yes faster.”

A beat of silence hung between them—thick, electric, charged with everything unspoken.

“And here I thought you were all about taking things slow,” she managed, her pulse thudding in her throat.

Harry leaned closer, his breath cool against her ear. “You don’t know me as well as you think, darling.”

The room was thick with heat, shadows flickering against the walls like silent witnesses to every movement, every breathless sound. The bed creaked under the slow pace of their bodies, the sheets tangled and damp with sweat.

Y/N’s hands gripped Harry’s shoulders, nails raking down his back as his name slipped from her lips in a hushed, desperate whisper. His pace was relentless yet careful, every thrust drawing her closer to that unraveling edge. His eyes stayed locked on hers…dark, hungry, as if something primal lingered just beneath the surface.

“Come on, darling,” he murmured against her neck, voice rough like gravel wrapped in velvet. “Come for me.”

“Fuck, Harry..”

He pounded into her harder, his cock was hitting every spot she wished it would. Every spot no other man had ever been able to reach, it was just him. He kissed her neck slowly as his hand moved down to her clit, rubbing it in slow circles to increase her stimulation.

She moaned out his name again, accompanying it by tugging on a thick curl she’d managed to get her hand stuck in. This man just never got tired. He was still going as hard as he was when he started even when he was on her brink of cumming.

“I’m on the pill..”, she let out with a long breath.

“So.. can I fill you up?”

“Y-yeah…fuck.”

“Sure you’re ok with it, baby?”

“Yes! Harry god yes..”

He came mere moments after she did, he didn’t seem to be struggling to hold it back or anything. He had so much control over everything he did…it was scary. He waited a few seconds for his cum to fill her up properly before he pulled out, landing a small kiss on her forehead.

It was weird it was like he always came just the right amount never too little never too much, same with how he was, if she wanted missionary, she would get missionary. If she wanted anything else, she’d get that too. It was like he was two steps ahead of her in what she wanted.

He knew even before she did and by the time she’d realise it, he’d already be implementing it. He heaved her up effortlessly and led her to his mirrorless bathroom to get in the shower together. The glass of the shower was already steaming up the second he turned on the water.

For a moment, there was only the sound of their breathing, ragged and uneven.

After the shower, he pulled her closer to him in bed and sealed the night to a quick kiss to her cheek, “goodnight, darling.”

She muttered a response before cuddling up to him and letting sleep take her instantly.

Y/N stirred hours later, her eyes adjusting to the silvery wash of moonlight spilling through the half-open curtains. The space next to her was empty—cool, like he’d been gone for a while.

She sat up, heart kicking in her chest, and spotted him standing by the window. The moonlight framed him in sharp contrasts: pale skin, tousled curls, bare shoulders tense with some unseen emotion. His hands were clenched at his sides, and his gaze—fixed on the moon…was distant, glassy, like he wasn’t really there.

“Harry?” Her voice was soft, cautious. No response.

She slipped out of bed, the cold air biting against her skin as she crossed the room. “Harry,” she tried again, resting a hand on his arm.

He blinked like she’d pulled him out of deep water, the tension in his shoulders melting away in an instant. Turning toward her, his expression smoothed into something softer..almost too smooth. “You’re awake,” he said, voice low but easy. “Did I wake you?”

“I…” Y/N frowned. “You were just standing there. You looked…gone. Like you weren’t really here.”

A pause. Then came that disarming smile, the one that usually made her stomach flutter—only now, it felt like a shield. “I couldn’t sleep,” he murmured, brushing a stray strand of hair from her face. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

Her eyes searched his, trying to read between the cracks. “You’re sure?”

“Of course.” Another soft kiss on her forehead, his thumb stroking her jaw with practiced tenderness. “Come back to bed, yeah? I’ll hold you this time.”

And just like that, the tension was gone..like it had never been there at all.

But as she settled against his chest once more, she couldn’t shake the image of him standing in the moonlight, lost in something far darker than a simple sleepless night.

A few weeks later, Harry was helping her make dinner at her house. The door creaked open with a familiar ease as Harry let himself in, his voice soft and playful as he called out, “Smells like a gourmet masterpiece already in the making, love.”

Y/N peeked out from the kitchen, flour dusting her cheek. “You’re early,” she said with a grin.

Harry chuckled, stepping into the soft glow of the kitchen light—but something about him made her pause. His sharp cheekbones looked even more defined than usual, his skin pale beneath the warm light, like he hadn’t slept in days. His shirt hung a little looser on him too, as if he’d lost weight.

“Harry…” Her smile faltered. “You okay? You look…tired. And thinner, maybe?”

He waved a hand dismissively, that signature smirk sliding into place like armor. “Didn’t sleep well, that’s all. Long night, weird dreams.” His voice was smooth as ever, but she noticed how his fingers fidgeted against the hem of his sleeve—a habit she only caught when he was actually nervous.

“Are you sure? You look kinda pale—”

“Y/N,” he cut in, his voice soft but firm, flashing her a reassuring grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’m fine. Just…let’s focus on not burning down your kitchen, yeah?”

She gave him a skeptical look but nodded, turning back to the cutting board. “If you say so.”

The comfort of cooking together settled in quickly after that—soft music playing in the background, casual touches, little jokes. For a moment, everything felt normal again.

Until she reached for the garlic.

The moment the sharp, pungent scent hit the air, Harry stiffened behind her like a wire pulled too tight.

“Y/N!” His voice was sudden, sharp—too loud for the small kitchen.

She froze, eyes wide, the knife halfway through a clove. “What—?”

“I told you,” Harry snapped, his usual charm cracking beneath the weight of something raw. “I’m allergic. I can’t be around it.” His breath came fast, too fast, and his hands clenched into fists at his sides.

The room went thick with silence. Y/N set the knife down slowly, turning toward him with careful eyes. “Harry…I didn’t mean to. I just—”

His face softened instantly, guilt washing over his features like a wave. “Shit. I’m sorry, love.” He ran a shaky hand through his curls and forced a weak smile. “I didn’t mean to snap at you. Just had a bad day, and the smell—it triggers my allergy, even from across the room.” His voice dropped to a gentle plea. “Would you mind throwing it out? Please?”

The vulnerability in his tone made her heart ache. “Yeah, of course. I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking,” she said softly, tossing the garlic in the trash and quickly washing her hands. “Are you okay now?”

His shoulders eased just a little, though his usual brightness still hadn’t returned. “Better,” he murmured, stepping closer and brushing his knuckles lightly against her cheek. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

She searched his eyes for a beat too long. There was something hidden there—something dark and hungry lurking behind the warmth. But before she could speak, he leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to her forehead, his lips cold against her skin.

“Let’s just finish dinner,” Harry whispered, voice low and steady again. “Yeah?”

Y/N nodded slowly, the tension in the air lingering like smoke.

Soon, Harry was next to her, slicing through herbs with smooth precision, that playful grin finally creeping back onto his face. “See? I told you, with my help, you might actually survive cooking dinner tonight,” he teased, bumping her hip lightly with his own.

Y/N rolled her eyes but couldn’t help the laugh that escaped. “Please. I’ve kept us alive so far, haven’t I?”

“Barely.”

The playful comfort wrapped around them again—until the knife slipped.

A sharp sting flared across Y/N’s finger, and she hissed under her breath, pulling her hand back instinctively. “Damn it—”

Harry was on her in an instant. Too fast. Too close.

“Y/N.” His voice was low, almost too calm, but his eyes—God, his eyes—had darkened like a shadow had passed over him. His gaze locked on the small bead of blood welling up from the cut, and for a second, everything in him went unnervingly still.

“Harry?”

His jaw clenched, and for a heartbeat too long, he just stared at the drop of blood, his eyes nearly black under the kitchen lights. His body was rigid, like it was taking every ounce of strength not to move closer. Not to—

“Shit.” He jerked his gaze away, forcing a breath through his nose like he was dragging himself back from the edge. “You cut yourself.” His voice was too rough now, strained around the edges of that usual velvet charm.

Y/N blinked at him, caught between concern and a flicker of fear. “It’s just a little cut, Harry. I’m fine—”

“No, you’re not,” he cut in sharply, before softening his tone. “Let me see it.”

Before she could protest, he carefully took her hand in his—gentle, but his fingers were cold and just a little too tight around hers. His thumb hovered just near the cut, not touching it, but close enough that she could feel the tension in his body like a live wire between them.

His breathing was shallow now, too steady, like he was focusing on not reacting. “You should clean this,” he murmured, not looking her in the eye. “It could get infected.”

“Harry,” Y/N said quietly, trying to meet his gaze. “You’re acting weird. It’s just a cut—”

His eyes finally lifted to hers, and for a second, the darkness hadn’t fully left. There was something else buried in them: hunger, guilt, and something that almost looked like fear.

“I just don’t like seeing you hurt,” he said softly, brushing a thumb across the back of her hand in a gesture that was meant to soothe—but his fingers lingered a second too long, too cold, too careful.

His skin, already pale, had gone almost translucent. Sweat gathered at his temple, and his usually bright eyes were dull, weighed down by something deeper than exhaustion. His hands trembled slightly where they rested on the counter, his knuckles nearly white from the effort of holding himself together.

“Harry?” Y/N’s voice was soft, uncertain. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

He swallowed hard, forcing a shaky breath. “Yeah—just…I need a second.” His voice cracked around the edges, low and hoarse. “Where’s your bathroom?”

“Down the hall, first door on the left—”

Before she finished, he was already gone, moving too quickly for someone who’d just looked on the verge of collapse. The air in the room felt too heavy, thick with unspoken fear.

Minutes passed. Too many.

“Harry?” The concern clawed at her chest as she padded quietly down the hallway. She knocked once. “You alright?” No answer.

The door was ajar.

Pushing it open, she found him slumped on the cold tile floor, his back pressed against the bathtub, breath shallow and ragged. His face was even paler now—unnaturally so—and his hands hung limply at his sides, the effort to hold himself together clearly gone.

“Harry!” She rushed to his side, crouching down to shake him gently. “Hey, hey—look at me, please—”

His eyes fluttered open, unfocused at first, but then locked onto hers with a familiar warmth, even through the pain. “I…I didn’t want you to see me like this,” he whispered weakly.

“We need to get you up—c’mon,” Y/N said, looping her arms under his and pulling him forward. His body was cold—too cold—but what made her blood run cold wasn’t his temperature. It was the mirror.

Her reflection stared back at her in the glass above the sink. His didn’t.

“Harry…” Her voice was barely a breath. “Why—why aren’t you—?”

Panic flickered in her chest, but before she could pull away, his cold hand closed gently around hers, steady but soft. “Please, don’t be scared,” he whispered, voice raw with exhaustion. “I would never hurt you. I swear.”

She stared at him, wide-eyed, her heart thudding in her chest. “Harry…what are you?”

He closed his eyes like the weight of that question was too much to bear. “I didn’t want you to find out like this.” His voice was so full of regret it nearly broke her. “I’ve lost so many people because of what I am. They look at me like a monster—like I’m not me anymore.”

Tears stung her eyes, but she couldn’t look away. “A vampire?” she whispered, the word tasting like fear.

He nodded weakly, his hand slipping from hers. “I stopped drinking blood. I didn’t like it. But it’s…it’s killing me slowly, Y/N. Every day, I get weaker. I thought I could handle it, but—” His voice cracked. “I didn’t want you to see me like this.”

Her fear twisted into something else—ache, compassion, love.

Without thinking, she cupped his face, forcing him to look at her. “Then take mine.”

His eyes went wide, darkening with both hunger and disbelief. “No. I—Y/N, I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” she said firmly, her voice trembling but steady. “If it means saving you, I trust you. I know you won’t hurt me.”

His hand found hers again, resting over her pulse. “I don’t want to lose you too,” he whispered, broken.

“You won’t,” she promised, tilting her head ever so slightly to the side, baring her neck. “I’m right here. I’m not afraid of you, Harry.”

For a moment, all the fear, the hunger, and the heartbreak danced in his eyes. And then, with the gentlest touch, his lips brushed her skin—not as a monster, but as the man she knew.

Y/N…” His voice was barely more than a breath, shaking with restraint. “You don’t have to do this. I’ll be fine—just need to rest.”

But she shook her head, her thumb tracing slow, comforting circles on the back of his cold hand. “You’re not fine, Harry. You’re hurting. You said it yourself—you’re weak, and I’m right here. I trust you.”

His jaw tightened as he closed his eyes, the war inside him clear in every trembling muscle. “It’ll pinch, just a little,” he whispered, as if speaking too loudly might shatter both of them. “But I swear on everything, I won’t take more than I need. I’ll stop the second you tell me to.”

“I believe you.” Her voice was steady now, stronger than she felt.

His fingers lifted to her chin, tilting her face toward him with the lightest touch. “You’re so brave, love. You don’t even know how much this means to me.” His eyes, though darkened by hunger, were full of nothing but tenderness and something deeper—adoration.

She swallowed hard, tilting her head slightly to the side. “I’m ready.”

Harry hesitated for a heartbeat longer, scanning her face for any sign of fear. “If anything feels wrong—if you feel dizzy, or lightheaded—you tell me. Immediately. Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

His cold fingertips brushed lightly against her pulse point, lingering for just a second. “I’ll be gentle,” he murmured, voice low and reverent, like she was something sacred. “You’re incredible, Y/N. So, so incredible.”

Then his lips met her skin—soft, careful, not rushing the moment. There was no pain at first, just the pressure of his mouth against her neck, and then the faintest pinch as his fangs broke the skin. It wasn’t sharp, more like the sting of a small cut, but his arms wrapped around her waist instantly, steadying her, holding her like she might break if he wasn’t careful.

“Good girl,” he whispered against her skin, his voice thick with emotion and restraint. “You’re doing so well for me.”

The tension in his body vibrated through her—the effort it took to stay gentle, to control himself. Every pull of blood was slow, measured, and when her breath hitched, he pulled back just enough to whisper, “Okay, love? Still with me?”

“Y-Yeah,” she managed, her voice barely audible.

“Brave thing,” Harry murmured, pressing a soft, soothing kiss over the mark he’d left. “You’re doing perfect. Just a little more, then I’ll stop.”

True to his word, after a few more slow draws, he pulled away, eyes fluttering shut as though he were grounding himself. When he looked up again, the hunger had dulled, replaced with overwhelming guilt and awe.

“Did I hurt you?” His thumb gently traced the curve of her jaw, as if checking for any sign of pain.

She shook her head, breathless but steady. “No. You stopped just like you said you would.”

His forehead rested against hers, voice breaking with tenderness. “You didn’t just save me—you trusted me with something I didn’t think I deserved.” A soft kiss ghosted over her temple. “Thank you, love. I’ll never forget this.”

And as her hand found his, grounding him as much as he had her.

The bathroom was quiet now, the air thick with everything unspoken. Y/N rested her head against Harry’s chest, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat slow and soothing beneath her ear. His arms held her close—gentle but firm, like he was afraid to let go too soon.

Her voice broke the silence first, small and unsure. “What now?”

Harry let out a slow breath, pressing a soft kiss into her hair before resting his chin on the top of her head. “Now,” he murmured, “I tell you everything I should’ve told you before.”

His fingers traced light patterns along her back—comforting, grounding them both. “Vampires aren’t what the stories say we are anymore. We’ve evolved, just like humans have. There are safer ways to get blood now—donors, clinics, even substitutes. I was just…stubborn.” His voice faltered, guilt creeping in at the edges. “I thought I could do it on my own. I didn’t want to risk hurting anyone. Hurting you.”

Y/N shifted just enough to look up at him, her eyes soft with understanding. “And the sun? The whole turning-to-ash thing?”

A weak chuckle rumbled from his chest. “Mostly a myth,” he admitted. “Direct sunlight’s uncomfortable, sure, but it won’t kill me. Sunglasses, a little SPF, and I’m good to go like anyone else.”

Her lips twitched with the smallest hint of a smile. “So you’re telling me all those times you wore sunglasses inside, you weren’t just being dramatic?”

His grin was soft, teasing. “Maybe a little dramatic.”

The warmth between them settled again, the fear finally easing from the edges of her mind. But still, the questions lingered on her lips. “Harry… what about—”

Before she could finish, his fingers gently pressed against her lips, silencing her with a tenderness that made her heart ache. “No more worrying, love. I’ll handle everything—the blood, the cravings, all of it.” His thumb brushed her cheek, voice low and full of quiet devotion. “You’ve already done more than I could’ve asked for. I just need you to stay by my side. That’s all I’ll ever need from you.”

Her heart ached at the sincerity in his voice. “I’m not going anywhere, Harry.”

“Even if you do…if things don’t work, I won’t come looking for you with my vampire bats I promise. I just want us to be normal…or well as normal as we can be considering all this.”

She nods slowly, smiling up at him, “that sounds great.”

“Then that’s what we’ll do, love.”

#harry styles #new writers on tumblr #fanfic #harry fluff #fluff #harries #reqs open #new writing blog #fluffy #harry styles one shot #slight angst #harry styles smut #harry styles writing #harry styles imagine #harry styles fluff #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles angst

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harryspurpleloofah · 5 months ago

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Do people like vampire Harry?

#harry styles #new writers on tumblr #fanfic #harry fluff #harries #reqs open #new writing blog #harry styles one shot

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harryspurpleloofah · 5 months ago

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Hiiii us there a part 2 for just next door? It's so hot😭 and well written

Hi love! Thank you so much I loved writing it. I was thinking about writing a part two but probably in a bit since I have a few more writings planned first 💜

#harry styles #new writers on tumblr #fanfic #harries #reqs open #new writing blog #harry styles one shot

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harryspurpleloofah · 5 months ago

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Bunny (H.S)

Summary: Harry is explaining the terms and conditions to a man who wants to borrow money from him when Y/N walks in after having dealt with a man who had the balls to lie to Harry. Soon all the men leave Harry and Y/N alone.

TW: Harry’s drinking and smoking a lot, no graphic detail but mentions of blood alluding to injury, swearing, smut, riding, safe sex ☂️ , bit of fluff at the end, he’s not the nicest guy but he’s not a bad guy.

The bar was quiet, soaked in low golden light, the scent of whiskey and cigar smoke thick in the air. Outside, rain painted streaks down the windows, but inside, the world belonged to Harry Styles.

He sat in his usual booth..private, secluded, untouchable. One arm rested along the back of the leather seat, his fingers idly tracing the rim of the whiskey glass in his other hand. Across from him, the man sat stiff and uneasy, shoulders curled inward like he was trying to make himself smaller.

"You want money," Harry murmured, not a question—just a fact. His voice was smooth, slow, deliberate. A man with all the time in the world. "And you came to me because the banks won’t touch you, and every other poor bastard you’ve begged from knows you’re not worth the risk." The man swallowed hard.

Harry finally lifted his gaze, green eyes locking onto the man like a predator sizing up its prey. "That’s what you are, yeah? A fucking risk." He tilted his head, tapping one ringed finger against his glass. "But me? I’m a generous man. I don’t turn people away. I help them."

Relief flickered across the man’s face, just for a second. Harry smirked. They always made that mistake.

"You’ll take what I give you," he continued, voice never rising, never wavering. "And in two weeks, you’ll return it to me, plus fifty percent." He took a slow sip of whiskey, savoring the burn before setting the glass down with a soft clink. "Fail to pay on time, and the interest doubles. Another week? Triples."

The man shifted in his seat, his breath hitching. His mind was working a mile a minute, clearly calculating, panicking. "But…what if something happens? What if I can’t come up with it?"

Harry leaned forward just a fraction, his eyes sharp as blades. "You don’t want to ask questions, mate. You want answers. And here they are." He looked the man over, letting the weight of his words settle in like heavy stones. "You will pay. One way or another. Because I don’t give second chances. I don’t give fuckin' excuses."

The man’s voice cracked. "What…What happens if I don’t? What really happens?"

Harry’s smirk never faltered, but something cold flashed in his gaze. "You still don’t get it, do you?" He took another sip of his drink, casually, as if the conversation didn’t matter at all. "If you can’t pay in cash, you’ll pay in other ways."

The man leaned in, desperate, his voice growing more frantic. "Other ways? What do you mean by that? What are you gonna take from me? I—I have nothing to give!"

Harry studied him for a moment, eyes narrowing as the man flinched at his own words. "You really think I care about what you have?" Harry chuckled softly, the sound low and cruel. "I’ll take what’s mine. If I want something, I’ll have it. Whether it’s your money, your time, your freedom—or something you care about even more."

The man’s face went pale. "Something I care about? What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

Harry leaned in, his voice dropping to a whisper, laced with cold venom. "It means when you owe me, I own you. You’ll do whatever I say, whenever I say it. If you can’t pay me, then you’ll pay with your life. And I don’t mean that as a threat—I mean it as a promise."

The man froze. Sweat started to bead on his forehead, but his mouth was dry, speechless.

Harry’s gaze never left him. He was patient, almost too patient, watching the man’s face twist with fear, confusion, and then realization.

"So what’s it gonna be?" Harry asked, voice almost bored now, as if the man’s decision was the least interesting thing in the world. "You pay, and we move on. Or you don’t, and I come to collect." He flicked his fingers dismissively. "Your choice."

The man sputtered, his chest rising and falling rapidly as panic settled in. He reached for the pen with shaking hands, still questioning, still uncertain. "But…what if I can’t get it??"

Harry’s eyes gleamed with a dangerous light. "Then you’ll understand exactly what I meant."

He let the silence hang, the tension so thick it was suffocating. The man barely had time to blink before Harry continued.

"Either way, you’ll pay," he repeated, voice calm as ever. "And trust me, you’ll wish you paid sooner. You’ll wish you never asked me for a penny. But by then, it’ll be too late."

The man flinched at his name. His hand grabbed the pen with trembling fingers, the weight of the moment sinking in. His mind was racing, but his body had no choice but to obey.

Harry sat back, watching, eyes cold and unblinking, as the man scrawled his name on the paper. Harry’s gaze moved to the contract, then back up to the man, his lips curling into a small, satisfied smile.

"Good. We’re done here," Harry said, voice cutting through the tension like a knife.

The man stood up too quickly, still shaking. Harry didn’t move, not even a muscle, as the man backed away, his eyes locked on Harry, still wide with fear.

Harry’s voice followed him as he stumbled toward the door.

"I’ll be seeing you soon. And next time…don’t be late."

Soon, the door to the bar creaked open, the sharp click of heels against the hardwood floor cutting through the heavy atmosphere. The usual hum of low chatter and clinking glasses seemed to hush for a moment, as if the room recognized her presence before even her figure entered fully. A woman stepped inside—Y/N.

She was a vision. A black dress clung to her like it was made for her body, the fabric smooth and sleek, catching the dim light as she moved. It wasn’t overly flashy, but it fit her like a glove, with an effortless sophistication that said she owned whatever room she walked into. The kind of dress you could wear anywhere, but still make everyone turn their heads.

Her legs were encased in sleek black leather boots. The duffel bag slung over her shoulder gave her an air of casual chaos, the leather creased under the weight of whatever she had carried with her. Her ringed fingers, now smudged with a deep crimson, brushed absently through her hair.

The manicured nails, sharp and polished, seemed at odds with the mess she’d made of herself..yet it all added to her untouchable charm. One ring on her fourth finger, a perfect fit. But not just any ring. Her wedding ring.

She didn’t flinch at the looks thrown her way, nor the subtle tension in the air. Her eyes scanned the room for just a second, flicking over the unfamiliar faces, but it was Harry she was after. And Harry was already watching her, the faintest glint of a smile tugging at his lips as she approached.

Y/N’s walk was slow, almost languid, but every step was deliberate, purposeful. The man across from Harry still looked like he was about to cry watched her with wide, confused eyes. Harry’s presence, usually commanding enough to make most people tremble, suddenly seemed to pale in comparison to hers.

She slid into the booth beside Harry with the ease of someone who owned everything including him and knew it. The world moved around her, but she didn’t even flinch. Not when the man’s gaze followed her, not when the men glanced in her direction.

She didn’t speak at first, just reached for the cigarette hanging from Harry’s lips and pulled it from between them. A sharp inhale, deep and unbothered, as the smoke curled lazily from her mouth.

"I can see you’ve been busy," she said casually, her voice smooth but sharp like velvet. She didn’t need to ask; she already knew exactly what Harry had been doing, who he'd been speaking to, and the weight of the deal he'd just made. The power dynamic didn’t change for her. She'd been in this world far too long to be impressed by men like him or the way Harry ran his affairs.

Harry turned his head, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Not busy enough," he answered, his voice low, heavy with a layer of satisfaction. "But I’m happy now that you’re here..."

Y/N flicked the cigarette to the ashtray with a practiced motion, eyes never leaving his. "You finished with him?" She nodded toward the man, who was still frozen, looking as though he might explode from nerves.

Harry glanced over at the man and then back to her, his expression unreadable. "We’re done. He knows what happens if he doesn’t get it together."

Y/N didn’t need to hear the rest. She'd seen the power Harry wielded, and she'd felt it countless times before. The deal was done, and the man’s fate had been sealed long before the pen hit the paper.

She slouched comfortably in the booth, her duffel bag now resting by her side as her body language turned laid back, like she’d been here a thousand times before. She crossed her legs, the hem of her dress shifting as her black boots clicked softly against the wood beneath her, and leaned in slightly toward Harry. "Good," she purred, her fingers grazing over his hand with a casual touch. "I don’t like waiting."

Harry’s lips curved into a knowing smile, the air between them charged with a dangerous kind of intimacy. He wasn’t just the one in control of the room, she had his attention, just as she always did.

The man, still standing awkwardly by the table, cleared his throat. But before he could speak, Y/N raised an eyebrow, her voice cutting through the tension like a blade.

"Do yourself a favor, mate," she said, voice silk-smooth but dripping with warning. "And leave. Before we make you regret sticking around any longer."

He quickly turned and left, his footsteps loud in the otherwise silent room, but neither Harry nor Y/N paid him any mind.

“What have you been up to, bunny?”, Harry gently asked her, taking her hand in his.

“I was dealing with that misogynistic prick. Brad. You know the forty grand he borrowed from you, baby?”

Harry nods, lighting himself another cigarette as she continues, “he spent at least half of them gambling and he other paying his lawyer to defend him against his wife who he hasn’t paid child support to in fucking years.”

Harry rolled his eyes, “got the money, love?”

She gestured to the bag. One of his men picked it up to look inside before nodding at Harry and putting it down. She turns to him.

Harry didn’t acknowledge her right away. He took his time.

One slow drag of his cigarette, one long sip of whiskey, his gaze lingering on the bloodstained curve of her knuckles before flicking back to the amber liquid in his glass.

Y/N smirked, kicking off her heels beneath the table before shifting to press herself closer, one leg crossing over the other, the sleek fabric of her dress riding up just enough to catch his attention.

Still, he didn’t look. Not yet.

"Busy today?" she murmured, tilting her head slightly as her fingers ghosted over the sleeve of his jacket, light and teasing.

Harry exhaled slowly, smoke curling between them.

"Should be," he muttered.

Y/N hummed, leaning in just enough that her perfume wrapped around him, something sweet and heady and utterly distracting. "Then why aren’t you?"

Harry finally turned his head.

That knowing little smirk, the subtle gleam in her eyes, the kind that told him she was enjoying this. Enjoying the fact that she could sit there, still stained from the night’s work, and have his full fucking attention without even trying.

She reached forward, plucking the cigarette from his lips, taking a slow drag before exhaling..deliberately close to his mouth.

Harry’s jaw tightened.

"You’re playing with me, Bunny," he muttered.

Y/N smirked around the cigarette, tapping the ash into his ashtray before leaning in again….closer this time.

"You always say that," she whispered, her breath warm against his jaw.

Harry’s fingers twitched against the glass in his hand. His men were still watching. He could feel them, their presence lingering, their gazes sharp, their patience thinning. And so was his.

A voice broke the silence. "Boss, we should—"

Everything stopped. Harry didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Didn’t even breathe.

But the air shifted. Something deep, impossibly lethal crept into his stillness, into the slow way he exhaled through his nose, like he was considering violence. His gaze flicked..just slightly.

One sharp, silent warning. The man froze. The others did, too. Because that look? They knew that look. That was the look a man gave right before he made an example out of someone. A thick, suffocating pause stretched between them.

"Out."

Not loud. Not a yell. Just low, cold, final.

The kind of command you didn’t hesitate to follow. And yet, one of them did. Just for a second. Just long enough for a flicker of hesitation to cross his face, for his weight to shift like he was thinking of saying something else. And then, he actually fucking spoke.

"Boss," the newbie said carefully, clearing his throat. "We should be focusing on business."

Silence.

Y/N raised a brow, but didn’t turn her head. She could feel Harry’s stillness beside her.

The newbie swallowed but kept going—fucking idiot.

"We've got clients to meet. Money to collect. Work to do." His voice had a hint of confidence now, like he actually thought he was making sense. "No offense, but...this isn’t important."

Y/N barely held back a smirk.

Not because he was right. But because he was about to learn something very important.

Harry finally turned his head..

"You new?"

The newbie shifted. "Y-yeah. I mean, I’ve been here a couple of months but—"

"Long enough to know how things work?"

"Of course, boss, I—"

"Good." Harry nodded once. "Then you should know better."

The confidence in the newbie’s face flickered. "I—I wasn’t trying to—"

"You were," Harry said smoothly, tapping his cigarette against the ashtray. "You thought I wasn’t paying attention. Thought you’d remind me of my responsibilities." He flicked his gaze back up, slow and sharp. "Thought you had something to say about my wife."

"You think I don’t know how to handle business?" His voice was smooth, almost amused. "Think I’ve forgotten how things run around here?"

The newbie hesitated. "I—I didn’t mean—"

Harry tapped the ash from his cigarette, barely sparing him a glance. "Let me remind you of something."

He leaned back, stretching his arm along the back of the booth, his other hand rolling the glass between his fingers. "I got married while running six schemes across three countries. While laundering more money than you’ll ever see. While dealing with eight clients, two shipments, and an overdue loan breathing down my fucking neck."

His gaze lifted finally locking onto the newbie.

"And all of them," he said slowly, "were handled. All of them were done and dusted. And every single one of them knew better than to call me the second my bedroom door closed."

"You wanna know why?" he murmured, swirling his drink. "Because they knew what was best for them."

Harry took another slow sip of whiskey before setting the glass down. "You got something else to say?"

The newbie shook his head. Hard.

Harry smirked, flicking his wrist toward the door. "Then get the fuck out." The door closed without a second more.

The door clicked shut behind Harry’s men, and the room fell into a thick, dangerous silence.

The second she saw they were gone, she swung her leg over his lap, straddling him with the same ease as a predator. No hesitation.

Harry didn’t blink. He didn’t move. He simply watched her, his hands resting at his sides, calm but ready.

Y/N took his cigarette from his lips without asking, the edges of her fingers grazing his skin as she crushed it in the tray beside them. Her gaze locked on his, playful, daring.

“It’s not good for you, baby,” she said, her voice dripping with mock sweetness.

Harry’s jaw twitched, but he didn’t respond. His eyes, however, were dark with something that had her breath catching in her throat. He leaned forward just a fraction, lips curling as he licked them slowly.

“Neither are you, bunny,” he shot back, his voice low and rough.

Y/N smirked and took his glass from the table, bringing it to her lips. She sipped it slowly, her eyes never leaving his as she set it back down with a soft clink.

“Neither is that,” she teased, running her hand down his chest like she owned him, like she knew he was already on the edge of losing it.

His hands twitched at his sides, fingers flexing, but he didn’t speak yet.

“Thought they’d never leave,” she murmured, her voice shifting to more sultry. “Missed you.”

Harry’s eyes narrowed, and he reached out, grabbing her wrist in one swift motion, pulling her closer until their bodies were flush, his lips brushing her ear.

“You missed me, huh?” His voice was laced with something dark. She unbuckled his belt and freed his cock from his boxers. She dug through her purse for a second, finding a condom and sliding it on before she looked back up at him.

“I’m not in the mood for foreplay ok?”

“Whatever you say, bunny.”

Y/N raised an eyebrow, biting back a smile as she felt the heat building between them. Without another word, she moved, sliding herself down onto him. Slowly. Intentionally.

The second she sank down, she gasped, the feeling of him filling her sending a jolt of heat through her body. She was about to say something when his lips found her neck, his teeth scraping lightly against her skin, “what?”

“Don’t play coy with me,” Harry muttered, his voice strained as he gripped her waist tighter, pushing her down on him. "I’m the one who’s been waiting all night for this."

His fingers dug into her skin, pulling her into him as he moved his lips to hers, kissing her with ferocious urgency. There was no softness, no gentle teasing. This was about power, about claiming. “Bunny, come on let me have my fun.”

“I don’t need you to remind me who’s in charge,” she whispered, a dark laugh in her voice. “I already know.”

Y/N didn’t wait. She rode him good, her nails raking over his chest.

She reached up, her fingers grazing his chest with a tease before making quick work of his shirt. Her hands pulled at the collar, unbuttoning it with slow movements. The anticipation was thick, like every button that came undone added a layer to the building tension between them.

She soon managed it and slipped it off his shoulders, leaving him almost glowing in the dim light of the booth, his tattoos visible.

His hand shot up to her hair, threading his fingers through the soft strands, his grip tightening as he pulled her closer to him. His other hand found her waist, pulling her against him. He ran his fingers through her hair again, this time a little rougher, as his lips crashed against hers with ferocity.

“Fuck, Y/N.”

A while passes. It was going great but she was getting tired.

She bit her lip, trying to keep her focus, but she couldn’t deny it—she was feeling the strain in her legs, the ache in her pelvis. Harry’s hands were still gripping her waist, guiding her movements with firm, but slow control, and it was starting to feel a bit too controlled for her liking. She wanted more. She needed more.

She gave one last slow roll of her hips before she stopped, leaning forward to rest her hands on his chest for support, breathing heavily.

“You’re starting to look a little tired, baby,” Harry teased, his lips curling into a smirk as his hands tightened around her waist. “Should I do all the work now?”

Y/N shot him a playful look, her chest rising and falling with her quick breaths, but she didn’t argue. She was too exhausted, her legs aching with the effort. She wanted him to take control, to make her feel like she couldn’t breathe without him.

Without warning, Harry’s hands gripped her hips and flipped her onto her back, his body covering hers in an instant. She gasped, startled by the sudden change in position, but her surprise was quickly replaced by anticipation. His eyes darkened with desire, a wicked smirk tugging at his lips.

“You wanted me to do all the work?” he growled, his voice thick with need. “Well, here we are.”

Before she could respond, Harry slammed into her, his pace hard and fast as he took control of the situation. His hands were on her hips, keeping her in place as he moved above her, each thrust deep and precise. Y/N’s body arched beneath him, her hands gripping the sheets as she tried to keep her composure.

“Tell me how it feels, Bunny,” he murmured in her ear, his lips brushing against her neck as he continued to thrust into her. “You wanted me to take over, didn’t you?”

She could only moan in response, her head falling back into the pillows as his pace quickened, the tension in her body building again. She reached up, trying to grip his arms, but he was too far gone, too deep inside her for her to do anything but just look at him.

Harry leaned down, his lips pressing against her ear as he thrust harder. “I told you, didn’t I? Don’t ever forget who’s in charge here.”

Y/N’s nails dug into his skin as she writhed beneath him, her moans filling the space between their heated breaths. She could feel the hard length of his cock driving into her, each thrust sending ripples of pleasure through her core. Her voice grew louder, her words slurred with desire.

“Harry…oh, Harry…” she pleaded, her hips rising to meet his as if in defiance of gravity, trying to match his fervor.

Harry’s own breathing grew ragged as he intensified his pace. His hands roamed her body, one gripping her hair as he pulled her head back for a deeper kiss, the other sliding over her curves, exploring every sensitive spot with expert precision. His eyes darkened as he whispered, “You’re mine, Bunny. Let me have you—completely.”

Every thrust built upon the last, a symphony of heat and desire, until soon both of them were lost in a haze of sensation. The room seemed to disappear around them, leaving only the raw, unfiltered need that surged between their entwined bodies. Their rhythm quickened, and the air grew thick with the scent of sweat and desire as they edged closer to the peak of their passion.

“Cum for me,” Harry rasped, his voice rough with command and need, as he pounded into her with all the force of his desire. “Cum for me, Bunny—let it all out.”

Y/N’s response was immediate and explosive. Her body tensed, every muscle contracting as waves of pleasure crashed over her. Her cries mingled with his as she surrendered to the overwhelming release, her hands clutching at the sheets as she came undone beneath him. Harry’s own high wasn’t far behind; his pace surged as he reached his breaking point, his own release joining hers in a torrential, shared moment of ecstasy.

They came together, every thrust, every kiss, every whispered command melding into one singular, unforgettable explosion of passion. For that one, electrified moment, nothing existed except the two of them.

When the storm finally subsided, they lay tangled together on the soft couch, their breaths gradually returning to normal. Harry’s hand still rested in Y/N’s hair, stroking it gently as if to remind her that, even in the aftermath of their intensity, he remained her unwavering, dominant force.

Y/N lay there, her chest rising and falling in rhythm with her breath, her body still trembling from the release. Harry’s eyes softened as he looked down at her, his fingers gently brushing a strand of hair away from her sweaty forehead. He could see the flush still creeping along her skin, the way her lips were slightly parted as she caught her breath

“You alright?” he asked, his voice low and soft, the usual dominance replaced by concern. He ran a hand over her body, almost as if checking if she was still there, still whole after the intensity of it all. His thumb traced the curve of her waist, and then he leaned in to place a tender kiss on her temple.

Y/N smiled, still catching her breath, but the warmth in her eyes told him she was more than okay. She nodded, reaching up to touch his face. Her fingers grazed his jawline, tracing the roughness of his stubble. “I’m good,” she said, her voice still breathy but soft.

Later that night they were in their shared king bed. He took her hands, now perfectly clean and lathered with handcream but he remembered the blood, “bunny?”

“Mm?”

“Maybe…we should go back to me handling the physical side of things..”

She looked up, “what? But I love helping you. I love doing this, we never hurt anyone for no reason you know that.”

“I’m aware love, I’m the boss remember? But I’m worried about you not our morals. What if something happens to you?”

“Couldn’t I say the same for you?”

“Well…”

“I guess we both have to be careful from now on. For each other.”

“Fair enough I guess.”

“Deal?”

“Deal, bunny.”

“Maybe….

#harry styles #new writers on tumblr #fanfic #harries #reqs open #new writing blog #harry styles one shot #harry styles smut #harry styles writing #harry styles imagine #harry styles fanfiction #harry edward styles #harry smut #smut #harry styles reader insert #requests open #x reader

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harryspurpleloofah · 5 months ago

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Happiest birthday to my absolute favourite person I hope 31 is a great year 💜

Happy Birthday Harry Styles

#harry styles #harry styles birthday #happy birthday #one direction #liam payne #niall horan #zayn malik #louis tomlinson #directioners #harries

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harryspurpleloofah · 5 months ago

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Working on a little mafia Harry rn but if anyone has any requests pop them in the box I’d be happy to take them ☂️

#harry styles #reqs open #harry styles reader insert #harry styles imagine #harry styles one shot

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harryspurpleloofah · 5 months ago

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𝐋𝐈𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐀𝐋 | 𝐇.𝐒 ⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆

ᝰ.ᐟ 𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐤𝐞𝐝 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐚 𝐩𝐨𝐞𝐦 𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐝𝐧'𝐭 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐢𝐬𝐡𝐞𝐝 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠.

𝐢𝐧 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐜𝐡 𝐘𝐍 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐲 𝐫𝐮𝐧 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐡 𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐚𝐭 𝐚𝐧 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐭, 𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐨𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦 𝐭𝐨 𝐫𝐞𝐟𝐥𝐞𝐜𝐭.

𝐂𝐖: requested exrry blurb (thank u anon!), slight angst, happy ending, fem!reader, actress!reader, unedited.

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: approx 5k

❏ HI ! it’s been such a long time :( but i’m hoping i’m finally through with writers block. i feel like this doesn’t exactlyyyy fit anon’s request but i hope u liked it even a lil bit! i’m not 100% happy w this but i really wanna get something out so this will just have to suffice. missed yall <3

masterlist

there are moments in every love story when the world rearranges itself, tilts just enough to change the course of everything. it's the way a cigarette burns unevenly when the wind interferes, how a misplaced step shifts the dancer's rhythm, or the way a train leaves the station one minute too soon. for harry and YN, their love had been both a symphony and a storm, a masterpiece constructed on fragile scaffolding. in its final act, it had unraveled quietly, with only the sound of two hearts breaking in unison.

they hadn’t spoken in two years. two years of silences punctuated only by the occasional headline, the brush of a photo on a magazine rack, his voice threading through the speakers of a café. the world, it seemed, refused to let her forget him. but there he was now, not a photograph or a memory, but him. real, palpable, standing at the edge of her periphery like a ghost who hadn’t yet decided if it would haunt her or let her go.

YN leaned against the balustrade, clutching a glass of something that tasted more sour than it should have. the event itself was a haze of champagne flutes and low conversations, an industry soirée dripping in muted opulence. her dress was a deep shade of dusk, clinging to her like a second skin, and she felt beautiful in it—had felt beautiful in it—until she saw him.

harry was dressed as he always was: an effortless mosaic of contradictions. the suit was tailored to perfection, but his hair, unruly curls with the hint of rebellion, softened the sharp edges. there was no mistaking the tilt of his head, the way his eyes skimmed the room with an almost reluctant ease. she wondered if he’d seen her yet, if he’d feel that same quiet thrum in his chest when he did.

as if on cue, his eyes met hers.

the evening wasn’t designed for heartache. the sky, opalescent and blushing, rippled with the soft hues of twilight. lights strung through the manicured gardens of the estate flickered like fireflies caught in some eternal dance, glasses catching the shimmer like constellations in orbit. laughter rippled through the space, every corner alive with movement and conversation, yet harry could feel only the staccato of his pulse, sharp and relentless.

he wasn't supposed to see her tonight. it wasn't part of the plan—then again, plans were always shaky things when it came to them, built on the hope that tomorrow wouldn't bring a gust strong enough to dismantle it all.

it wasn’t a moment of cinematic epiphany. there was no gasp, no clinking glass slipping from trembling fingers. it was quieter than that, heavier. their eyes had met, and the weight of two years folded between them like a tide coming in—inevitable, undeniable.

his gaze dropped to her hands, searching for a ring, as though her life might have accelerated in the time since they'd parted. nothing. his chest tightened with something unnamable—relief? regret? both?

the last time they’d been in the same room, the air had been filled with shouting and static. their words had ricocheted off walls that had once heard laughter. they had been too much and not enough, two meteors colliding, destroying everything they touched in their desperate attempt to remain whole.

she loved him. god, how she had loved him. loves.

their love had been big. not in the way people tell stories about epic romances, but in the way it consumed everything around it. they fought like gods waging war. they loved like the first spring after a century of winter. they tore each other apart and put each other back together, over and over, until they couldn't remember what they had looked like before.

they stood like that for what felt like hours but must've been seconds, suspended in a quiet kind of agony. the people around them blurred into shapes, the air alive with the hum of champagne-fueled conversations and the laughter of people who had no concept of loss beyond the polite kind—misplaced keys, a delayed flight, the end of a film they'd rather not have finished. the only thing that seemed real was the chasm between them—filled with every moment they'd ever shared, every word spoken and unspoken, every touch and tear and promise.

he was walking toward her now. she could feel it in her chest before she saw it—the air shifting, the atoms around her realigning themselves to make room for his presence.

YN was radiant, in the way she always had been— light incarnate. her eyes, the same shade of longing he remembered, tried not to meet his own, but of course, they did. she's only human, and humans have always been drawn to the things that ruin them.

“YN.” he breathed when he was close enough, her name falling from his lips like a prayer he wasn’t sure he was allowed to utter.

“harry.” his name tasted unfamiliar on her tongue, like a word spoken in a foreign language after years of disuse.

there were too many things she wanted to say, too many memories fighting to rise to the surface. she remembered the way his hands had once mapped her skin like a cartographer desperate to chart every inch. she remembered mornings spent tangled in sheets, the sunlight spilling over their laughter. she remembered the fights, the nights spent in separate rooms, the echoes of their own voices loud in the spaces between them.

“you look—” he started, then stopped, as though the right words had slipped through his fingers.

“so do you.”

silence bloomed between them, heavy and awkward, like a third presence neither of them invited. she takes a sip of her drink to fill it, but the taste is sour, bitter. or maybe that's just her.

he couldn’t tell how long they just stood there. time had a way of folding in on itself since her, the days bleeding into nights, the minutes stretching and collapsing all at once. einstein once said time was relative, but harry was sure he hadn't meant this.

his lips parted, “i didn’t think you’d be here.”

“neither did i.”

the truth was, she almost hadn’t come. it was only her publicist’s insistence that had dragged her out of her apartment and into this room filled with people who didn’t really know her. but now, standing here in front of him, she wondered if some part of her had known—had hoped.

there was a question hanging in the air between them, not uttered, but loud enough to fill the silence. had they made a mistake?

he remembers how they agreed it was for the best—right person, wrong time. they'd parted with a kiss that tasted of salt and regret, a mutual agreement born not out of lack of love, but out of too much of it.

but how could it be for the best when the air at home still smelled like her, when her name was stitched into the fabric of every song he wrote? he thought of the way she used to rest her head against his chest at night, the way her fingers traced lazy patterns along his skin, as if she were memorizing him in braille. the intimacy of it—the quiet kind, the kind that felt like forever—had undone him. no one ever teaches you how to live without forever.

the first time they met, they were children pretending to be adults. a festival in the desert, both of them younger and wilder, sweat-soaked and sunburnt and drunk on music. they danced in a crowd of thousands, but it felt like the earth shrank to the size of a postage stamp, and they were the only two people left. he had kissed her that night, tequila and the promise of something infinite lingering on his tongue.

“i’ve missed you,” he admitted, so softly she almost didn’t hear it.

her heart stuttered, the words settling into the cracks she hadn’t known were still there. “me too.”

and just like that, the world rearranged itself again.

it had been three days, but the memory of her face still lingered on the edges of harry’s consciousness like the afterimage of a camera flash. no matter how many times he blinked, it refused to fade. he felt haunted—not in the dramatic sense of ghosts rattling chains, but in the quiet, insidious way grief lingers, reshaping the air around it. she had looked beautiful, devastatingly so. and when their eyes had met, he swore he felt time buckle under the weight of something he couldn’t acknowledge, not yet.

it was morning now, or what passed for it in january—a hesitant kind of light filtering through the clouds, pale and thin like it didn’t quite belong. harry sat at his kitchen table, a cup of tea cooling between his hands. the mug had been a gift from gemma years ago, the words world’s okayest brother faded from too many cycles through the dishwasher. he liked its imperfection, the way it felt worn and familiar. it reminded him of things that didn’t change, which was a comfort on days like these.

the newspapers were spread out in front of him, though he wasn’t reading them. his eyes kept drifting to the same headline over and over: YN stuns at charity gala, sparking reunion rumors. there was a picture, of course. she was outside, her dress a shadow clinging to her frame, her gaze distant and heavy with thoughts he couldn’t begin to guess at.

it was cruel, he thought, how the world always seemed to capture her in a way that felt so achingly intimate. even in the stillness of a photograph, she looked alive, as though she might step off the page and straight into his arms.

but she wouldn’t.

he hadn’t expected to see her, not after all this time. the last two years had been a lesson in avoidance—of places she might be, of mutual friends who still spoke her name with a fondness that made his chest ache. he had buried himself in work, in music, in anything that might fill the spaces she had left behind. and for a while, it had worked. or at least, it had felt like it did.

until three days ago.

“you’re brooding.”

the voice startled him, and he looked up to find jeff standing in the doorway, a coffee cup in one hand and a knowing look in the other.

“morning to you, too,” harry muttered, running a hand through his hair.

he raised an eyebrow. “you’ve been staring at that paper for the better part of an hour. do you want to talk about it, or should i just pretend i don’t notice?”

“not much to talk about, yeah?”

“uh-huh.” he set his coffee down and slid into the chair opposite him. “you saw her.”

“yeah.”

“and?”

harry sighed, “i dunno. s’like… seeing her again made everything i’ve been trying to forget just resurface. two fucking years of nothing and then—” he gestured vaguely, another sigh falling from his lips.

“you still care about her.”

“‘course i do,” harry said, almost sharply. “but that doesn’t mean it changes anything. timing wasn’t right—we missed out.”

jeff studied him for a moment, then leaned back in his chair. “you know, timing’s a funny thing. but things do change, harry. don’t lose something you never needed to lose in the first place.”

the words hit harder than harry wanted to admit. he didn’t respond, instead lifting his mug to his lips and taking a long sip.

the tea had gone cold.

–

the email arrived in the late afternoon, slipping into her inbox like an intruder she hadn’t invited. YN stared at the screen for a long time, her tea cooling on the windowsill beside her. she didn’t open it right away; instead, she just sat there, the glow of her laptop casting faint shadows on the walls of her living room.

harry’s name stared back at her, bold and impossible to ignore. two years of silence, and now this.

the day had started out quiet. she’d spent the morning working through a script, her highlighter uncapping and capping in time with the low hum of the music she had on in the background. a storm had rolled in sometime around noon, the sky turning the color of damp stone. she liked storms—their chaos, the way they reminded her of things bigger than herself.

she didn’t like this.

her thumb hovered over the trackpad, indecisive. opening the email felt like a betrayal of all the walls she’d built, but leaving it unread felt equally unbearable. the memory of seeing him at the gala, standing there like something carved out of memory and moonlight, tugged at her resolve.

so, she clicked.

subject: reaching out

from: hs@—

to: YN@—

i wasn’t sure if this was still your email. if it’s not, i guess someone else is reading this, which would be… awkward. but if it is you, then: hey.

i know it’s been a while. seeing you the other night caught me off guard. in a good way. you looked beautiful. not that that’s news or anything, but still. it felt worth saying.

i’ve been thinking about you. not in a way that expects anything, just thinking. like in the way you’re in the lyrics i write without thinking. or when i see a blank sheet of paper i think of the origami you’d make on a whim.

this probably sounds ridiculous. i don’t really know what i’m trying to say. maybe just that it was good to see you.

for old times sake: all my stars and moons,

all my stars and moons.

he used to say it with a lopsided smile, his voice soft, reverent, like it was the only way he could capture what she meant to him.

it wasn't just an i love you—it was a promise, a vow that she had been his beginning and his end. her reply had always been equally unorthodox, a kind of shared language only they understood.

she read the email twice, then a third time, the words tumbling through her mind like loose change in a pocket.

it wasn’t much. it wasn’t an apology or an admission or even an invitation. but it was something—a crack in the silence, a thread pulled loose from fabric.

her fingers hovered over the keyboard, her mind a cacophony of what-ifs. she didn’t know what to say—didn’t know if she should say anything.

the cursor blinked at her, patient and unyielding. YN rested her chin in her hand, staring at the blank reply box as if it might conjure the words for her. the storm outside continued its symphony, wind rattling the windowpanes in uneven bursts. it felt fitting—this chaotic, uncertain moment mirrored by the world beyond her walls.

she had typed and deleted half a dozen responses already, each one feeling either too much or not enough.

harry, she’d started, but even his name felt loaded, like a weight she couldn’t quite lift.

it’s good to hear from you. no, too polite, too distant, too not them.

why now? the most honest question, but also the one she didn’t have the courage to ask outright.

she leaned back in her chair, exhaling sharply. part of her wanted to ignore it. to close her laptop, pour another cup of tea, and pretend she hadn’t read it. but that wasn’t who she was—not with him.

because no matter how much time had passed, no matter how much they had broken each other, there was still that small, stubborn part of her that believed in the rightness of them.

she let her fingers hover over the keyboard, her thoughts coalescing into something that felt almost like clarity.

harry,

it is still my email. though if it weren’t, i’d like to think whoever got this would’ve found it endearing.

i don’t know how to describe how it felt seeing you again. unexpected doesn’t feel like enough. i wasn’t ready for it, i guess. not that anyone’s ever really ready to run into their past like that. believe me when i say that you looked even more beautiful.

your email was nice to read, though i’m not sure how to respond to it. i don’t know if i have the right words anymore, or if i ever did. but i’ve been thinking about you too. i’m not sure that ever really stopped, if i’m honest. it’s strange, isn’t it? how someone can take up so much space in your mind, even after so much time has passed.

it’s hard to know what else to say. part of me wonders if we made a mistake. you’re making me remember paper cranes on your coffee table, of mornings where the sunlight always seemed brighter on your side of the bed. remembering makes it harder to pretend like none of it mattered.

but it did. it still does. in ways i can't always explain, and maybe that's why i don't know how to respond. anyway, i guess i just wanted to say that it was good to see you, too.

forever and a day,

YN.

her finger hovered over the send button, her heart hammering in her chest. there was no taking it back once it was gone, no undoing the vulnerability she had laid bare. but she clicked it anyway, the whoosh of the email sending ringing loud in the quiet of her apartment.

forever and a day.

it had been her answer to him, her way of telling him that love wasn't bound by time or space, that it was infinite. it had been their secret, the thread woven through the chaos of their lives.

she didn’t know what would come next. maybe nothing. maybe everything. so, she waited—which only let things unravel further.

the emails became their lifeline over the past few days, a tenuous thread bridging the gap between the past and whatever they were doing now. it had started cautiously—polite acknowledgments, carefully chosen words that skirted too close to old wounds. but as the hours and days wore on, their messages grew longer, softer, laced with the quiet intimacy of people rediscovering the shape of each other.

harry had spent more time staring at his screen than he cared to admit, his fingers hovering over the keys as he tried to balance honesty with restraint. they wrote about everything and nothing—her latest film, a quiet piece shot in the polish countryside, his afternoons spent in the studio, the strange emptiness of passing the time during a break.

sometimes, they slipped into the past. little anecdotes laced with humor or wistfulness, as though they were tiptoeing around the weight of what they’d once shared. he’d told her about the tulips he passed by in the shop one evening, how it made him think of her, if he’d ever buy such a thing for her again—and she’d replied with a teasing remark about how he’d always overthought these things.

it felt natural in a way neither of them had anticipated, like a rhythm they’d rediscovered without meaning to. but beneath the easy flow of words, there was a tension—an unspoken question threading its way through every sentence: what now?

and then, her last email.

he’d read it three times before he noticed the address tucked neatly at the bottom, like an afterthought.

subject: RE: late night thoughts

from: YN@—

to: hs@—

i don’t know why i’m telling you this, but the tulips? i would’ve liked them :)

anyway, you’re right! it’s easier to write like this, but it also feels a bit ridiculous, doesn’t it? like we’re pen pals in some old novel. maybe we should talk.

here’s my address. i’ve moved since before everything happened between us. if you’re ever around, stop by. no pressure though.

harry had laughed aloud when he saw it, shaking his head in disbelief. she hadn’t given him her number, but her address? it was such a maddeningly her thing to do.

he stared at the screen for a while afterward, debating what it meant, whether he should go, what he’d say if he did. and then, as if fate had decided for him, he found himself standing in another flower shop the next afternoon, staring at a display of tulips.

the shopkeeper had been kind, if a bit amused by his indecision. “you can’t go wrong with red,” she’d said, handing him a bunch wrapped in simple brown paper. “everyone likes red, yeah?”

he’d nodded, though his mind had been elsewhere, spiraling through a thousand scenarios of how this meeting might go.

and now, here he was, standing outside her building with the flowers clutched in one hand, his other hand shoved into the pocket of his coat.

he felt ridiculous. what was he doing here, showing up like this? but the thought of turning back felt worse. he buzzed her apartment, his heart pounding as he waited for her voice to crackle through the intercom.

“hello?”

“oh, YN. hi! it’s harry.”

a pause and the breathiest giggle, so quiet harry wasn’t sure if it was her or the crackle of the intercom. “come up.”

once up, she opened the door before he could knock, her silhouette framed by the soft glow of her apartment. she looked different and yet entirely the same—her hair pulled back, her sweater falling loosely over her frame, the kind of effortless beauty that had always undone him.

“hi.”

“hi,” he echoed, offering her a tentative smile.

she glanced at the tulips in his hand, her lips twitching into a small, knowing grin. “you brought flowers.”

“yeah,” he admitted, running a hand through his hair. “thought about daisies. or lilies. but tulips–”

“you overthought it.”

“probably,” he said, handing them to her. “but you said you would’ve liked them.”

she took the flowers, her fingers brushing his briefly. “i do.”

he hesitated, shifting on his feet. “you didn’t give me your number, but you gave me your address. thought that was funny.”

her laugh was soft, almost shy. “guess i figured if you wanted to talk, you’d show up.”

“and here i am.”

“here you are.”

she stepped aside, letting him in, her apartment warm and inviting in contrast to the chill outside. the space was a bit small but full of character—books stacked haphazardly on shelves, a record player in the corner, the faint scent of tea lingering in the air.

“s’bigger than the last one.”

she hummed, setting the tulips on the counter and reaching for a vase. “it’s cozy.”

he watched her move, his chest tightening at the familiarity of it all—the way she tilted her head when she was concentrating, the slight curve of her mouth as she arranged the flowers.

“i’m surprised you actually came over.”

“‘course i did,” he said, his gaze steady. “you asked.”

“i didn’t think you would.”

he frowned slightly, “oh,” he paused, “why not?”

she shrugged, turning back to the flowers. “it’s been a long time, i guess. people change.”

“how much d’you think changes in two years?”

her hands stilled, her fingers brushing against the edge of a petal. she didn’t look at him, but he could see the way her shoulders tensed, the way her breath caught.

“i don’t know what this is,” she said finally, her voice barely above a whisper.

“s’just us talking. that’s all.”

they settled at the island in her kitchen eventually, stools drawn close but not close enough. it wasn’t purposeful—not exactly—but the gap between them felt intentional in its own way, a hesitation they hadn’t yet learned how to breach.

the space was quiet, save for the soft hum of the rain outside and the faint creak of the wood beneath them. the overhead light pooled in warm, golden tones across the countertop, casting long shadows that blurred the edges of the moment.

YN fit into the space like she always did—carefully, like she was trying to take up less room than she was owed. one knee tucked against her chest, her arms wrapped loosely around it, while her other leg dangled from the stool, her toes brushing just lightly against the floor. she turned slightly, her side leaning against the edge of the island, her eyes steady but unreadable.

his own body had never been built for this kind of furniture—too long limbs, too much of him for the delicate frame of the stool. he had to spread his legs wide, one foot braced against the floor to keep himself steady, his elbows resting on the countertop. his fingers toyed with the lip of a glass left abandoned,something to keep them occupied, something to keep them from reaching for her.

and then she said it.

“you’ve written songs about me.”

a statement, not a question. a fact pulled from the quiet places of their past, dusted off and placed between them like an offering.

harry felt the heat climb his neck before he could stop it, the corners of his mouth betraying him with the telltale pull of a smile. a man of twenty-nine reduced to something pink-cheeked and bashful, like a schoolboy caught in the act. his dimples carved deep, his fingers tightening around the glass as if he could pour all of his flustered energy into the curve of it.

“see that head of yours hasn’t gotten any smaller.”

his voice came easy, light with humor, a well-aimed deflection meant to soften the truth. but the truth was written all over him, in the way his gaze lingered, in the way his body angled toward hers as if he couldn’t help but close the distance.

she laughed, and the sound curled into his chest, tucked itself between his ribs like something meant to live there. her cheeks had gone pink too, though whether from the warmth of the room or the warmth of his attention, he wasn’t sure.

she pressed her temple against her knee, a slow, knowing smile stretching across her lips before she murmured—“red wine and ginger ale.”

it was enough to knock the breath from him, to make something stir deep in his gut, something familiar, aching, unshakable.

his grip tightened around the glass, knuckles going white. because of course she remembered. of course she had caught that line, plucked it from the verse and turned it over in her palm like a rare coin.

it had been a memory—hers, theirs, tucked into the lyrics like a secret, hidden in plain sight.

a dinner in chiswick, years ago, where he had ordered exactly that, red wine with ginger ale, because he liked the way the bitterness and sweetness met on his tongue. she had looked at him like he’d just confessed to some great crime, her nose scrunching, her lips parting in that wide-eyed, incredulous way.

“you’re disgusting.”

he had laughed, offered her a sip, only for her to recoil in mock horror. and later, in the taxi home, when he had kissed her, her lips had curled into a smile against his, and she had whispered against his mouth—

“m’never letting you live it down, baby.”

and she hadn’t. for months. for years. because she had hated the drink, but she had loved him, and that was enough.

and now, here she was, saying it back to him, plucking the words from a song meant for millions and holding them up to the light, a knowing glint in her gaze.

“you remember that?” he asked, his voice quieter now, almost disbelieving.

“i remember everything.”

the words settled in his stomach, warm and heavy. he stared at her for a long moment, the air between them stretching thin.

he could still taste the memory of her, even now. and he wonders if she knows she’s still his favorite lyric.

time continued to stretch around them, hesitated words and heavy pauses, stolen glances and knuckles that barely grazed each other in fleeting touches.

they moved after that, standing from the stools as if a forced step back would be enough space to stop what hummed between them.

she turned to face him, her eyes searching his. for a moment, the air felt electric, heavy with everything they weren’t saying.

she lingered there, before her body angled toward the window as though she might drift outside. the soft light overhead caught the lines of her face, the curve of her shoulders.

she was beautiful in the way the stars were—distant but unmistakably present, a quiet inevitability against the darkness.

and just like the stars, she had always been there, even when he couldn't see her.

he crossed the room slowly, as though afraid that the floor might give out beneath him. his hands were empty now, his thoughts stripped bare. she turned slightly as he came closer, her eyes meeting his, and he could feel the pull of her, the way she seemed to realign the very fabric of the air between them.

YN could feel it, the frequency only the two of them could hear, a static that crackles in the air between bodies too familiar to be strangers, too distant to be anything else. the static that translated into pins and needles along their lips. the static, buzzing heat in their chest, not fire, not yet—but the ember that never fully died, flickering in the place where love was buried but never truly laid to rest.

"you came back.” she echoed from before, though it was less saturated in disbelief but rather dripping with solace.

he looked up, his throat tightening—the ache of déjà vu wrapped in silk. his body remembers before his mind does—remembers the press of his palm against the small of her back, the weight of his mouth against hers, the way her breath used to tremble when she whispered his name.

you never left he wanted to say, but the syllables tangled in his throat, thick as honey, heavy as grief. because she hadn’t—not really. she lingered in each pause between heartbeats, in the empty quiet of rooms too big and beds too cold.

so, he keeps his mouth shut. he leans in, nose barely grazing hers. she can feel the flutter of his eyelashes against her cheek as his head tilts, he can feel the tremble of her breath.

he was merely a shipwreck, his body leaning toward the tide even as his mind screamed to stay ashore. but the tide is warm, and the tide is her, and oh—how easy it would be to drown again.

the collapse of distance, the death of restraint.

the air between them is thick with ruin and remembrance, a graveyard of every night they spent apart, every moment they spent pretending this wasn’t inevitable.

but the body is merciless in its remembering.

her breath stutters again as his fingertips ghost over her jaw, tracing the path of old devotion, the map of a love that never truly faded. it’s not a hesitation, not a question—it’s reverence, the final breath before a prayer is spoken. and then—

then he kisses her.

it’s not soft, not gentle. it’s every unsaid word, every agonizing hour, every night spent staring at the ceiling wondering if the she felt it too. it’s the pull of gravity, of fate, of something written into constellations.

his mouth slants over hers like a plea, like an apology, like a man succumbing. and she—she meets him with a hunger that borders on violent, fingers fisting in his collar, dragging him closer, closer, as if she could consume him, as if she could crawl inside his ribs and carve her name there all over again.

it tasted like champagne and ripe fruit, like summer bursting behind teeth and getting stuck there. peaches, maybe, or strawberries picked in the height of july. his tongue slid against hers like silk against satin, heady—red wine drunk too quickly, the dizzied sweetness of berries crushed between thumb and forefinger.

it didn’t seek, did not demand; it reclaimed, a vow remade in flesh.

his tongue curled, coaxed, tangled in the wet heat of her mouth. it was slow, decadent—the first pull of opium in the lungs, the hush of velvet being drawn through greedy fingers.

and when he deepened it—when he pulled her flush, let the kiss bleed into something savored, something syrup-thick, cursive against the roof of her mouth—she tasted it:

forgiveness, the hands of a clock rewinding.

not spoken, not granted, but exchanged in the language of tongue and teeth. of breath shared between gasps, of bodies rediscovering the art of belonging.

when they part, it is not for lack of wanting.

it’s for breath, for sanity, for the simple fear that if they do not stop now, they never will. she licked her lips—not to rid herself of him, but to commit him to memory.

"YN.” he murmured, her name nothing more than a breath, a vow, a benediction.

she swallowed, throat tight, her pulse a bird trapped beneath her skin. she wanted to say something, anything—wanted to capture this moment in words before it slipped through her fingers like sand.

but there was no language for this.

there was no word for what it meant to be kissed like that—like time had never moved forward, like they had never parted, like the years apart were nothing more than a cruel trick of the universe. no word for the way his tongue had found hers, the way he had kissed her not just with his lips, but with the sum of his longing, the marrow-deep ache of missing her. no word for the way she had melted into him, the way her mouth had answered his like it had been waiting all this time.

so she didn’t speak.

instead, she pressed her fingers against his mouth, feeling the shape of his lips beneath them, like trying to hold onto a dream before waking. and maybe he understood, because he only smiled—soft, knowing, his hands still firm against her skin.

all my stars and moons, he had said once.

forever and a day, she had answered.

#harry styles #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles one shot #harry styles writing #harry edward styles

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harryspurpleloofah · 5 months ago

Note

Adore-laur you absolute legend 💜

Omgg I would love to see different times dadrry gets protective !! Like I can so see him being one of those dads that set boundaries the first time the baby is being introduced to family. He’d be like “no kissing on the face, no taking her away from mom without asking her first and wash your hands before holding her” etc etc. Or him getting defensive when people start to pity him when they find out he’s having a third girl and he gets annoyed and defends his girls 😭😭

Also ofc need to say your dadrry series is the best thing ever I still have tumblr solely to read your writing ☺️☺️

PROTECTOR

——

Pacific loons wailed hauntingly near the shoreline as you sat in the patio's swing chair, listening to the sundry sounds of nature. The oceanic view was a calm presence, one that often lulled you into a hypnotic trance with the endless ebb of waves and the horizon's dying light. Above the railing, brass wind chimes produced a plinking melody in the wind. The atmosphere of home engulfed you like a warm hug.

It was a moment of serenity while Harry went on a grocery run with the girls. He had offered to take the after work, and it was sweet of him to give you time to decompress after parenting alone all day. Plus, it got them out of the house. You would usually be able to take them somewhere for fresh air and fun sights to see, but pregnancy fatigue prevented any hopes of traveling past the front door.

A month had elapsed since you surprised Harry with the news of a third baby. Two weeks since you both had found out it was a girl. In that time, life had coasted by blissfully between the routine of working part-time, daycare drop-off and pick-up, and bonding with your little family over the weekend.

As much as you cherished the hustle and bustle, it was necessary to prioritize personal time. Sometimes it came in the form of sinking into a hot bath, venturing to the beach with a novel, or catching up on much-needed sleep. Today, it consisted of feeling the breeze pass through your hair and appreciating the beauty of southern California.

It would be easy to fall asleep out here. The crashing waves, birdsong, and rustling trees were a lullaby. But you knew the moment you closed your eyes, you would miss the last streaks of the sunset, with its delicate wisps and golden clouds. So you shifted slightly to wake your limbs that were becoming jelly-like, and as you did, the blanket previously draped across your collarbones pooled into your lap. You stared down at it, smiling. The bedroom's storage ottoman held approximately a dozen different blankets, all with some sort of sentimental value attached to them. The crocheted quilt your first daughter had come home from the hospital with; the heated one with Mom embroidered on it; the oversized fleece one Harry liked to specifically use for cuddling either you or his girls.

The one you had chosen for your peaceful patio time was a ragged, faded patchwork quilt that Harry had kept (possibly stole) from the walk-up apartment you lived in together nearly eight years ago. It had watched your love for him grow beyond your wildest dreams. Had seen moments of rib-aching laughter, frustrated tears, pain and passion, and a commitment that would always withstand rough waters. Neither of you had wanted to part with that blanket, so now it stayed in a special place in the home that had once been a far-fetched fantasy.

As your fingers plucked loose threads from the fabric, you felt your phone vibrate with an incoming call. It was hidden somewhere under the thick blanket, and after a moment of searching, you picked it up and looked at the screen. It was Harry, made evident by his contact photo—a family picture on the Temescal Canyon Trail, your youngest strapped to your chest in a carrier and Harry carrying your oldest on his shoulders. A generous elderly couple had offered to take it, with the stunning backdrop of the expansive coastline. You especially loved the picture because it showed off Harry's legs in his athletic shorts, all long and tanned.

"Hey," you answered, assuming he was calling from the grocery store. He often did with ideas for meals or questions about kiddie snacks. Sometimes he'd ask what desserts you were craving, and then he'd spoil you by bringing home more than you could even fathom eating.

"Hi, baby," he said, sounding winded. "Can you unlock the door for me? Both girls are out like a light in my arms."

"Oh!" you said, not expecting him back so soon. Nature's hypnosis made you lose track of time. "Okay, I'll be right there."

"Thank you. I'd hang up, but my phone is balancing rather precariously on my shoulder."

You laughed and hung up for him, then untangled yourself from the cozy confines of the swing chair before heading inside. You were careful to hop over the dolls and picture books and blocks scattered across the living room carpet.

When you reached the front door and opened it slowly, your heart melted. Harry stood there holding one daughter on each hip, their little bodies slumped against him as they slept. You could tell your youngest was in a deep sleep. Your eldest, though, was definitely pretending so she could be carried inside like a princess. The sunset's pink light peeked into the garage and softened Harry's handsome features ethereally. Who else could look this good after grocery shopping?

"We're home," he whispered, and those two simple words filled your heart with an unspeakable amount of happiness.

"I'll help put stuff away," you replied quietly, taking his phone to relieve him from his uncomfortable position. "You go tuck the girls in." It was nearing their bedtime anyway, so better to take advantage of a smooth transition.

Harry smiled with that attentive look on his face, then bent to tenderly kiss the sweet spot on your neck. "You're glowing," he murmured in your ear, then walked past you, leaving your cheeks flushing like a besotted teenager.

Once the groceries were put away and the kids were down for the night, you and Harry went to relax in the bedroom. The sky was now devoid of color with stars twinkling faintly, and the full moon spilled its light through the bay window.

You were already in your pajamas, collapsing onto the comforter, when Harry asked, "How was your day?" He shut the closet light off, dressed in just a T-shirt and black boxers. There were those legs again, the lean muscles a feast for your eyes.

"Mellow," you said. "We stayed inside mostly. Morning sickness has been kicking my ass."

"Good thing you didn't have to work today."

You nodded. That was the nice part about working part-time and partially from home—it allowed for the freedom to be with the kids more often. You didn't mind taking them to daycare, especially since it was imperative for socialization, but it lessened your anxiety when you had them under your supervision. It was a suitable balance.

"Did everyone behave at the store?" you asked, sliding your socks off under the sheets.

"Yeah. No tantrums." Harry raised his eyebrows proudly, and you both shared an air-five. "They seemed knackered. Slept all the way home."

"I tried my best to tire them out."

"Well, you succeeded," he said appreciatively, then joined you in bed, stretching his limbs. You were so thankful for his diligence. To work ten hours and then parent to take some responsibility off your plate was admired more than you could ever put into words.

Harry reached his hand over to the nightstand to resume the book he'd been engrossed in recently but paused and turned to you instead. "Can I gossip with you?" he asked.

You quirked your brows. "What happened?"

He breathed deeply and stared into the distance. "So, I was in the cereal aisle, right?"

You laughed while cuddling up to him. "This is juicy so far."

"It's not even gossip, really," he said. "Just something that irked me."

"Please continue."

He wrapped his arm around your shoulders and painted a picture of the scene. "I had the girls sitting in the shopping cart, and an old lady nearby started fawning over them. Which is fine, because they're adorable. Anyway, she started asking a bunch of questions. How old they are, what their personalities are like. Somehow I accidentally let it slip that we have a third one on the way, and I know we're telling our families next week, but I got caught up in the conversation and—"

"You're so bad at keeping secrets," you interrupted with a good-natured groan.

Harry kissed your forehead apologetically. "The worst. So, the lady had the audacity to act all surprised that I was going to be a father of three girls. Gave me a face like she pitied me. And then guess what she said..."

"I assume something mildly offensive," you replied.

"She goes, 'I bet you were hoping for a boy. To bring some balance to your home.'"

You scoffed and said, "More like chaos. What did she even mean by that?"

He shook his head, equally puzzled. "I don't know, but I just said, 'I'm very happy with my life,' then grabbed a box of Cocoa Puffs and went on with my day."

You frowned. "Why do some people think having daughters is such a burden?" It was mind-boggling. They had taught you so much and would continue to as they grew and spread their wings. It was your purpose to shape them into resilient, kind, and empathetic women. What a beautiful honor anyone would be lucky to experience.

"I'll never understand," Harry mused, locking eyes with you. "It's the most..." He trailed off with an emotional smile, and you stroked his cheek, letting him take his time. It wasn't often you or he could speak so rawly about the life you'd created together. "It's just the best feeling imaginable, you know? I can't describe it. All I know is that I wouldn't want it any other way."

You softly kissed him, feeling the sincerity of his words in the way he gracefully slipped his tongue past yours. With your palm still cradling his cheek, you halted his kisses using your thumb to say, "You're this family's heartbeat."

His lustful green eyes opened, his pupils dilating as if absorbing your admission. "If I'm the heartbeat, then you're the lungs."

"Sweet-talker," you teased.

"You started this love fest."

After a stretch of comfortable silence, Harry settled his hand on your small bump, a warm and knowing touch. "Please don't think I'm waiting on a son," he said.

You snorted. "Don't be ridiculous. I know more than anyone else how much you wanted daughters. You told me during our first date."

"I did?"

"We talked each other's ears off that night about our futures. The universe must have been listening." The conversation was burned into your brain. In that dim oceanside restaurant, you had known he was a keeper.

"Yeah," Harry whispered, kissing all over your stomach, leaving no skin unmarked by his gentle lips. He then rested his head in your lap. "I can't wait to meet her."

You hummed. "Have you ever thought about what she'll be like?"

"A combination of all four of us."

A ghost of a smile spread on your lips. "We're going to have our hands full then."

"I'm ready."

"I know you are," you said while playing with his hair. "That's why I chose you."

He was a protector, down to the fibers of his being. You didn't have to be in the room for him to remind the world of his devotion to being your husband. To being a father. He laid it all bare, and you could only hope that it would be passed down to your daughters like an heirloom blanket.

——

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harryspurpleloofah · 5 months ago

Text

Just next door

Summary: the guy who just moved in next door invited Y/N over for coffee and she saw a sex toy. Him hearing her touch herself later that day evolves into phone sex

Warnings: swearing, female and male masturbation, fingering, phone sex, guided masturbation, mentions of reader hearing moans from Harry’s apartment while he hooks up with someone, I think like a tiny bit of swearing?

The warm scent of freshly brewed coffee filled the small apartment as Y/N set two steaming mugs on the table near the window. Across from her, Clara perched eagerly on a chair, her fingers drumming against the ceramic mug in her hands.

“You’re not going to believe this,” Clara said, leaning forward like she was about to deliver life-changing news.

Y/N arched a brow. “What? Did someone steal your parking spot again?”

Clara shook her head, a grin already tugging at her lips. “No, it’s way better. I was coming up the stairs earlier, and guess who I saw?”

“Unless it’s Freddie Mercury, I’m not guessing,” Y/N replied dryly, taking a sip from her cup.

“A man,” Clara said, her grin growing wider. “A hot man. Like, ridiculously hot. And he was moving boxes into the apartment right next to yours.”

That got Y/N’s attention. She straightened slightly, setting her cup down. “The apartment next door? The one that’s been empty like…forever?”

“Exactly!” Clara practically squealed. “And let me just tell you, this guy is no ordinary neighbor. He’s tall, has this messy, curly hair, and..oh my God—he was wearing a sleeveless shirt while carrying all those boxes. His arms, Y/N. His arms. I swear they look like they belong in a museum.”

Y/N rolled her eyes, though a flicker of curiosity was in her. “Sounds like someone’s trying to show off.”

“Um, if you had arms like that, wouldn’t you?” Clara quipped. “He’s a walking thirst trap, I’m telling you. You should bake him cookies or something, just so I have an excuse to come back and see him again.”

“Yeah right,” Y/N scoffed. “The last thing I need is to deal with a cocky neighbor who probably spends more time flexing in mirrors than unpacking his boxes.”

Clara snorted, brushing a strand of hair out of her face. “Don’t write him off just yet. You haven’t even met him. What if he’s sweet? Or mysterious? Or—”

“Or obnoxious,” Y/N interrupted. “Or loud. Or the kind of guy who blasts terrible music at all hours.”

“Or the kind of guy who’s so hot you won’t care,” Clara shot back.

Y/N shook her head, laughing softly. “Let’s just hope he keeps to himself and doesn’t cause any trouble.”

Y/N was halfway through folding laundry on the couch when she heard a knock at the door. Her brows furrowed as she glanced at the clock—7:30 p.m. She wasn’t expecting anyone. Clara had left hours ago, and most of her neighbors preferred to keep to themselves.

She padded over to the door and opened it. There he was.

The first thing she noticed was the curls—a messy tumble of dark brown waves that framed his face just right. Then her eyes caught on the white T-shirt stretched across his chest and the tattoos that peeked out along his arms, ink twisting down his skin like art in motion. He had a lazy, easy smile, the kind that could disarm anyone without trying.

“Hey,” he said, his voice warm, slightly raspy. “Sorry to bother you. I’m Harry—just moved in next door.”

Y/N blinked, forcing herself to recover. Of course, he’s stupidly attractive, she thought, Clara’s earlier words ringing in her ears.

“Oh,” she said quickly, gripping the edge of the door. “Hi. Welcome, I guess.”

His smile widened a bit, his dimples appearing. “Thanks. Umm, I hate to be that guy, but do you happen to have a screwdriver I could borrow? I can’t find mine in all the boxes, and my bookshelf is dangerously close to collapsing on me.”

She hesitated for a moment, debating whether or not she wanted to prolong this interaction. But then she caught the faintest trace of hope in his eyes, like he wasn’t entirely sure she’d help. That, and the hint of an accent lacing his words, made it hard to say no.

“Yeah, I think I’ve got one. Hold on a second.”

She left the door slightly ajar as she went to the kitchen drawer, rummaging around until she found the toolkit. When she came back, Harry was leaning casually against the doorframe, hands tucked into the pockets of his jeans.

“Here,” she said, holding out the screwdriver. “You can just bring it back whenever you’re done.”

He took it, his fingers brushing against hers briefly. “Thanks. Lifesaver.” He paused, tilting his head slightly as if studying her. “I didn’t catch your name.”

“Y/N,” she said, trying to keep her tone neutral.

“Well, Y/N,” he said, his smile turning just a touch more charming. “I owe you one. First favor in the books already. You’re making it hard for me to be a bad neighbor.”

She couldn’t help the laugh that slipped out, even as she tried to suppress it. “Let’s see how long that lasts.”

He grinned, taking a step back toward his door. “I guess we’ll see. Thanks again, Y/N.”

And just like that, he was gone, leaving her standing in the doorway with a slight flush creeping up her neck and an unfamiliar warmth buzzing in her chest.

A month later, the café was buzzing with quiet chatter as Y/N stirred her iced coffee, the clinking of the ice against the glass the only sound between her and Clara for the moment. Across the small table, Clara was mid-bite of her sandwich, but the look in her eyes told Y/N she was just waiting for the right moment to drop something.

“What?” Y/N finally asked, narrowing her eyes.

Clara grinned, swallowing quickly before leaning forward. “Nothing. Just…how are things with your very hot neighbor?”

Y/N rolled her eyes, though she felt the faintest blush creep up her neck. “They’re fine. He borrowed a screwdriver the other day. That’s the extent of our interactions.”

She smiles, “Well when I pulled into the lot, your new neighbor..Harry, right? He was coming back from a run.”

Y/N looked up, her fork hovering in the air. “A run?”

“Uh-huh,” Clara confirmed, grinning now. “And let me tell you, it was a sight to behold. He was wearing these black running shorts and a tank top, and he was like, glistening in all the right places. I swear it was like watching one of those slow-motion workout montages in a movie.”

Y/N groaned, dropping her fork onto her plate. “Clara.”

“What?” Clara said innocently, though the glint in her eye betrayed her. “I’m just saying, the man has no business looking like that while casually jogging. And he looked so…relaxed about it, like he didn’t even realize every living being with eyes was staring at him.”

Y/N took a sip of her iced coffee, trying to hide the heat creeping up her neck. “Okay, you’re being dramatic.”

“Oh, am I?” Clara shot back, crossing her arms. “Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed. The guy looks like he walked straight out of a Calvin Klein ad. How are you living next door to that and still functioning?”

“He’s just being neighborly.”

“Neighborly, my ass,” Clara said with a snort. “If he comes knocking again, you better invite him in for more than a tool. That’s all I’m saying.”

“Clara!” Y/N yelled.

“What?” Clara said with an exaggerated shrug. “I’m just looking out for you. If I had a neighbor like that, I wouldn’t waste a second.”

Shaking her head, Y/N stabbed at her meal, hoping to steer the conversation elsewhere. But Clara’s words lingered, teasing at the edges of her thoughts.

Because as much as she hated to admit it, there was something about Harry that made her wonder just how long she could keep pretending not to notice.

Lunch wrapped up soon with banter, but as the pair strolled back toward Y/N’s apartment, Clara looped her arm through Y/N’s, still buzzing with energy.

“So,” Clara said, bumping her shoulder. “What’s the plan for the rest of the day? Because I don’t know about you, but I’m not ready to go home yet.”

Y/N smiled, unlocking the door to the building and holding it open for Clara. “What are you saying? You want to stick around and steal all my food again?”

“Obviously,” Clara replied with a grin. “Your popcorn is better than mine, and you know it. Besides, it’s been ages since we had a proper movie night. You’ve been sooo busy.”

Y/N rolled her eyes as they made their way up the stairs. “I’ve barely been busy. You’re just dramatic.”

“Whatever you say,” Clara said breezily. “So…movies? Wine? Popcorn?”

Y/N laughed, shaking her head. “Okay, fine. But you’re in charge of picking the movies this time. If I pick, you’ll just complain the whole time and then end up watching them anyway.”

“Fair point,” Clara said, shrugging. “Alright, deal. I’ll find something good.”

They reached Y/N’s apartment, and as she unlocked the door and pushed it open, she glanced over her shoulder. “Just don’t pick anything sappy, alright? I’m not in the mood for tearjerkers.”

She opened the cabinet where she kept the popcorn. “Butter or kettle corn?”

“Both,” Clara said, plopping onto the couch and grabbing a pillow. “Oh, and maybe I’ll grab a blanket in case it gets cold. Can’t be too prepared.”

Y/N smiled. Clara’s energy was infectious, and as much as she liked having her space, she was glad for the company.

“Alright, movie marathon it is,” Y/N said, grabbing a bottle of wine from the counter.

As the familiar hum of the TV filled the room and the scent of freshly popped popcorn wafted through the air, Y/N couldn’t help but smile. Despite Clara’s endless teasing, she was glad for the distraction.

Soon Y/N and Clara were sprawled on the couch, surrounded by empty bowls of popcorn and half-finished glasses of wine. The action movie Clara had insisted on watching blared from the speakers, explosions and dramatic one-liners filling the space.

Y/N shifted under her blanket, stifling a yawn, when Clara suddenly sat up straighter, her head tilting to the side.

“Wait,” Clara said, holding up a hand to shush Y/N.

“What?” Y/N asked, frowning as she paused mid-sip of her wine.

Clara’s eyes narrowed, her expression a mix of confusion and amusement. “Do you hear that?”

Y/N froze, listening. For a second, there was nothing but the sound of the movie. But then, faintly, she heard it—a muffled rhythm, like the creak of a bedframe, punctuated by soft, indistinct noises.

Y/N’s eyes widened. “Oh shit.”

Clara’s mouth dropped open, and she slapped a hand over it to stifle a laugh. “Oh my God,” she whispered, leaning toward Y/N. “Is that what I think it is?”

“Shh!” Y/N hissed. Clara ignored her, pointing toward the wall that separated Y/N’s apartment from Harry’s. “It’s coming from his place, isn’t it? Your neighbor?”

“I don’t know,” Y/N muttered, gripping her glass a little too tightly.

But Clara wasn’t letting it go. She reached for the remote, pausing the movie mid-explosion. The silence that followed was deafening, except it wasn’t really silent at all. The noises became clearer without the distraction of the TV, and there was no mistaking it now. A low, breathy moan filtered through the thin walls, followed by another creak of the bed.

Clara gasped, her eyes wide with delight. “It is him!” she whispered dramatically.

“Do you think it’s…like, a one-time thing?” Clara whispered, barely able to keep a straight face.

“I don’t want to think about it at all,” Y/N whispered back, sinking deeper into the couch and covering her ears.

Clara grinned, clearly reveling in Y/N’s discomfort. “I mean, hey, at least you know he’s good at something. Not that you’ll ever find out, of course.”

Y/N grabbed a throw pillow and smacked Clara with it, eliciting a loud laugh. “Shut up!”

The next morning, Clara had left at about 9 AM and now Y/N had just settled on the couch with a mug of coffee when a knock at the door startled her. Setting the mug down, she padded over to open it, her heart skipping a beat when she saw who was standing there. Harry.

He was leaning against the doorframe, holding her screwdriver in one hand. His curls were disheveled, and there were faint shadows under his eyes. He looked as though he hadn’t slept at all, but somehow he still managed to pull it off in a way that was unfairly attractive.

“Morning,” he said, his voice low and scratchy, like he hadn’t used it much yet. “Thought I’d return this before I forgot.”

“Oh, thanks,” Y/N said, taking the screwdriver from him. She hesitated for a second, her eyes scanning his face. “You okay? You look… tired.”

He chuckled softly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, you could say that. Had a bit of a rough night.”

She leaned against the doorframe, curious despite herself. “Oh? Something happen?”

Harry hesitated, his lips twitching in what might’ve been embarrassment or amusement. “Let’s just say I had one too many drinks… and some questionable company.”

Y/N blinked, her stomach doing a strange little flip. “Oh.”

He gave a dry laugh, shoving his hands into his pockets. “It’s not exactly my proudest moment. Went out to blow off some steam, ended up bringing someone back. She left early this morning, and now I’m regretting pretty much everything about it.”

Y/N tried to ignore the sudden tightness in her chest. It wasn’t her business..he was an adult, and hookups happened. But still, the thought of someone else being with him, hearing those same soft, raspy tones directed at them, made her stomach twist uncomfortably.

“Well,” she said, keeping her tone light, “I guess everyone has those nights, right?”

Harry smiled faintly, leaning against the doorframe. “Guess so. Just…doesn’t feel great, y’know? She was nice enough, but it was all a bit…empty.”

Y/N tilted her head, surprised by his honesty. There was something raw about the way he said it, like he wasn’t just brushing it off as a joke or a casual story.

Harry chuckled, a low, warm sound that sent a tiny flutter through her chest. “Lesson learned,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Not exactly my proudest decision. I guess I was just…blowing off steam, y’know?”

Y/N tilted her head, curious. “Rough week?”

He hesitated, leaning against the doorframe. “Something like that. Moving’s been a bit of a whirlwind, and… I don’t know. I guess I’m still getting used to being here. New city, new place, no familiar faces. It’s a bit… lonely.”

Her expression softened. “I get that. Moving can be tough. When I first moved here, I didn’t know anyone either. It took me ages to feel like this place was actually home.”

He smiled faintly. “Yeah? What changed?”

“I don’t know. I guess I just…let myself settle in. Met a few people, got into a routine. Eventually, it started to feel right.” She paused, feeling a pang of sympathy. “You’ll get there. It just takes time.”

Harry’s eyes met hers, and for a moment, the air between them felt heavier, more intimate. “Thanks. I appreciate that.”

Y/N cleared her throat, suddenly aware of how close they were standing. “Anyway, you should probably get some coffee if you’re running on no sleep. It might help.”

He smirked, tilting his head. “You offering?”

She managed to keep her voice steady. “Sure, if you don’t mind instant coffee and a very stubborn coffee machine.”

Harry laughed softly. “Instant coffee sounds like heaven right now.”

“Well, come in then,” she said, stepping back and gesturing for him to enter. “It’s the least I can do after you brought back my screwdriver.”

The apartment was warm and filled with the lingering scent of fresh coffee. Harry glanced around, his gaze landing on the cozy setup in the living room. “Nice place,” he said.

“Thanks,” Y/N replied, heading into the kitchen. “Make yourself at home. I’ll get the coffee started.”

As she fiddled with the coffee machine, Harry leaned casually against the counter, watching her with an easy smile. “You’re sure I’m not interrupting anything? I don’t want to mess up your morning.”

“You’re not interrupting,” she said, glancing over her shoulder at him. “It’s nice to have some company, actually. Most mornings it’s just me and my to-do list.”

Harry chuckled. “Sounds thrilling.”

“Oh, it’s the height of excitement,” she deadpanned, pressing the button on the coffee machine—only for nothing to happen. She frowned, pressing it again. Still nothing.

“Uh-oh,” Harry said, stepping closer. “That doesn’t sound good.”

“Yeah definitely not.”

“Is if broken?”

“I think so,”

He smiled softly, “No worries we can go to mine.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course. Besides, I really need that coffee.”

Harry’s apartment felt like stepping into a place that was truly lived in..a home, not just a space. The walls were painted a soft, warm cream, and natural light poured through sheer curtains, casting golden streaks across the wooden floors. Potted plants thrived in every corner, adding bursts of green to the room. A woven throw rug lay beneath a large, overstuffed couch that was piled with mismatched cushions, some knitted, others patterned with earthy tones.

The coffee table was a mix of practicality and personality, a stack of books with worn spines, an old mug filled with pens, and a half-melted candle that smelled faintly of cedar and citrus.

In one corner, a record player sat atop a weathered wooden stand, surrounded by a scattering of vinyls leaning casually against the wall. Above it hung a cluster of Polaroid photos strung on twine with tiny wooden clips, each one capturing moments of laughter, travel, and faces Y/N didn’t recognize but instantly envied.

The kitchen blended seamlessly into the living space, its counters lined with signs of use: a ceramic bowl of fruit, a drying rack with a couple of dishes, and a cheerful tea towel hanging over the edge of the sink. The faint scent of fresh coffee wafted through the air as Harry stood at the counter, pouring steaming liquid into two mismatched mugs.

“You’ve got a really cozy place,” Y/N said, her voice soft as she took it all in.

Harry glanced over his shoulder with a small grin. “Thanks. Took me a while to get it feeling right. Guess I’m a sucker for a homey vibe.”

“You nailed it,” she said, her gaze drifting again.

She wandered over to a small shelf tucked beside the couch. It was cluttered in the best way…books stacked horizontally and vertically, a framed photo of what looked like Harry and his family standing on a windswept beach, and a small globe with the paint chipped in a few places. Everything about it felt warm and personal, like every item had a story.

“You can sit if you want,” Harry called out, his voice easy and light. “Promise I won’t be offended if you don’t want to stand awkwardly in the middle of the room.”

Y/N smiled. “I’m fine. Just…looking.”

She continued her slow circle, her eyes catching on a door slightly ajar at the end of the short hallway. The bedroom, she guessed, though she quickly looked away, not wanting to seem like she was prying.

But then, as her gaze traveled to the other side of the room, something caught her attention.

It was on the floor by the edge of the couch, partially hidden beneath the throw blanket that had slipped off the armrest. At first, she thought it was just a random object—a stray remote or maybe some kind of gadget, but as she stepped a little closer, her stomach flipped.

A sleek, unmistakable shape came into view. It was a vibrator.

Small and simple, but undeniably there, lying just slightly out of place amidst the cozy, domestic warmth of his apartment. Her heart skipped a beat, and she quickly looked away, her face burning. Had he seen her notice it? Did he even realize it was there?

“You okay over there?” Harry’s voice broke through her spiraling thoughts, and she turned to see him leaning against the counter, a mug in each hand, his expression amused.

“Fine!” she said quickly, her voice a little higher than usual. She walked toward him, hoping he didn’t notice her awkwardness. “Just…admiring your plant collection. They’re very..healthy.”

Harry raised an eyebrow, clearly not buying it but too polite to push. “Well, thanks. They get all the credit. I just water them and hope for the best.”

As he handed her a mug, their fingers brushed briefly, and Y/N swore she felt a spark. She took a sip, letting the warmth of the coffee ground her as she avoided glancing back toward the couch.

But no matter how hard she tried, the image of the toy was burned into her mind, along with the unwelcome but undeniable thought of Harry using it on someone.

“So,” Harry said, oblivious to her spiraling thoughts, “tell me about yourself, Y/N. What do you do for fun when you’re not rescuing broken coffee machines or lending out screwdrivers?”

Y/N forced a smile, hoping he couldn’t see the pink still dusting her cheeks. “Oh, you know. The usual. Reading, bingeing bad TV, trying to keep my plants alive…” She trailed off, her voice softening as she met his eyes. “Nothing as interesting as this place, though.”

Harry shrugged, his lips quirking up in that easy, lopsided grin. “Guess it depends on your definition of interesting. My life’s not as exciting as it might look.”

Harry followed her line of sight, his brows furrowing in confusion at first. But then his eyes landed on the object partially hidden beneath the blanket on the couch, and his expression changed instantly.

“Oh, shit,” he muttered under his breath, rubbing the back of his neck. “You, uh…you saw that, didn’t you?”

Y/N’s face flushed, and she quickly looked away, trying to pretend like she wasn’t dying of embarrassment. “Yeah, I did.”

“Damn,” Harry said, his voice soft with a mix of awkwardness and apology. He stepped around the counter, closing some of the space between them. “I didn’t realize—I mean, I should’ve—I didn’t know it was just sitting there. I’m really sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Y/N said quickly, waving a hand as if to dismiss it. She could feel the heat crawling up her neck and cheeks, and she desperately wanted to escape the situation before it got any more mortifying. “Seriously, it’s not a big deal. I wasn’t—”

“Still,” Harry interrupted, running a hand through his hair. “That’s…not exactly something you want to stumble across when you’re just trying to have a cup of coffee.”

She laughed nervously, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. “It’s fine, Harry. I promise.”

For a moment, he hesitated, his green eyes searching her face like he wasn’t sure if he should drop the subject or keep apologizing. Then he sighed, shaking his head.

“This is so embarrassing,” he muttered, a small, sheepish grin tugging at the corner of his lips. “I swear I’m not like having sex 24/7. It just…happens to be there, and I didn’t think—”

“Harry, seriously,” Y/N cut him off, her voice firmer this time. “It’s fine. You don’t have to explain yourself.”

She glanced toward the door, her heart still racing, and gave him a tight smile. “I should probably get going, though. I’ve, uh, got some stuff to do.”

Harry’s smile faded, and for a second, something flickered in his expression—disappointment, maybe? But he quickly masked it, nodding as he stepped back to give her space.

“Yeah, of course,” he said, his tone light and casual, though it didn’t quite match the look in his eyes. “Thanks for, you know, not freaking out.”

She smiled faintly, already moving toward the door. “It’s not a big deal. Really.”

He walked her to the door, his hands shoved into his pockets as they reached the threshold.

“Well,” he said, leaning against the frame, “thanks for the company. Even if I managed to completely ruin it.”

“You didn’t ruin it,” Y/N said, her smile softening. “It was…nice.”

Harry tilted his head slightly, his grin returning, though it was smaller this time. “Good to know.”

She hesitated for half a second before giving him a quick wave and slipping out into the hallway. As the door closed behind her, she let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding, her heart still pounding.

Y/N leaned back against the headboard of her bed, her room dimly lit by the soft glow of her bedside lamp. The book she’d been trying to read lay forgotten in her lap, her mind betraying her with images of Harry—standing in his kitchen, the sleeves of his T-shirt stretched over his toned arms, that damn crooked smile on his face.

Her face burned just thinking about him, but no matter how hard she tried to shake it, the memory of the vibrator on his couch kept flashing in her mind. She bit her lip, her fingers idly tracing the edge of the blanket draped across her lap.

It was reckless, she knew that. But the way he’d looked at her earlier..the way his green eyes had lingered, the way his voice had dipped when he said her name, it had left her feeling more restless than she wanted to admit.

Her hand slid lower, beneath the blanket, her breath catching as her fingers grazed her skin. She closed her eyes, letting herself sink into the fantasy. She pictured him leaning over her, his lips brushing against her ear, his voice low and teasing as he murmured her name.

“Harry,” she whispered, her voice barely audible, but the sound sent a shiver through her body.

On the other side of the wall, Harry froze. Their rooms must be back to back because he could now hear faint moans of Y/N.

He had just stepped out of his shower, towel slung around his hips, when the faint sound reached his ears. At first, he thought he was imagining things, but then it came again, soft, breathless, unmistakable. His name.

From Y/N’s apartment.

He stood there for a moment, completely still, his damp hair dripping onto his bare shoulders as he listened. The sound came again, and this time, there was no mistaking the hushed moan that followed.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered under his breath, his heart pounding.

It wasn’t intentional..he hadn’t meant to eavesdrop. But now that he’d heard it, he couldn’t bring himself to walk away. The wall separating their apartments was thin enough to carry the faintest sounds, and the realization sent heat rushing through his body.

He leaned back against the wall, torn between guilt and an intense, undeniable arousal. He should stop. He knew he should stop. But the sound of her soft, needy gasps of her whispering his name was doing things to him that he couldn’t ignore.

Inside her apartment, Y/N was oblivious, completely lost in her own world. Her breathing quickened, her movements becoming more urgent as she pushed two fingers in and out of her pussy and imagined his hands on her, his lips trailing down her neck, his voice rumbling in her ear as he told her exactly what he wanted to do to her.

“Harry,” she whimpered again, her body trembling as she edged closer to cumming.

He shouldn’t call her. He knew that. It was crossing a line, stepping into territory they hadn’t even begun to discuss. But the memory of her soft gasps, the thought of her lying in her bed, touching herself while thinking about him…

It was too much.

With a low groan, he grabbed his phone and scrolled to her name in his contacts. His thumb hovered over the call button for a second before he muttered, “fuck it,” and pressed it.

The phone rang once. Twice.

“Harry?” Y/N’s voice was soft, hesitant, and he could hear the slight tremor in it, like she wasn’t sure why he was calling.

“Hey,” he said, his voice low and rough. “Did I wake you?”

“No, I was…I’m awake,” she said quickly, though there was something breathless about her tone that told him she hadn’t quite recovered from what she’d been doing.

He let out a quiet laugh, leaning back against the couch. “Good. Because we need to talk.”

There was a pause, and he could almost feel her tension through the line. “About what?”

“About what I just heard,” he said, his voice dipping lower, more serious.

The silence that followed was deafening.

“Oh my God,” Y/N finally said, her voice barely audible. “You heard that?”

“I did,” Harry admitted, his lips curving into a small smile despite himself. “Walls are thin, love.”

She groaned, and he could hear the embarrassment in the sound. “Harry, I’m so sorry. I didn’t think—”

“Don’t apologize,” he interrupted, his tone firm but gentle. “I’m not mad. Not at all.”

“But—”

“Y/N,” he said, cutting her off again. “Listen to me. You don’t need to be embarrassed, okay? I’m not judging you.”

She didn’t respond, but he could hear her breathing on the other end of the line…quick, shallow, and uneven.

“Are you still in bed?” he asked, his voice softening.

“…yes,” she admitted after a moment.

“Good,” he said, leaning his head back against the couch. “Stay there for me.”

“Harry…”

“You were saying my name,” he continued, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. “Weren’t you?”

Her breath hitched, and he smiled, knowing he’d caught her.

“I—”

“It’s okay,” he murmured, his tone soothing but commanding. “You don’t have to lie. I liked it, Y/N. Hearing you like that…knowing you were thinking about me…”

Her breathing quickened, and he could almost picture her lying there, her cheeks flushed, her body tense with anticipation.

“Harry,” she said again, her voice a mix of nerves and something else..something needier.

“Let me help you,” he said, his hand drifting down to his cock as he spoke. “Let me show you how good it can feel. Can I do that?”

There was a long pause, and for a moment, he thought she might say no. But then she whispered, “Okay.”

“Good girl,” he said, his voice like velvet. The words sent a thrill through him as much as they did her, and he couldn’t stop the smile that spread across his face.

“Are you touching yourself right now?” he asked, his tone low and deliberate.

“No,” she admitted, her voice shaking slightly.

“Then start,” he said. “Slide your hand down, just like you were doing before.”

He waited, his own hand slipping below as he imagined her doing exactly what he’d asked.

“Touch your clit,” he murmured, his tone thick with heat. “I want to hear you as you feel the warmth of your own touch.”

Y/N hesitated for a moment, her body still trembling from the intensity of their conversation. But his voice was like a magnet, drawing her in, and before she knew it, her fingers were moving against her skin, tentative at first, then more sure of themselves as she followed his instructions.

“Good,” Harry whispered, his voice growing rougher. “Now, gently slide your fingers in and out, slowly. Feel every fucking inch.” “Good girl,” he murmured, his words sending a thrill through her. “Just like that. You’re so good for me, Y/N. I can hear how much you’re enjoying this.”

“Now add a third finger for me.”

She did as she was told, she let out a slightly louder moan this time.

“That’s it baby just like that. I know you can handle it. Otherwise you wouldn’t be so desperate for my cock would you? How are you gonna take it all for me if you can’t even take three of your own fingers? That would just be pathetic.”

She breathes out as she fingers herself deeper, just trying to forget theyre her own and imagining his ringed ones instead. “Harry..”

“That’s right love just like that,”, he started moving his hand up and down his own cock, holding back moans. “You wanna come over to my apartment tomorrow? So I can actually fuck you good?”

She barely even comprehends what he’s saying with the feeling of being stuffed with three fingers, win the reassurance that soon it would be even more filling than that with his dick. All she can muster is a soft hum of affirmation.

“Yes or no?”

“Y-yeah of course. Just text me what time.”

He sighs, adjusting himself to get more comfortable as he feels the orgasm coming. “I will. I’ll use that same vibrator on you then will you like that?”

“H-”

“And trust me it wasn’t the only thing I have at my house. I have a whole drawer you can have. Pick anything you want out of it tomorrow yeah, baby?”

“Yes Harry, fuck-oh god I’m cumming.”

“Just like that baby.”

Harry almost cums instantly as he hears her moans and then her clamming down afterwards, her breath heavy. And soon enough he does, groaning himself as the hot ropes shoot out of his cock to the towel now underneath him.

After everything settled into quiet, Harry’s voice, still thick with desire, came through once more.

“Good girl,” he murmured, and she could hear the satisfaction in his tone. “You did so well.” His words lingered in her ear, and she could feel the warmth of his praise seeping into her skin.

Y/N’s breath was still uneven as she slowly, hesitantly, lifted her fingers to her lips. “Lick them for me, love,” Harry coaxed, his voice soothing but laced with a hint of command.

Y/N hesitated for a moment, the request sending a shiver down her spine, but the sound of his voice, so commanding yet affectionate, left no room for doubt. Slowly, her fingers moved to her lips, her tongue darting out to meet them, and as she did, a soft gasp left her mouth.

“Good girl,” Harry said, the words slipping out in a near whisper. “So good for me. I can’t wait to see you tomorrow.”

The promise of tomorrow hung in the air between them, leaving her pulse racing, her thoughts swirling with the anticipation of what was to come.

“I’ll make sure we have a good time, baby,” Harry reassured her, his tone still warm and low. “You deserve it. You’re perfect.”

Y/N let out a quiet sigh of contentment, still basking in the afterglow of everything they’d just shared, and though she felt a lingering desire, she could also feel the weight of satisfaction in the quiet moment.

“I should let you go now,” Harry said, his voice now gentle, as if sensing her need to breathe. “But tomorrow, we’ll have all the time we need.”

“Goodnight, Harry,” Y/N said softly, her voice barely a whisper.

“Goodnight, love,” he replied, his voice lingering in her ear as if he was right there with her. “Sleep well.”

The call ended, leaving Y/N with a soft smile on her lips, her body still buzzing from the connection they’d shared.

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harryspurpleloofah · 6 months ago

Note

I am not sure if you have seen the performance Harry did at MSG with Kacey Musgraves ("You're Still The One" by Shania Twain), but I would love a one-shot based off of something like that. Maybe the reader is also a singer and she and Harry have been secretly dating and that song is how they announce their relationship? And, of course, I would love for it to be smutty if you feel it. I LOVED "Elevator" and I am about to go and read "A Taste of You Instead".

Hii! Thanks so much for requesting I’d love to write this for you! As a massive Shania Twain fan I loved this show too I’ve seen it and LOVED it. Thanks for reading my work let me know what you think of a taste of you instead 💜 if anyone else has any requests would love to take more

Still The One

(Picture is not mine)

Summary: Harry and Y/N have been dating for a while now but the public has never picked up on it since they e been successful at keeping it low key. One day though Harry and Y/N plan a surprise for their fans at MSG.

TW: swearing, smut, p in v sex but reader is on birth control, nipple play, tit sucking, clit stimulation

The hum of the crowd echoed from the arena beyond, a low, electric thrum that seemed to vibrate through Harry’s chest. He sat on the edge of the couch in his dressing room, pulling on his boots and adjusting his jacket, though his mind wasn’t entirely on the preparations. His thoughts kept drifting to the moment that was fast approaching—the moment everything would change.

His phone buzzed on the table in front of him. He didn’t even need to look at the screen to know who it was. A grin tugged at his lips as he reached for it, his fingers swiping to answer before it could ring again.

“Hey, you ready?”

Her voice was warm and familiar, with a hint of teasing. He could practically picture her, her smile lighting up even over the phone.

“Yeah I’m ready. But I was just making sure you are. You still in?” Harry asked, trying to mask the slight edge of nerves that had crept in.

“Of course,” she replied with that same confident ease that made his heart race every time he heard it. “I’m almost there. Five minutes tops.”

He let out a slow breath, leaning back against the couch as he ran a hand through his hair. “You sure? No backing out now.”

She laughed, the sound low and knowing. “Are you nervous, Haz?”

“Not nervous.” He paused, glancing down at his phone and the growing list of messages and show notes. “Just...figuring out how this is going to go.”

There was a soft chuckle on the other end, and then her voice softened. “You know we’ve been planning this for months, right? It’s just a song, Harry. And it’s ours.”

His heart thudded at the words. Their song. The one they’d practiced in private, their secret duet that would be unveiled for the world to see. He rubbed his thumb over the phone’s screen as if he could touch her through the distance.

“I know. I’m just...” He shook his head, a quiet laugh escaping his lips. “You’re a lot braver than I am.”

“That’s debatable,” she replied. “But don’t worry. I’ll be there in five.”

“See you then. Love you.”

“Love you more. Bye.”

With the call ending, Harry stood up and walked to the mirror, adjusting his jacket one last time. His reflection stared back at him confident and ready for the show of a lifetime. But tonight wasn’t just about the music. Tonight was about her, about them finally stepping into the spotlight, together.

He stepped away from the mirror and turned toward the door. His pulse quickened at the thought of her walking in, her face lighting up as she stepped onto the stage, and how in just a few hours, the whole world would know.

The energy in Madison Square Garden was electric. Harry’s voice still lingered in the air as the final notes of his last song faded out, the crowd still roaring from the performance. He stood center stage, bathed in the golden light of the spotlight, a grin tugging at the corners of his lips as he took a moment to collect himself. The audience's excitement was palpable, the adrenaline of the show still buzzing through him.

He wiped the back of his hand across his forehead, catching his breath, before leaning into the mic. The crowd quieted, the anticipation building in the air like static.

“Alright, alright, thank you so much,” Harry said, his voice warm and steady, yet carrying the hint of something personal, something more intimate. “It’s been an incredible tour so far, and I’ve had the pleasure of sharing the stage with some amazing people.”

He paused, glancing down at his shoes as he chose his words carefully. The crowd, sensing something was coming, leaned in a little closer. Harry smiled softly, his eyes twinkling with mischief as he looked up. “But there’s one person I’ve been lucky enough to share this whole experience with… someone who’s very special to me.”

The murmur of curiosity rippled through the crowd, but Harry wasn’t ready to give it all away just yet. His gaze flickered towards the side of the stage, where you were just about to step out, your silhouette barely visible behind the curtains.

“I’m not going to give too much away,” he continued, his tone light, teasing. “But she’s an incredible talent, someone I respect deeply. We’ve spent a lot of time together on and off the stage, and I couldn’t be more excited for you all to finally see her.”

Harry’s gaze softened, a hint of affection in his smile. He cleared his throat before continuing. “So, without further ado...please welcome someone who is incredibly important to me, and someone who I’m beyond proud to have here with me tonight. Please give it up for the very talented, Y/N!”

The lights shifted, and the crowd erupted into applause as she stepped out onto the stage. As she walked toward him, Harry couldn’t help but smile. It was more than just the crowd’s reaction that made his heart race, it was the sight of her, stepping into the light beside him. The moment they’d been waiting for, where their secret was no longer a secret, and everything they shared would be known to the world.

She took his hand as she joined him on stage, her fingers brushing against his, the familiar warmth of her touch calming the fluttering in his chest. The cheers from the audience were deafening, but Harry couldn’t hear anything over the sound of his own heartbeat thumping in his ears. He squeezed her hand, trying to steady himself.

“You ready?” he asked, his voice low, only for her to hear.

She gave him a soft smile, her eyes full of warmth and confidence. “Course I am.”

And with that, they began to sing.

The familiar chords of "You're Still the One" filled the air, and for the first time, the entire world knew what had been hidden for so long. The connection between them was undeniable. Their voices blended together effortlessly, each note coming from a place of shared history, of countless hours spent together behind the scenes, rehearsing, laughing, and just being.

As they sang the chorus, Harry’s hand found hers once more, their fingers lacing together as they shared the mic. The crowd’s applause had faded into the background, the world shrinking down to just the two of them.

Her heart raced as she looked at him, her eyes meeting his for just a moment, the weight of everything they had hidden suddenly feeling so light. This was their truth. And in that moment, everything felt perfect.

“Thanks so much for having me tonight!” She shouted in the mic over the deafening cheers of the crowd, “I’ll leave you to it.”, she said to Harry with a smile before putting the mic on the stand and waving goodbye as well as blowing kisses to the people of the arena before disappearing backstage.

"Alright, alright," he said, his voice warm and light. "I know, I know…it’s a lot to take in, huh?" His grin widened, and the audience laughed, the tension lifting just a little. "But before we go on, I just want to take a minute. I know some of you might be a little…surprised, but I need to say this."

"Y/N and I have been together for a while now," he started, his voice steady and filled with affection. "We’ve kept it private for reasons that I’m sure most of you can understand, but the thing is…she means the world to me. More than I could ever really put into words."

He let out a small breath, “I’m not here to overshare or get all mushy on you, but I do want to ask one thing, and it’s important to me..please, show her the same respect and kindness that you’ve shown me over the years.”

The audience seemed to soak in his words, the mood shifting from one of curiosity to understanding. Harry smiled, his heart swelling with the quiet, simple truth of what he was saying.

“She’s an incredible person, and I’m so lucky to have her by my side. I just want you all to know that. It’s not any of her fault that she’s dating me and I am who I am and my life comes with some amazing perks that I am so so thankful for. But I think you can all guess there’s a bit of an ugly side to it as well and I don’t want her to see any of that just for the mistake of dating me.”

The crowd had settled down slightly now and fortunately it looked like most if not all of them were understanding what Harry was saying, some nods and cheers accompanying his little speech about her. He smiled before continuing.

“I would like to again remind you all to remember that everyone is a person even celebrities, and we thank you so much for all the love that’s been given to us on your part but we also request that you please don’t make judgements about anyone before knowing hem personally. Thank you so much.”

The crowd cheered along in agreement, a few people already cooing and recording the speech he was making.

“Right enough of the sap we’ve got a show to put on people!”, he grinned widely as the crowd roared for him. He gestured to his band to start playing, “Now Madison Square Garden I’ve got a great song for you so up on your feet and sing along if you know the words it’s Kiwi!”

The thunderous applause was still echoing in Harry’s ears as he walked off the stage, his heart racing from the sheer energy of the performance. His face was flushed, his curls damp with sweat, but he couldn’t stop smiling. The show had been a success, and more importantly, the weight of their secret was finally gone.

He pulled the towel from around his neck and wiped his face as he made his way through the bustling backstage area. His mind was set on finding her, his grounding presence, his partner in everything. And then he saw her.

Y/N stood near his dressing room, her arms crossed casually, but her face lit up the moment their eyes met. She looked radiant, still riding the adrenaline of being on stage with him, and the sight of her made his chest tighten in the best way.

“There you are,” he said, his voice low and filled with warmth as he approached her. He tossed the towel onto a nearby chair and opened his arms, pulling her into a tight embrace.

She melted into him, her hands resting against his back. “You were amazing,” she murmured, her voice muffled slightly against his chest.

He pulled back just enough to look at her, his hands resting on her hips. “We were amazing,” he corrected with a grin. “Couldn’t have done it without you. Seriously, I mean that.”

She shook her head with a laugh. “You’re the one who had them in the palm of your hand all night. I was just along for the ride.”

Harry tilted his head, his gaze soft but unwavering. “You’re not just along for the ride, love. You’re the best part of it.”

Her breath caught at his words, and for a moment, the noise of the world around them seemed to fade. Harry reached up, brushing a stray strand of hair behind her ear, his thumb lingering against her cheek.

“I feel so relieved.”

Her smile softened, and she nodded. “Me too. It’s a relief, you know? Finally being able to just…be.”

He studied her face for a moment, his gaze dropping to her lips. “Feels fucking good,” he murmured. His hand slid to her hip, tugging her a little closer, and his voice dropped lower. “You know what else feels good? Watching you out there, in that dress, singing like that…”

She gave him a teasing look. “Harry, you can’t keep it in your pants for one night?”

He laughed softly, shaking his head. “Nope. Not when you look like that.” His hand wandered, brushing along the small of her back, then down to her ass. He gave it a light squeeze, his lips twitching into a smirk when she gasped. “I’ve been thinking about this since soundcheck. You know what you do to me, don’t you?”

“Harry,” she hissed “Someone could see us.”

“Let them,” he shot back, his voice low and thick. “We’re not hiding anymore, remember?”

Her breath hitched when he pressed her back against the wall, his lips ghosting over her jawline. “You’ve been driving me mad all night,” he murmured, his breath hot against her skin. “You think I’m just gonna walk away after that?”

Her fingers curled into his shirt, her resolve slipping with every word. “You’re so annoying.”

“And you love it,” he said with a grin before finally capturing her lips in a slow, filthy kiss. His hands roamed freely now, sliding over her hips, her ass, pulling her against him so she could feel exactly what she was doing to him.

She moaned softly into his mouth, her hands tangling in his sweaty curls. “We should..probably go somewhere else,” she mumbled against his lips, though her grip on him didn’t loosen.

“Mm,” he hummed, trailing kisses down her neck. “Couldn’t wait that long if I tried.”

But he pulled back to grab her hand. “C’mon. Dressing room. Now.”

Her heart raced as he led her inside, shutting the door behind them with a click. His eyes were dark when he turned back to her, and the way he walked toward her, his shirt already half-unbuttoned, sent a thrill straight through her.

“Now,” he said, his voice rough, “where were we?”

She let out a gasp when his hands slid up her sides, slipping under her dress to grip her thighs. Her fingers dug into his shoulders as he pressed her back against the wall of the dressing room.

“You looked so fucking good out there,” he continued, his lips dragging along her jaw and down to her neck. “This dress…every time you moved, I couldn’t stop thinking about what’s underneath.”

“Harry,” she breathed, her voice shaky but edged with want. Her hands moved to his chest, fingers fumbling with the buttons of his shirt. She couldn’t focus enough to undo them properly—not with the way his mouth was working on her skin, his teeth scraping lightly before soothing the sting with his tongue.

“Hmm?” he hummed, the sound vibrating against her throat. “What is it, love? Want me to stop?”

“No! Fuck-don’t,” she shot back, her words more confident than she felt

He grinned against her neck, his hands sliding higher until they were just under the curve of her ass. “Alright love.”

With a firm grip, he lifted her off the ground, her legs instinctively wrapping around his waist. The move sent her dress riding up her thighs, and the friction of his trousers against her bare skin made her gasp. He carried her over to the couch in the corner of the room, sitting down with her straddling him.

The position gave him full access, and he wasted no time letting his hands wander, slipping under the thin straps of her dress to push them off her shoulders. She helped him along, her breathing shallow.

“Fuck,” he groaned, leaning back slightly to take her in. His hands cupped her breasts, his thumbs brushing over her nipples, and the way her back arched into his touch made his cock throb against the tight confines of his underwear.

“You’re so fucking perfect,” he muttered, his eyes dark as they flicked up to meet hers, “you’re on the pill right?”

“Yeah-yeah I am.”

She reached down, her fingers deftly working to undo his belt. He helped her along, lifting his hips just enough to shove his trousers down, his boxers quickly following.

Her eyes dropped to him, her lips parting as she took him in. Harry’s breath hitched at the look on her face, and he couldn’t stop himself from leaning up to kiss her again, rougher.

“Come here,” he whispered, his hands gripping her hips as he helped her lift herself over him. The anticipation made his head spin, and when she finally sank down onto him, both of them let out matching groans.

“Fuck, Y/N,” he muttered, his hands gripping her tighter as he tried to stay still and give her a moment to adjust. But she didn’t wait, her hands braced on his shoulders as she began to move, slow and deliberate at first.

The way she rolled her hips had him biting his lip to hold back a string of curses. “You’re gonna kill me,” he said, his voice strained.

Her response was a breathy moan, her nails digging into his shoulders as she picked up the pace. The room filled with the sound of their bodies moving together, her quiet gasps and his low groans mixing in a way that made it impossible to think about anything else.

“Good girl,” he murmured, his hands guiding her movements. “Just like that. Keep going—fuck—you feel so good.”

She leaned forward, her forehead resting against his as she moved faster, the pleasure building between them. “Harry,” she whimpered, her voice barely audible over the sound of their heavy breathing.

His mouth was on her then, hot and wet as he sucked her nipple into his mouth.

“Fuck,” she gasped, her back arching as his teeth grazed her. The other breast wasn’t neglected for long, his free hand kneaded it, his thumb circling her nipple while his tongue flicked over the other.

“Always so good for me,” he murmured against her skin, his lips moving to the curve of her breast before sucking another mark into her flesh.

His fingers found her clit. He rubbed slow, deliberate circles, watching her face closely as her head fell back and her mouth parted.

“Harry,” she whimpered, her hips bucking against his hand.

“That’s it, baby,” he murmured, his lips finding her neck again.

With the combination of his finger rubbing her clit and his cock sliding in and out if her again and again, she found it easy to let go for him. She came with a guttural moan and he soon followed suit.

They stayed like that for a moment, tangled together on the couch, their heavy breaths the only sound in the small room. Harry’s forehead rested against Y/N’s, his hands lazily tracing patterns on her back as they came down from the high.

“Still with me, love?” he asked softly, a teasing lilt in his voice as he brushed a damp strand of hair from her face.

She gave a breathless laugh, her lips curling into a satisfied smile. “Barely,” she admitted, her fingers sliding over his chest, tracing the faint lines of his tattoos.

“Good,” he said with a smirk, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of her mouth. “Means I’m doing my job.”

She rolled her eyes, but her smile didn’t fade. “Fuck you.”

“Love you too.”

“It feels good, doesn’t it? Finally being able to be us.”

“Better than good,” he said, tilting her chin up so she had to meet his eyes. “Having you out there with me, hearing the crowd cheer for you, knowing we don’t have to hide anymore..it’s everything I’ve ever wanted.”

Her heart swelled at his words, and she leaned in to kiss him softly, savoring the quiet intimacy of the moment. When she pulled back, she grinned, her fingers lightly tugging at his messy curls.

Y/N groaned dramatically, burying her face further into his neck. “Don’t wanna move.”

“Neither do I,” he admitted, brushing his nose against her hair. “But I reckon we’ll both feel better getting home. You good enough to slide off me, sweetheart?”

She nodded, sitting up slowly with his hands steadying her hips. He winced slightly as they parted, the loss of her warmth immediate but softened by the sight of her fixing her dress.

He adjusted himself, pulling his boxers and trousers back into place before standing to grab his shirt. As he buttoned it up, he glanced over at her, catching the soft smile she sent his way.

He grabbed his car keys from the side table, “get dressed baby honey we’ll go home.”

She stretched but soon got up and put on her clothes. That night they got home and enjoyed each other’s company to the fullest along with Legally Blonde, two cups of hot chocolate and a beautiful atmosphere of relief and warmth.

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