harryspurpleloofah

[harryspurpleloofah]

I’m finally out of a writers block and super bored 😭 any requests?

[harryspurpleloofah]

Draped in You

a fabric shop hook up

summary: she works at one of the most high end fabric stores in London. The store gets high profile shoppers, a few influencers every now and then is common. But what's not is her boss telling her to close the shop for regular customers as Mr Styles will be personally choosing some materials for his next collection. Even less common is hooking up with him in the dressing room after he's tied her up with a strip of the silk he just bought.

TW: swearing, tit sucking, p in v sex, fingering, praise

The bell above the door chimed softly, a delicate sound that fit the mood. Afternoon sunlight poured in through the windows, catching on the displays of satin, chiffon, and silk, making the whole shop look like it shone. It was usually quiet at this time of day...maybe a stylist rushing in before a fitting, a bride-to-be searching for replacement lace nervously.

She was halfway through folding a bolt of satin after putting a closed sign up when the door opened. Her head lifted and froze.

Harry Styles was in the doorway.

Even though she knew he was set to come today, she thought she must’ve imagined him..he was so distinctly out of place, too noticeable against the tidy backdrop of fabrics and polished wood. But then he stepped inside, letting the door close behind him, and the boutique seemed to shrink around him.

He was dressed really casually loose brown trousers that hung perfectly from his hips, a plain white shirt half-tucked in, curls falling across his forehead. Sunglasses were pushed up into his hair, a string of pearls clinging to his slightly sun-kissed neck. On anyone else it might’ve looked careless but on him it was purposeful.

“Afternoon,” he spoke. His voice low, warm, and magnetic.

She swallowed, caught herself staring, and forced a professional smile. “Hi. Welcome. Looking for anything in particular?”

Harry took his time, letting his green eyes wander the length of the shop. He brushed his hand along a roll of emerald silk, then trailed his fingers across deep burgundy velvet. The rings on his fingers flashed in the light, heavy and silver against the fabric.

“Something…decadent,” he said, a small curve tugging at his mouth. “I’ve got an idea in mind. Needs to feel right. Soft. delicate.”

She stepped from behind the counter, fingertips grazing fabrics as she moved closer. “There are a few things that might work,” From the shelves she pulled a length of royal blue silk, letting it spill across her arms. The sheen caught every shift of light.

Harry closed the space between them with slow steps, the air different with him nearer. He reached out, touching the fabric, but in the process his knuckles grazed her wrist. The contact was way more intimate than it should’ve been.

“Mm,” he hummed, testing the fabric between his fingers. His eyes flicked up from the silk to her, sharp but unreadable. “Feels good. But..uh... think I’ll need to see how it looks draped properly.”

His words hung with something heavier than simple curiosity.

She hesitated for a second, then nodded, carefully draping the fabric over his him to demonstrate. Harry didn’t move away.

Instead, he cocked his head, watching her with the same half-smile, like he was testing what she was like.

The world moved along as usual, but in the boutique it was quiet, hidden in light and silk and his attention. Every movement felt magnified..the brush of fabric, the scrape of a ring against skin, the steady rhythm of his breath.

“Not bad,” Harry murmured, low enough that she almost missed it. “But maybe we should try another… just to be sure.”

She nodded as she hurried off to get another sample for him. The shop couldn't have a bad review from Harry fucking Styles. He wasn't as bratty as some of the people she had come across working here. But she needed to be sure. It would take a bit more to get her to relax.

She brought over the new piece. "Are you gonna sew it yourself sir?" She asked, her voice still testing the waters.

Harry looked up t her from the maroon piece that had caught his eye, "oh absolutely not. I'm hopeless with a sewing machine. I'm just here to bring my designer what he's working with for the next tour. Last time a lot of the outfits were made of harsher materials and it was just so hard to move."

"Ah, I see. Well no worries sir. You won't have to worry about harsh materials with our fabrics. They're all very delicate."

"Thanks. Some of my favourite pieces in the collection I had last year were made of silk. And I have a lot of friends who are models. They let me know about this place."

About a half hour passes as she helps Harry look to find what would suit him. Now the sun was fully setting as he stood at the counter. She'd realized he wasn't bratty at all. He was honestly really fun to talk to.

“Alright,” he said, gesturing toward the pile. “Think we’ve got a few winners. Charmeuse, the twill…maybe that champagne number.” His grin flickered.

She smiled softly. “If you wear it on stage, you’ll look like you were born in it. Champagne silk doesn’t lie. Especially on customers like you who look good in anything.”

His brows lifted, eyes sparking with amusement. “That sounded close to flirting.”

“Maybe it was just good sales technique,” she replied. “Convincing clients they’ll look incredible is most of the job.”

“Mm...could be. Or maybe you just think I’d look incredible regardless.”

The way he said it made her bite back a smile. She occupied herself rolling the fabric, though she could feel his gaze lingering.

Harry pushed off the counter, slipping his wallet from his pocket. “I’ll make sure to leave a proper tip. And I’ll tell my team you’re the one to call from now on. You’ve been more helpful than you know.”

“Helpful’s my job,” she said lightly, though the giddiness you get after a compliment crept up the back of her neck at the sincerity in his voice.

He smirked, sliding a card across the counter. “Still. Doesn’t hurt that you make it look good.”

She paused, then met his gaze, allowing herself a small, bold smile. “Careful, sir. That really does sound close to flirting.”

After a few more laughs, he paid for everything and got ready to leave.

Harry slid his card back into his wallet and picked up the small stack of chosen fabrics, his rings shining. “Reckon that’s me sorted, then.” His smile was so hot. “If the outfits turn out the way I hope, I’ll be back. Maybe make a habit of stopping in here before tour.”

She nodded, polite, though her chest tightened at the thought of him walking out so soon. He shifted toward the door, fingers drumming lightly on the counter. It felt like a goodbye, but not a final one.

“Wait,” she heard herself say. His brows raised she hurried on. “If you’re picking pieces for the stage, you should at least see how the colours sit against you. Light in here is tricky what looks good on the roll can turn out different under spotlights.”

Harry tilted his head, curiosity sparking. “You want to drape them on me again?”

“Just for the pieces you haven't tried. It’ll only take a minute,” she replied. “I’ve got a dressing room in the back. Better mirrors.”

For a second, he studied her. Then he smiled, slow and knowing. “Lead the way, then.”

She walked him to a secluded section of the shop. The little boutique was very quiet. Not in the sort of way where you would assume it was doing badly in business and had no customers.

More in the way that just by walking in you'd know it wasn't any old store. It wasn't supposed to be packed with customers ruffling the fabrics and fighting with the employees for discount.

But rather littered with people who understood fashion. Who knew exactly how captivating a piece of art using these materials could be.

The dressing room was quiet, the kind of space meant for wedding fittings: tall mirrors, a little platform, soft lighting that glowed across pale walls. She carried the fabrics in, heart thudding harder than she wanted to admit, and gestured toward the center.

Harry stepped up onto the low platform, hands slipping into his pockets as if he did this sort of thing all the time. Maybe he did. Still, there was something different about seeing him here, framed by mirrors and waiting for her.

She unfolded the first length of fabric, a baby blue silk, and draped it across his shoulder. It poured down the line of his chest, gleaming against the plain white of his shirt.

“See?” she said softly, stepping back to catch the reflection. “The colour holds. It doesn’t dull out, even in softer light.”

Harry glanced toward the mirror, then back at her. “Looks good.” A pause. “Or maybe it just looks better ‘cause you’re fussing over it.”

Her lips curved, but she ignored the tease, reaching for the champagne silk next. She let it slide over his other shoulder, pale and glowing against his skin. Standing close, she adjusted the drape with careful fingers, smoothing where the fabric clung to the line of his arm.

“This one brightens you,” she explained, voice low but steady. “Makes your skin look warmer. Under stage lights, it’ll read effortless.”

Harry’s eyes caught hers in the mirror. “Effortless,” he repeated. “Can’t complain about that.”

She swallowed, suddenly aware of how close she was, of how her fingertips had lingered longer than necessary on his sleeve. Still, she reached for the third fabric, determined to keep her tone professional.

Only when she stepped behind him to adjust the drape across his back did he murmur, “Y’know, if this is how it usually goes, I’ve been missing out.”

She was just about to pick up another bolt when Harry’s fingers paused on another bolt of the rich maroon silk, the one he was looking at before, the deep hue catching the light in a way that made it look almost liquid. He held it up, eyes flicking from the fabric to her.

“You know,” he said slowly, flipping the bolt over in his hands so the shimmer faced her, “this one would look really good on you.”

She blinked, caught off guard. “Me?”

“Yeah,” he said, grin wide. “You should get something made. Maybe a little top or a dress. Something to show off how it looks on you.”

She chuckled softly, stepping back. “Honestly, despite working here, I rarely buy anything. Even working in a shop like this, I don’t exactly make enough to just…pick up silk whenever I feel like it.”

Harry raised a brow, but not mockingly so. “That’s a shame. You’d look incredible in it. High-end shop or not, I think this silk was made for you.”

She laughed again, more genuinely this time, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Thanks. But I’ll leave it to the clients who can actually afford it.”

“Suit yourself,” he said, though the playful sparkle in his eyes didn’t waver. “Still, the thought counts. Maybe one day you’ll be able to get it.”

She shook her head, but there was a small smile tugging at her lips. The shop felt smaller suddenly, the air warmer.

Harry held the bolt of maroon silk up again. His gaze shifted from the fabric to her, lingering in a way that made her pulse quicken.

“or you know…” he said slowly, almost casually, “I could just…buy this for you.”

She froze, unsure what to say, and so she said nothing.

“Thought so,” he murmured, his tone playful but confident. Without warning, he stepped closer, moving behind her. The silk slipped from his hands into hers, then draped naturally over her shoulders. His presence was warm behind her, close enough that she could feel the faint brush of his chest against her back.

“Turn a little,” he said softly, guiding her gently. She obeyed, catching her reflection in the full-length mirror. The maroon silk framed her shoulders and chest perfectly, the colour deep and rich, almost glowing under the soft light.

Harry’s hands rested lightly on the fabric, steadying it, but it was the weight of him behind her, the warmth and proximity, that made her stomach flutter.

“See?” he murmured, his voice brushing against her ear. “Gorgeous. Absolutely gorgeous.”

Her breath hitched, heart racing. She swallowed, turning slowly in his arms to face him. Their eyes met in the mirror first, then in real life, and for a moment the world outside the shop didn’t exist.

And then, softly, their lips met.

Harry’s lips lingered against hers, warm and teasing, when he pulled back just slightly. His gaze caught hers, half-smile in place, fingers still brushing the silk draped across her shoulders.

“So… can I actually buy it for you?” he murmured against her lips, voice low, almost a growl.

She thought. “You—” she started, then blinked at him, heart hammering. The audacity, the charm.....and the truth was, she wanted him to.

“ok-thank you,” she whispered, letting the word slip between them, soft but firm.

He grinned, eyes sparkling with mischief, and kissed her again, just long enough to make her forget the world for a heartbeat. Then he pulled back just enough to speak clearly.

“Alright,” he said, voice steady now. “Let’s get it rung up.”

They stepped toward the front of the shop, moving carefully around bolts of silk and racks of fabric. Harry carried the maroon bolt in one hand, his other brushing hers occasionally as they passed. The register was mundane, but the air between them was charged, electric.

Transaction done, he glanced down at the silk, then back at her. “Now…I just need a pair of scissors.”

She blinked. “Scissors?” Curiosity flickered across her features.

“Don’t worry about it,” he said, voice casual but commanding. Before she could say anything different, he took her hand gently and tugged her toward the back of the shop.

The dressing room.

She followed, mind buzzing with questions—but mostly with the thrill of why he had brought her back. She could feel him close, the warmth of his body brushing against hers as they stepped inside. The maroon silk hung between them, an excuse...but neither of them needed it to explain the chemistry that had built between them in just a few minutes.

Harry held the bolt of maroon silk in his hands, letting it drape between them. His eyes met hers.

“This,” he said, voice low and deliberate, “is mine now. So…I can do as I please, yeah?”

She nodded, breath catching. The weight of his gaze pressed against her, daring her to protest..and she didn’t.

With a slow motion, he cut a strip of the silk, letting the edges flutter between his fingers. He stepped close, brushing it lightly against her wrists before tying them together with delicate care, testing the tension to make sure it was secure but gentle.

Her pulse quickened and not just from the physical sensation, but the quiet thrill of letting him take control, even slightly.

“Comfortable?” he murmured, hand grazing hers in a featherlight touch.

She nodded again, barely trusting her voice.

Harry smiled, then cut another strip from the bolt, letting it fall softly between them. This time, he placed it over her eyes, draping it as a blindfold. She blinked through the fabric, senses instantly sharpening.

“Perfect,” he whispered, stepping behind her. Every movement, measured and intimate. The silk bound her just enough to heighten the tension, the blindfold transforming every sound, every touch, into something more charged.

His hands moved over the silk blouse she wore, gliding lightly across her tits. Every touch was delicate—supposed to tease and awaken, never hurried. She shivered under his fingertips, aware of the silk’s texture, the subtle pressure, the thrill of his closeness.

“Feel that?” he murmured softly, just behind her ear.

She nodded, fingers curling slightly in the blindfolded tension.

After a moment, he drew back, letting her savour the memory of his touch, and then he pressed two fingers to her lips. She parted them instinctively, tasting the warmth of him, the faint trace of skin and reality that grounded the thrill.

The contact was brief but electrifying, teasing without rush, leaving her pulse racing and her senses taut.

“Good?” he whispered, almost playfully, and she nodded again, unable to speak around the lingering weight of sensation. "You ok with this, angel?"

"I-yes, sir."

The silk bound her wrists, the blindfold obscured her sight, and every sound, every brush of movement, every gentle tease was magnified. The tension between them hung thick in the quiet boutique, the promise of more hanging in the air with each careful action.

With the hand he wasn't using he unbuttoned the top few buttons of her blouse, also made of silk. He couldn't take the whole thing off because her wrists were tied.

He unbuttoned it all the way down and attached his lips to one of her nipples, swirling his tongue along them slowly.

She moaned-he let her take two fingers in her mouth again as he reached round to pull her closer and undo her bra clasp.

He cupped her pussy through her work trousers and gently rubbed as he kissed her.

His teeth came down gently on her lip before he licked over it and kissed her again, barely giving her a chance to react.

He unzipped her trousers and got his hand in the opening he'd made, brushing her soaking pussy with his fingers through her panties...surprisingly not made of silk.

She started to grind against his fingers, blindly holding on to his tattooed arms and letting her head fall back as her lips parted.

He pulled the trousers down fully and inserted a finger in her dripping cunt. "Fuck-angel you're dripping."

She just let out another breath filled gasp.

"Is this really all for me?"

"yeah-oh god."

"Crazy how wet you can get in just a few minutes. You were being such a sweetheart draping me in all that silk, showering me with compliments hm?"

"I-um"

"Did you like that? Helping me out, doing stuff for me?"

She stammered.

He chuckled, "You were amazing, angel. Do one last thing for me and just wrap those gorgeous legs round me."

She does as he says.

"Good girl. You on the pill?

"Fuck...yeah."

"Prepared. Alright then, love."

He enters her gently, sinking in inch by inch till he was fully buried in her. She used his shoulder to smother her moans as he started moving.

He decided to help her out by reaching up and sliding her blindfold down so it was a makeshift gag instead.

Her eyes met his with overflowing lust as she clawed at his back, pulling him closer as if she wanted him to drown in her.

He kept thrusting into her, littering her neck and collarbone with evenly spaced, open-mouthed kisses.

They came at the same time.

Harry let her come down from the high before attempting to place her back on the ground to see if she could stand. She wobbled a bit but she was ok. He grabbed some tissue from a nearby box and cleaned up her thighs.

"Love you were so good for me, you know that?"

He took off her gag and makeshift handcuffs, stuffing the wrist ties that now smelled like her perfume in his pocket.

He kissed the corner of her mouth. "Give me literally a week and I'll be back for more...silk. Would you like that?"

She nodded vigorously. He smiled and pecked her lips again.

He buttoned her shirt back again gently after putting on her bra.

When she said goodbye to him afterwards it didn’t seem like a hookup. She knew very well he could’ve just been saying he’ll come back in the moment. But for some reason she really did believe him.

She had a giddy smile on her face like a teenage girl who’d just had her first kiss. She watched him walk down the road, looking as handsome as he did when he came in, just this time, she knew he had a piece of silk in his pocket.

The one that had been tied around her perfume doused wrists when he fucked her against the wall.

She saw the maroon silk he had bought her.

She turned around and tried to get back to work.

But instead of seeing the silks and velvets as she would before today, all she could think about was how good Harry would look in that one. How his eyes would sparkle in that one. And she was content. Because she knew she’d get to show him. Next time.

[harryspurpleloofah]

Good writing makes me so happy

The one where y/n is ovulating :)

It was the third time that day. No– fourth. Maybe fifth? You’d lost count hours ago, your body humming with the strange, feverish pull that came with ovulation, like your own biology had turned into a cheeky little devil whispering in your ear: go find him again, he’ll give you what you want.

And Harry… Harry had been a very good sport about it so far.

Morning had started with him waking to you practically crawling on top of him, lips trailing over his chest, your thighs already squeezing together in that needy way that made him sigh and mutter, “S’already too early for this, baby.” But of course, he gave in. He always did.

By the time breakfast was cold on the counter, you’d already taken him on the sofa. Then the shower. Then again on the bed when you were supposed to be getting dressed. Each time, he laughed a little more in disbelief, shaking his head as if he couldn’t quite believe you were still that insatiable.

But he never said no.

Now, hours later, you caught him in the kitchen, lazily stirring honey into his tea, hair still damp from the shower you’d dragged him into earlier. He looked so content, so unsuspecting, standing barefoot in his joggers and nothing else, tattoos flexing as he lifted the spoon.

You giggled.

Harry froze, spoon halfway to the mug. “Oh, no. No, no, no. I know that laugh.” He didn’t even turn to look at you.

You padded into the kitchen on your tiptoes, clasping your hands behind your back like you were about to beg for sweets. “Haaaarr—”

“Don’t you dare,” he warned, pointing the spoon in your direction without facing you. “M’warning you now. M’a tired man. Leave me alone, woman!!”

You burst into even louder laughter, bouncing on your feet as if you hadn’t already been thoroughly ruined by him all day. “But…” you sang, drawing out the word as you came closer, “I want you.”

He finally turned, giving you that wide-eyed, mock-horrified look that always made you crumble. “Want me? Again? You’ve had me all day, bunny. You’re insatiable. You’re gonna drain me dry.”

“Maybe that’s the plan,” you teased, nose scrunching as you grinned at him.

Harry groaned, tossing his spoon into the sink and dragging a hand down his face like a man defeated. “You’re lucky you’re cute,” he muttered, eyes narrowing when you hopped closer and pressed your cheek against his bare chest.

You tilted your head up, pouty lips brushing his collarbone. “Don’t you wanna?”

His laugh was disbelieving, half-choked. “Sweetheart, I can’t walk straight thanks to you, and you’re here askin’ me if I wanna?”

You batted your lashes, pretending innocence. “But it feels sooo good.”

He bent down so his nose brushed against yours, voice dropping lower, teasing. “For you, maybe.”

“Liar,” you whispered, nipping at his lip. “You like it too. You’re obsessed with me.”

That earned you a full laugh, his head tipping back as he gripped your hips. “Obsessed, am I?”

“Mhm.” You nodded proudly. “Hopelessly.”

He leaned down until his lips were at your ear. “Careful, lovie. Keep temptin’ me like that and I’ll show you exactly who’s obsessed.”

Your giggle came out breathy this time, betraying how hot his words made you. Your body pressed shamelessly against him, hips giving a little wiggle.

Harry’s jaw clenched. He squeezed his eyes shut as if in pain. “Jesus.” Then, louder, dramatic as ever: “I told you to leave me alone, woman!!”

And with that, he scooped you up effortlessly, your squeals ringing through the kitchen as he carried you back toward the bedroom.

Harry dropped you onto the mattress with a bounce, standing over you with his arms crossed, trying his hardest to look stern despite the grin tugging at his lips.

“You’re unbelievable,” he said. “You know that?”

You sprawled out like a starfish, hair messy, cheeks pink, eyes glinting mischievously. “Unbelievably cute?”

“Unbelievably horny.”

You kicked your legs playfully, giggling when he rolled his eyes. “Can’t help it. Blame my ovaries.”

“Oh, I do. I’m writin’ them a formal complaint later,” he muttered, crawling onto the bed and caging you in with his arms.

You wrapped your arms around his neck instantly, pulling him close. “Nooo, don’t complain. You love it.”

He arched a brow. “Do I?”

“Yes.” Your answer was immediate, certain.

Harry studied your face, then shook his head with a laugh. “You’re mental.”

You kissed him before he could say more, lips soft but insistent, teeth nipping playfully at his lower lip. He groaned against your mouth, already giving in even as he mumbled, “S’not fair. Can’t ever say no to you.”

“That’s cause you’re obsessed,” you reminded him with a cheeky smile.

He growled low in his throat, rolling you onto your back and pinning your wrists above your head. “Hopelessly, yeah? Is that what you think?”

You nodded, heart racing, thighs already parting beneath him.

“Then maybe,” he whispered, lips brushing your jaw, “I oughta prove just how obsessed I am.”

Hours later (maybe days, time had no meaning anymore) you lay tangled in the sheets, your body buzzing, sore in the best way. Harry was beside you, one arm flung over his eyes, chest rising and falling with heavy breaths.

You propped yourself up on your elbow, studying him with a dreamy smile. “You okay?”

He peeked at you from under his arm. “No. M’dead. You’ve killed me.”

You giggled, poking his ribs until he squirmed. “But you liked it.”

He groaned, grabbing your hand to stop your poking. “I love it, which is the problem.”

You leaned down to kiss his cheek, soft and sweet. “Told you you’re obsessed.”

[harryspurpleloofah]

YOUR FIC 🙏🏻🙏🏻🙏🏻🙏🏻

💜💜

[harryspurpleloofah]

When in Rome.

Summary: Harry needs to at least try to find someone genuine now. He’s not 20 anymore he can’t keep up the one night stands and monthly relationships. But some people win over common sense. After a hookup he’s about to leave when he realizes he’s in Rome and says fuck it and stays. It would be one of the best weeks of his life. Hot tubs, boat rides, wine and picnics. And some great sex.

I’m back!! Short one

TW: nipple play, oral (fem receiving)

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. He’d promised himself no more flings, he needed to get serious about love. All the little hookups did was boost his stupid manwhore persona so all the jobless news articles would have something to talk about. And he would’ve listened to his head, that is if the woman in his bed right now wasn’t her. He couldn’t say no to her.

He told himself a thousand times he was done with this, with waking up tangled in sheets next to someone he knew would only make things hard, done with chasing warmth he didn’t need, done pretending it filled the gap he never admitted out loud. But with her, the rules he’d built crumbled away.

He exhaled, staring at the ceiling. Jeff would call this stupid. His mates would tease him. The press would spin it into something entirely different before breakfast. But for once…Harry didn’t care. He wanted to stop thinking about everyone else and just feel what he was feeling.

Who gave a shit if he was one of the last members of the band to have kids? Who gave a shit if his exes were married or having their own kids? He knew he didn’t.

So who was he doing all his for? Why was he doing something he didn’t even want? What he really wanted to stay in the bed. To not have to step into the cold bathroom and get ready to leave. He wanted her. Just like last night. Maybe not forever but a few more nights at the very least.

I need to eat this. I need to stop drinking. I need to be taller, I need to be fitter, I need to be hotter. It was endless. He didn’t want that. He wanted this. And now he was sure he did. Fuck the papers. If you’re drunk enough you can withstand basically anything.

So he took a moment to soak in the feeling. He turned to his new found lover.

She was stunning. Just as he remembered her from last night.

Her lashes fluttered before she finally blinked awake, turning her head on the pillow to find him watching.

Harry’s grin was immediate, unrestrained, the kind that reached his eyes and softened the sharp edges of his features. God, she’s beautiful, he thought, chest tightening.

“Morning, love,” he rasped, voice still thick with sleep. He reached out, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear, fingers lingering just a second too long. “Gotta say..last night was amazing. Think I’ll be reveling in it for days.”

She laughed, softly, and the sound went straight to his gut. He could’ve stored it, lived off it.

“When’s your flight home?” he asked, trying to sound like he was just making small talk even though he hated the thought of her leaving already.

“Not until next week,” she murmured, stretching against the sheets which already smelled a mix of their perfumes while both their backs were pressed to the mattress at different times last night, the other on top.

That was all he needed. His jaw tightened, his hand curling into the mattress beside her like he had to ground himself. Inside, he made a vow—one that sparked through every nerve ending.

Then this week’s hers. Every second of it. He would make sure she leaves Italy thinking it was the best week of her life..

He smiled again, softer this time, leaning down so his words brushed against her skin. “Good,” he whispered. “Plenty of time, then.”

The rooftop terrace overlooked Rome, golden light spilling over domes and terracotta rooftops. Steam curled around them as Harry guided her into the hot tub, the water warm, scented faintly with floating petals.

He handed her a glass of pale sparkling wine. “Try this. Fancy, I know—but it’s good.”

She raised an eyebrow, swirling the liquid. “Fancy, huh? Usually not a sign that it tastes great”

“Depends. Can you handle it?” he smiled, leaning over a little so their shoulders brushed.

She took a sip, lips puckering slightly. “Wow..that’s….interesting.”

“Survived?” he asked.

“Barely,” she replied with a grin.

He laughed softly, watching her, like he couldn’t get enough. “You’re really something, you know? Not just this…” he waved vaguely at her, at the city, at the whole moment. “I mean…you’ve got this… I don’t know…. The way you look at stuff, the way you laugh. Can’t stop noticing.”

She leaned back, letting the water lap around her, drink in hand. “You’re full of compliments aren’t you?”

“Not compliments,” he said, “Observations. Facts.” He paused, brushing a damp strand of hair from her face.

She swallowed, thinking for a bit, and took another sip of her drink. “Thanks.”

Harry reached for her hand, thumb tracing over her knuckles. “Listen I-I’m not trying to play you. I’d be happy considering genuinely dating if you want, but for now…I want to give you the week of your life. A week you’ll look back on for years to come.”

She didn’t really know how to feel. She’d met this man at a bar last night. He looked insanely handsome with his dress shirt untucked and tie loose, she’d followed him to his house hoping for a good hookup but willing to settle for a sloppy make out before they collapsed into bed just to find herself regretting all her choices the next morning.

She was confused. People didn’t do things like this. Especially not attractive people who you find serenading random ladies on Roman streets, everyone here was just looking for fun but there was something more to this guy. Who was she to judge? He wanted to worship her, she was willing.

“I liked the drink,” she smiled at him as she swam towards him, wrapping her arms around his neck.

“I’m glad.” He replied.

Her arms curled around his neck, fingers brushing through the damp strands at the nape of his hair. He leaned in slowly, letting his lips brush hers first, just a tease,before she leaned closer and kissed him back.

The kiss deepened naturally, slowly, as he let his hands explore along her sides, sliding just beneath the straps of her bikini top. His thumbs lingered at the delicate lace tied at her back, tugging lightly—not too much, just enough to make her shiver.

He pulled back just enough to look at her, a crooked smile playing on his lips. “You know,” he murmured, voice low and smooth, “I could kiss your gorgeous mouth all day. And I wouldn’t mind a bit.”

She laughed softly, tilting her head. “Is that my fault?”

“Never,” he said, dipping his head back for another teasing kiss. “You’re just…very distracting. That’s all. I blame the city, the sunset, maybe even the wine—but mostly you.”

They stayed like that for a bit, kissing each other, tongues meeting while the water swayed around them.

His hand brushed the lace tie that held the black fabric around her. He pushed her to the pool wall first and then mumbled against her mouth, “you good?”.

She nodded, breathless from the kiss but seemingly enjoying herself.

“Good,” he continued, “I can take you inside and have you on the sofa, the bed, the kitchen counter, the fucking middle of the living room floor if you want. Or we could stay out here. There’s a canopy covering the roof and the paps know to keep the drones to themselves since the last lawsuit. Up to you, baby.”

She looked at him, contemplating. The wetness between her legs sprung up when he listed the various surfaces he’d be willing to ravish her. In all honesty, the place wouldn’t matter, everything apart from him was blurring in her vision now anyway. All she cared about was him. “Here is fine.” She said.

He kissed her immediately again, just waiting for the approval before he started. He undid the top of the bikini first, looking at her tits for a minute before brushing his slightly calloused thumbs over the hard peaks, stiffening even more with the sultry air of Rome.

He wasn’t even making a show of it to be sexy. He really couldn’t stop admiring her. He snapped back and remembered where he was, leaning down to suck on one of the buds, letting out a loud groan that vibrated against her skin, making her almost see stars just from that.

Her fingers tangled in his hair as she gladly let him keep going.

He reached down and picked her up, placing her on the side of the hot tub and yanking the last piece of fabric down before diving face first into his own makeshift heaven. Within the first second, he was licking a whole line up her slit, stopping at the clit and sucking gently.

She was making nosies that were hypnotizing, just making him want to please her more and more until she went out of her way to ask him to stop. His nose brushed her clit as he kept eating her pussy. Two of his fingers entered her, stretching her for a bit before he added the third one.

As the fingers replaced his mouth for a second he looked up at her and the beautiful faces she was making. “Look at me, love.”

He made her cum over 6 times just in that afternoon. As he lay with her in bed that night he knew this was exactly what he wanted, he probably wouldn’t marry her, at least not soon. They may never even speak after this week. But that was the point. It wasn’t perfect. It was just pleasing.

[harryspurpleloofah]

Harry in Berlin. (26 April 2025)

[harryspurpleloofah]

if u remember this you're qualified for a veterans discount

[harryspurpleloofah]

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.

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]

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.”

[harryspurpleloofah]

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 💜

[harryspurpleloofah]

Reblog to let prev know their presence is wanted

[harryspurpleloofah]

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.”

[harryspurpleloofah]

Do people like vampire Harry?

[harryspurpleloofah]

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 💜

[harryspurpleloofah]

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….

[harryspurpleloofah]

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

Happy Birthday Harry Styles

31

[harryspurpleloofah]

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 ☂️