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[gurugirl]

[5] It's Good to Be King | mean king!harry

MAIN MASTERLIST | It's Good to Be King Masterlist

Series Summary: Harry, a handsome, but ill-mannered new king, bound by tradition, must select a queen, and against all expectations, he chooses Y/n, a street beggar. Now, Y/n finds herself caught between the gilded cage of royalty and the cold, harsh simplicity of her past, navigating a court shocked by her presence and a king who revels in the scandal of it all.

Note: Harry is mean/uncouth in this, though things do get better. He doesn't treat anyone around him with much respect at all. Expect to not like him much at first. Also, this is set in the 1800s England, and while not completely historically accurate, I did my best to keep it as accurate as possible.

Ch. 5 Word Count: 8,476

Ch. 5 Warning: Discrimination, bullying, slight angst and miscommunication, jealousy, hurt feelings, wedding scene -> smut will be in ch. 6, for those anticipating it

. .

The Duke remained quiet and sat in the comfortable feather-down cushioned chair near the fire as he watched Harry and Virgil go back and forth. He'd been meant to mediate the discussion, but Harry overrode that decision and told him to sit before he was removed from the castle. The king didn't need someone there to arbitrate anything. Harry would be the one with the final say, no matter what the Duke's opinion.

It started, on the surface, amicably. But quickly spiraled when Virgil told him he'd regret his choices as king (stripping the Lord Mayor of his title for one, and marrying Y/n for another). Harry'd expected to hear the Lord Mayor bemoan his decisions again. It was no surprise to him, but it was quite galling to listen once again to the same justifications.

Harry rolled his eyes and crossed his arms over his chest. "And I thought you came here to accuse me of theft. You are a sad, tiresome man, Virgil. I'm bored listening to this drivel."

Niall watched from the door, letting his eyes rove the three gentlemen slowly. He was only there to protect Harry, should he have needed to. But more than that, he found their little tiff to be quite amusing, though he'd never let on to it.

The Lord Mayor continued, dismissing Harry's comments. "And furthermore, it's clear to everyone that you do not have Thornekeep's best interest in mind. Marrying a gutter-waif? Setting her up in the castle like she's been bred for the crown? Why… It's preposterous!"

Harry bristled at gutter-waif, but decided to hold his tongue (and his anger) in front of the Duke. "Bred for the crown? What are you? A husbandry worker now? You breed animals and ready them for royalty?"

A quiet breath fell from the Duke as he turned his head away from the pair arguing. Even he was amused.

A sputtered noise of disbelief fell from the Lord Mayor as he shook his head. "Quite vulgar! Once again!"

The king laughed sardonically and stepped around the edge of the table, glancing at Niall as he ticked his fingers, tapping his nails together slowly. "Are we done here?"

"Before we make our leave, I want to discuss the young woman again. Pearl."

"And what would you like to tell me about the young woman with whom you are infatuated?"

"Your Highness! I am not infatuated!" Virgil pushed himself up from the chair and stepped near to Harry, but not close enough that the king could get his hands on him. "I'm trying to offer you a better choice of wife. Pearl will not disappoint you. She is happy to serve you as a good wife and queen should, and she learns quickly. She will see to it that you are well taken care of."

"I do not want Pearl. I've already made my choice. If you want her so badly, you can have her. Your wife seems quite meek. She wouldn't mind you taking a lover, I'm sure. Most men of your ilk do."

Virgil sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, ignoring how Harry had once again suggested that he wanted Pearl for himself. "My Lord, we can attest to and confirm that Pearl is a virgin, which is required of the queen consort. I have my doubts that Y/n is pure and virginal."

Harry laughed darkly, without a single drop of humor. "I suggest you make your leave before I become violent with you. My future wife is not up for discussion. I will not have you speak her name again."

"Then a mistress! Pearl would make a lovely mistress for you. She's fine to take on the role as long as you keep her and take care of her and her family in return."

Clenching his jaw, he shook his head and looked at the Duke. "Is he deaf? Dumb? Were you able to understand my orders just now, or am I the mad one here?"

"My Lord, I understood well your desires," the Duke said, not daring to look the Lord Mayor in the eye as he sided with the king.

"You cannot expect to be satisfied with just one woman. Surely you have plans in place to accommodate a mistress, if you haven't already," the Lord Mayor added.

Harry sighed and looked toward Niall again before stepping closer to the old man. "I think I can infer what's going on here. You and Mrs. Mable were quite close at one time, weren't you? The rumors were true then. She was your house-fed lamb, and you're a bedswerver. Your poor wife. Is Mrs. Mable threatening to let the cat out of the bag if you don't secure her virgin daughter a place in the castle?"

Virgil's mouth dropped open as his eyes nearly bulged from his head. "I… Why that's not even—"

The king moved closer, and the old man backed up to keep his distance. "That is what this is all about, isn't it? Most would wonder if Pearl was your daughter and not Mr. Mable's, but I'm convinced you're all dried up, impotent. And you, being like every other fleece-monger in Thornekeep, took Mrs. Mable as your secret, fancy piece."

"This is outrageous! I take umbrage at your accusations!"

Calmly, Harry looked at the Duke with a pleased grin. "Our old billygoat here takes umbrage. What do you say to that, Duke?"

Duke Hughes looked from the King to the Lord Mayor and stood up from his seat. "I say that it's time for us to make our leave."

"Now that is a smart answer. You could learn a lot from the Duke, Virgil."

"Just one meeting with Pearl, my Lord. She is ready to serve and would make a beautiful Queen, if not a kept mistress…"

"I said, get out! I'm quite finished with you, worm. Niall, remove him from the lounge…"

The old man raised his hands in surrender as Niall stepped forward. "We're leaving. No need for intervention. But please, consider meeting with the girl once. You will not be disappointed."

The dress was exquisite. Y/n glanced at Phoebe, who had covered her mouth with her hands after seeing all the pieces put together. She grinned at her friend and looked back at her reflection and couldn't help but focus on the young woman who Mrs. Mable had brought along for the final fitting. She had not been introduced to her, but Y/n could see that the girl was dissatisfied and annoyed.

"It's a shame this wedding and everything to do with the king's selection was rushed," the dressmaker said as she pulled at the fabric and tightened the bust, making Y/n gasp.

"Mama… When can I meet King Styles? I'm bored, and the stench in here is unbearable."

The young woman looked directly at Y/n as she mentioned the stench but Y/n was more worried about the girl's request to see the king. She'd become accustomed to insinuitive remarks and had learned to brush them off. But she did not like the idea of this pretty, young, blonde asking about her husband-to-be.

"Soon. He's been summoned. I imagine he'll be coming in any minute."

Y/n quickly grabbed her skirts and lifted them as she stepped down from the platform and looked at Phoebe. "He can't come in here! I'm in my bridal gown. It's bad luck—"

"It won't matter anyway. There's nothing customary about any of this. No one is so deceived as to think you're a virgin anyway…"

"It's so vulgar to think of it!" The pretty blonde said as she stood up and stepped in front of the mirror, smoothing out the silk panel in her dress. "The king deserves purity and beauty above all."

"Who is this? Why is she here? What business has she with the king?" Y/n pointed at the blonde as she stepped in behind her.

"There's the stench," Pearl said as she turned to look at Y/n, a smug expression drawn on her face.

Just then, the door opened and Harry barreled in with Niall and his assistant Fred trailing behind him. "Y/n… Is—what is this?"

He looked at Pearl, her mother, and the other women in the room, his brows pinched together dubiously. Y/n tried to hide the fabric of her skirts and duck behind a wooden table, but it had all been too late. He'd seen her gown.

"This is my dress fitting. You're not supposed to see me like this!" Y/n was almost in tears, and she knew it was a trivial thing to be so worked up over, but she had envisioned the surprised look on his face when she walked down the aisle toward the altar. She'd been so excited for that moment, and now that would be taken from her. He'd already seen her beautiful dress and it would no longer be a surprise.

Harry let his eyes sweep over her gown and back up to her face. "I was told that I was needed urgently. Who sent for me?"

The room fell quiet as Y/n narrowed her eyes at Mrs. Mable and then Pearl. "They did." She pointed. "I heard her tell this one that you'd been summoned but I did not call for you."

Harry could see the dismay on her face. To him, it was all the same. It didn't matter if he saw the dress now or on the day of their ceremony. But it was clear that it meant a lot more to Y/n and so for that he was livid.

"You're the dressmaker. Mrs. Mable…" Harry said and then he set his eyes on the pretty young blonde who was blushing softly and lowering her gaze in respect. "And you must be Pearl. Virgil has spoken highly of you, but unfortunately, you're wasting your time here."

Mrs. Mable rushed toward Harry and pointed at her daughter. "She is ready, Your Highness. She's been trained for this and she will do anything you ask of her. Give her a chance. You may take her into your chambers if you'd like to make a more informed choice."

Harry sniffed and looked at Y/n before he shot a look of disdain at Mrs. Mable. "Are you dull in the head? Your conniving with the Lord Mayor is pathetic. I know what you two have done and I care not if you expose him and yourself for the bedswervers you are. But do not pull my bride-to-be into this ratbag scheme."

"Is she not more lovely, not more fit to your tastes and to the kingdom's? You will require a virgin—"

"Pish! You and Virgil seem to think I hold virgins in high regard when that is the least of my concerns. Take her away. I don't wish to look at your daughter or to have her near Y/n. I can tell by just a glance that she's jealous."

Pearl let out a frustrated laugh. "I would never be jealous of her! She's akin to the filthy swine at the entry of the rookeries from where she came!"

Harry calmly stepped in front of the blonde, a rage boiling beneath the surface that he had to tame. She had to crane her neck back to look up at him. "I pity people like you," he said in a dark, spiteful tone. "Wrapped up in silk with pink lace bows and a turned-up nose. You haven't a single original thought in that tiny brain of yours and that's the most unattractive thing about you. Moreover, I can't find a solitary redeeming quality that you possess. I do not find you to be pretty. On the contrary… Your face is too wide and pasty, your wrists like a hollowed sprig, and your eyes are set too close, reminiscent of those fat bugs that like to feed off dung in the farmyards. I would never take you as my wife, much less a mistress. You are no better than anyone in this room, and you never will be."

Pearl stepped back and turned her face downward as tears threatened to burst from her eyes. Y/n felt a spike of satisfaction course up the knobs of her spine. She had been blind sided by their little trick to get the king to walk into her room for her fitting, so to hear Harry speak his mind to the young girl in that way had her holding her head a little higher, despite the devastation she felt at him seeing her dress before he was meant to.

"You bootjack! Do not speak to my daughter that way!" Mrs. Mable wrapped her arms around Pearl protectively.

Harry laughed. "Brave soul you are to mock the king and your queen-to-be. What did you expect of this disgraceful, desperate exhibit? That I'd look at her…" He gestured toward Pearl, who still had her face downcast. "And find myself smitten by her pastel garments and curled locks? She is nothing more than the dressmaker's daughter. She does not interest me in the least."

Mrs. Mable scoffed and looked at Y/n, Phoebe next to her, holding her arm. "She's a regular street beggar turned flag-hopper. Who knows how many men she's done the business with and if you want to marry into that kind of rubbish, then you dishonor your father's legacy. You are an embarrassment to the kingdom."

Letting his eyes flicker over his bride-to-be, he clenched his jaw. "If you were a man I'd have you tossed from the window down to your painful demise for speaking that way about her. Does she look rubbish to you? And who do you see standing before you as King? Not my father. He's dead, buried in the ground where he belongs."

One of the seamstresses gasped and turned away quickly in surprise at Harry's rough words for the beloved, deceased King Augustus. He shook his head and pointed toward the door. "Niall, take Mrs. Mable and her daughter down to the study and wait with them until I arrive. The rest of you are dismissed. Phoebe, you may stay with Y/n and help her out of this dress."

Niall motioned to the pair and Mrs. Mable scowled at the king on her way out of the room. Pearl kept her head down in shame with cheeks wetted by tears. Y/n watched with cautious delight, her eyes shifting from Mrs. Mable and Pearl, and then the workers as they all filed out of the Rose Room.

Then, before she even realized he'd made his way to her side, she felt his hand wrap around hers, and she turned to look up at him. "We'll have a new dress made for you. A better one. You will never have to see Mrs. Mable and her insufferable, hideous daughter ever again." He thumbed at her cheek as she nodded, a small smile working up on her lips.

"But the wedding is in two days. I don't know that that's possible. There is no better dressmaker in the kingdom than Mrs. Mable."

"I will find you a better dressmaker even if I have to bring them in from another province. Fred," Harry said, his sight still on his bride-to-be, "go find Luther and have him send for that Parisian man in Bethel. Find out who he uses and have them brought here at any cost."

The door closed behind Fred, and Phoebe stood to the side, watching as Harry and Y/n stared at one another. "You are not upset by them, are you?"

She blinked and looked toward the door. "I'm unsure how I feel. I found Pearl to be very pretty, and I imagined you would like the looks of her." She turned her gaze back to him. "Is it true you find her to be hideous?"

Harry continued running his thumb along her cheek as he lifted his other hand to the opposite side of her face. "Compared to you? She's repulsive and boring."

"But you wouldn't even take her as your mistress?"

"I won't be taking a mistress."

Y/n shook her head. "Isn't it customary for the king to have mistresses to keep him satisfied? What if I cannot make you happy?"

"Do not worry about that, little mouse. Now, I need to go and sort out the hatchet-faced sows who await me."

She giggled quietly as he stepped away from her, a cheeky grin on his face.

The moment he closed the door, Phoebe stepped in behind her and began helping her untie the corset. "She's not pretty. Not at all."

"Who? Pearl? I believe she was very pretty."

"Her attitude was ugly. I can't believe he compared her to a dung bug!"

The girls laughed together. "I wonder what he's going to say to them in his study."

"He's already love-stricken. It's so romantic," Phoebe said as she laid the corset down on the dressing table.

"Love-stricken? I don't believe so."

"Oh, but he is. I have a secret. Something I've wanted to say but didn't know if I should… But now I can't hold it in any longer…"

Y/n looked at Phoebe. "Well, what is it?"

"He's telling you the truth that he doesn't want a lover. I overheard him with his assistant and the castle steward telling them to clear the room that was meant to be kept for a mistress, but he didn't want it. He had changed his mind. Mr. Fred told him to leave it just in case, but the King insisted they give the room another use. He said it was no longer necessary, and I think it's because he can't imagine having anyone but you."

Y/n smiled and looked toward the window as her heart thumped in her chest. It was becoming quite common for her heart to patter harder every time she thought about Harry. He made her skin heat and her fingertips tingle. And she even indulged in touching herself as she imagined his eyes and his lips and his fingers… She knew her feelings about him were different than anything she'd felt before.

She had never belonged anywhere before, begging in alleyways, sleeping on the floor in her family's cramped tenement, ignored by carriages that splashed muddy water on her skirts. And now, she stood in there in castle with a little more meat on her bones and a relaxed smile on her face. The king had not only chosen her but defended her with the kind of fury only true feelings could ignite. Her feelings of being an impostor still bubbled to the surface at times, but she couldn't deny that Harry soothed the rising simmer with each passing day.

When the new dressmaker, Eugène Louise Lafitte, arrived the following evening, he had brought with him a whole caravan of helpers. Three covered carts filled with dresses, designs, supplies, and materials; two hairdressers, three seamstresses, a milliner, and two of his own assistants; as well as all of his personal belongings, as he was going to replace Mrs. Mable as the official royal dressmaker.

Y/n found the whole ordeal to be chaotic, but if she insisted on a new gown (she didn't really), then this was the only way. Eugène had set up everything in the Rose Room, and he began to measure and fit her right away. And despite the fact that there were a dozen people milling about in the room, jumping at every command Eugène spat, she found this fitting to be much better than with Mrs. Mable. For one, he never "accidentally" poked her with the pins the way Mrs. Mable had. For another, he treated her with appropriate respect. As if she were the queen already.

"Bring me the white silk Lanvin bodice…" Eugène said as he waved an arm toward his assistant, his other hand clutched at the middle of Y/n's back as he held fabric in place, and then snapped his fingers. "And check the third trunk for the custom silk skirt with cream lace. And those silk flourettes I've got in my leather satchel. I need them here."

And it went like that until Y/n could barely hold her eyes open. The buzz in the room continued for hours until Eugène was pleased with the look. Of course, he checked in with Y/n, often asking her opinion, of which she had none.

It embarrassed her, in a way, that she had no clue about what looked pretty and what did not. She didn't know fashion, but she did love the little silk flowers that were pinned along her outer skirt between bunched lace and smooth satin. The dress was lovely, Y/n could tell that much. And the finished product (which needed to be ready by midday) would be stunning. It would be paired with the original Turkish diamond necklace she'd been gifted and the finished veil that Mrs. Mable had made.

"Now, you rest," Eugène said to Y/n after Phoebe had helped her out of the delicate material and tucked a robe around her chemise. "The most important part of any outfit is the person wearing it and her disposition. Your beautiful smile will be the star of the ceremony, and you need your sleep. I will take care of the rest for you, madam. Leave the stress to me."

She paused and squinted at the odd man (he was quite odd, but she rather liked him). She wasn't sure if he'd said leave this dress to me, or leave the stress to me… Either way, she was too exhausted to think of much else than her comfortable bed as all of the workers left the room and Phoebe tucked her in and kissed her cheek.

"Goodnight, Queen." Phoebe smiled.

Y/n fluttered her eyes closed with a small, quiet laugh and whispered tiredly, "I'm not Queen yet."

"You are to me."

Despite the pre-wedding spiky nerves Harry was feeling, he was pleased and maybe even a little excited. The ceremony was only a couple of hours away and the castle was abuzz with activity all over. His suit was ready. He'd hidden in his study in hopes of a bit of peace and quiet before the doctor had forced his way in and begun talking nonsense.

"She has not yet had her physical examination, My Lord. It would require, at minimum, a quick and simple two-finger test, which is very run-of-the-mill."

Harry pinched his brows together and nodded with a sneer, his leg draped over his knee as he listened to the castle doctor. Sucking at his teeth he narrowed his gaze. "That will not be happening."

"Excuse me?" The doctor looked surprised.

"I said… That .. will not .. be happening."

"I don't understand. It's customary to check that the bride of the king is a virgin. How will we determine her virginal status if she doesn't have an examination?"

"I am sorry you're confused, but I believe I made myself clear. She will not be needing an examination. She's already told me she's a virgin." Not that it mattered to him in the first place.

"Please accept my sincerest apologies, My Lord, but how do you know she's telling you the truth? That is why we have protocol for this kind of thing. We cannot trust her to be honest about that. Of course, she'd tell you she's a virgin in order to procure her spot as Queen."

Harry sighed and placed his foot down on the floor, as if her were about to stand, his posture only slightly threatening as he leaned forward and kept his eyes hard on the doctor. "When I first picked her, I sought a woman who was not a virgin on purpose. I had hoped to enjoy some wick-dipping with her right off, but she was quite unsettled by the idea, worried about God and purity and all that. She's a virgin."

"My Lord, this is a—"

"This is a discussion that has come to an end. I won't hear of it anymore. You may take your leave. I'm busy. If you hadn't already realized it, I'm getting married today. I don't have time for your nonsense."

The doctor seemed rather vexed but he left the king's study without another word. Harry understood the usual traditions. He knew that it was expected that Y/n be a virgin. He was also not under any illusion that the people would demand proof and want to see their bedsheets the following morning to check for her blood.

He shook his head and gulped down the last of his gin. He hadn't even wanted a virgin. Mostly for selfish reasons but also because he'd never been with a virgin before. The very first time he saw her up close outside the castle gates, he found her features to be very pleasing and he made the mistake of assuming she was not a virgin. Though even after learning she was, he didn't regret his choice after getting acquainted with her.

He smiled as he stood from the chair. That's what she did to him when he thought of her. She made him smile. The kind of drowsy, sappy smile that told the world he was done for.

He wished he could see her right then. Ask her how she was doing, make sure she was being treated well… and perhaps to soothe his own nerves as well. What if she ran off? What if the foul treatment she'd been subjected to had finally gotten to her and she was on the run? Not many would stop her from running because they didn't like her anyway.

With a heavy sigh, he looked out the window to find the day overcast in soft pewters, clouds hanging low as if reluctant to bear witness to the scandal of the century. He was looking forward to making Y/n the Queen, but even more than that, he was looking forward to having her as his wife.

Y/n tried to stop the tears from escaping her eyes as she looked at herself in the mirror, the final product of her hair, the dress, her jewelry... The gown was even more luxurious than the previous. It had a fuller silk skirt with ribbons of cream lace and soft pink, green, and yellow satin flowers delicately sewn in. The bodice gave everything structure and form at the top, and the thin lace sleeves fitted over her arms like a second skin.

She grazed her fingers over the diamond necklace and inhaled a wobbly breath. "I can't believe it. I've never seen anything so beautiful."

Eugène stood behind her with a smile on his face. "I've never seen a more beautiful bride. You wear this dress well, my dear. I know it's not in keeping with tradition but I've been told that you and Harry are not a traditional royal couple. I hope it's just scandalous enough to make everyone turn heads and talk. If anyone can pull this off, it's you."

"And all in less than 12 hours! It's magnificent!" Pheobe exclaimed.

"Thank you, sir. I didn't believe it would be possible, but you've proven me wrong. I'm overwhelmed with happiness."

"Then I've done my job. Now, I believe your carriage awaits to bring you to the cathedral. I will be riding with you and your family, should anything come loose and need fastening."

.

The bells of Thornekeep Cathedral tolled with a heavy, ceremonial rhythm, each echo rolling over the gray-tipped rooftops of the town center like a reluctant proclamation. Inside, sunlight filtered through tall stained-glass windows, coloring the polished stone floor with fragments of ruby, emerald, and sapphire light. It was beautiful, solemn, and grand.

The nave was lined with nobles, foreign dignitaries, and members of the peerage, each clad in their finest silks, lace, and tailored uniforms. Rows of powdered wigs and jeweled collars bobbed stiffly above tight lips and narrowed eyes. They did not applaud. They did not smile. But they did watch carefully. Judging as if they were qualified.

A hush settled as the great organ began to play, a stately, thunderous processional. In the vestibule, Y/n stood just beyond the threshold, her hands trembling against the folds of her gown. The dress was nothing like the ones she used to imagine when watching brides pass in the street. It was better. Phoebe stood at her side, fussing with the long veil that trailed like mist behind her, whispering encouragement.

���You look divine,” Phoebe said, adjusting the fabric atop Y/n’s head. “Now, chin up. If they’re going to hate you, let them hate a queen, not a beggar.”

At the front of the cathedral, King Harry stood waiting beneath the high stone arch of the altar, dressed in a black frock coat with gold embroidery along the cuffs and collar. His ceremonial sword hung from his hip—a nod to tradition he’d allowed begrudgingly—but his cravat was loosened ever so slightly in subtle rebellion. Fred stood just behind him, rigid as he watched on.

Harry’s expression, however, was anything but restrained. He grinned brightly when he saw her appear at the end of the aisle, arm looped with her father's. Gasps rippled through the crowd, not at the gown, not at the diamond necklace, but at the girl wearing them. A commoner. A beggar, soon to be their queen.

Y/n walked slowly down the aisle, trying not to falter under the weight of stares that clung to her like sticky brambles. Her breath caught when she met Harry’s eyes, mischievous, proud, and tender. There was something grounding in his gaze, like a rope cast to a woman who was still learning to stand on marble floors.

At the altar, the Archbishop cleared his throat and began the ceremony, reading from the Book of Common Prayer, as was custom. The vows were traditional, spoken clearly before God and court:

“Will you, Harry, take this woman to be your wedded wife, to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy estate of matrimony?”

He didn’t hesitate. “I will.”

“Will you, Y/n, take this man to be your wedded husband, to live together after God’s ordinance—”

“I will,” she said, quietly but firmly, not letting her voice sound weak in front of the staring spectators.

There were no whispers of love, no passionate declarations. But when Harry slid the ornate ring, a band of twisted gold and sapphire, onto her finger, his thumb brushed hers with lingering affection. A touch that said more than their vows ever could.

When they were pronounced husband and wife, the organ swelled. Tradition usually dictated a polite kiss on the cheek before turning to face the congregation. But Harry, never one for subtlety, leaned in and kissed her full on the lips, dipping her ever so slightly, and Y/n grabbed onto his coat to steady herself. Gasps rose, half in horror, half in delight. He pulled back with a wink only she could see.

Then, side by side, they faced the court. Stone faces stared back. Y/n straightened her spine.

"Let them glare," he said under his breath as they smiled.

The cathedral bells rang again as the newly crowned Queen Y/n emerged from the grand oak doors on Harry’s arm. A scattering of cheers broke out in the crowd gathered beyond the palace gates, though they were thin and uncertain, peppered with scowls, taciturn nobles, and commoners caught between fascination and suspicion.

The royal carriage stood gleaming in the late afternoon light, a glossy black and gold coach pulled by six white horses adorned in crested harnesses. Its polished sides mirrored the anxious faces that lined the route, and the royal seal glinted on the carriage doors.

Y/n climbed in first, the veil like a cloud behind her. Harry followed, waving once to the crowd with an exaggerated flourish, as if daring them to boo. Fred closed the door after them with a look of quiet resignation, before hopping into the carriage behind with the footmen.

Inside, the carriage was warm and velvet-lined, the heavy scent of roses clinging to the seats. Y/n stared out the window as they began to move, flanked by guards on horseback.

“They hate me,” she whispered.

Harry leaned against the cushion and smiled as he pulled her hand into his. “You shouldn't worry about what a bunch of thick-headed sardines think of you. They'er blind.”

She looked up at him and smiled. "I woke up thinking that you'd come to your senses and call it off. That I'd be waiting, all dressed and ready, and you'd be locked in your chambers and have me removed."

He shook his head, soft green irises sliding over her frame and up to her face. “I’ve come to my senses, all right. That’s why you’re sitting here now.”

Y/n looked down at their joined hands—his thumb gently stroking over her knuckles—and for a moment, the heavy world outside the carriage fell away.

“I don’t know how to be a queen,” she admitted, voice barely audible over the rhythmic clatter of wheels on cobblestone.

Harry leaned closer, his voice lower, softer now. “Good.”

She huffed a quiet laugh, and he smiled at the sound, genuine and unguarded. Then he brought her hand to his lips, brushing a kiss against her fingers. “You don’t have to be perfect, Y/n. You just have to be real.”

Outside, the crowd grew louder as the palace gates loomed ahead, but inside the carriage, it was warm and still. She shifted closer to him, their shoulders touching now, the lace of her sleeve brushing the brocade of his coat.

And though the kingdom buzzed with scandal, and the court plotted behind polished smiles, in that quiet stretch of space before the next curtain rose, King Harry and Queen Y/n simply breathed, side by side.

.

The Great Hall of Thornekeep Palace was transformed for the occasion—hundreds of beeswax candles glittered from chandeliers high above, and polished mirrors doubled the light across the walls. Tapestries were drawn back to reveal the grand stonework of the castle’s bones, lending an air of both splendor and severity. Long banquet tables were laid out in rows, gleaming with silverware, crystal goblets, and floral arrangements that spilled over with wildflowers and white roses.

Music floated through the room, an ensemble of violinists and harpists near the hearth played a series of traditional waltzes, though the tempo felt more funereal than festive. No one danced yet. The air was too tight.

At the head table, Y/n sat beside Harry beneath a carved wooden canopy bearing the royal crest. Her plate was filled, but her appetite lagged behind her nerves. The food was elaborate: roast venison with plum glaze, lemon-rosemary quail, bowls of minted peas and white asparagus, and trenchers of honeyed bread and soft cheeses. There was wine from the southern vineyards and towering sugar confections shaped like swans and crowns.

Phoebe stood nearby, ever watchful, whispering quiet instructions on what to do with each fork, when to dab her mouth, when to rise. Y/n nodded gratefully.

The murmurs never stopped.

“She curtsied too shallow.”

“She speaks like she’s from the gutter.”

“Can’t even hold a wineglass properly…”

Harry heard them. Y/n could see it in the tick of his jaw. At one point, a nobleman seated halfway down the table made a thinly veiled comment about the "peculiar scent of fishmongers at court." Harry stood, clinked his glass, and with all the weight of his crown and grin declared:

“I rather like the smell of a woman who knows how to survive.”

The room went silent. Then, reluctantly—awkwardly—a few polite claps began. Phoebe stifled a laugh. Fred looked like he’d aged ten years.

As the night wore on, the air grew looser. Jugglers and acrobats entered, performing near the rear hearth to entertain the children and lower nobility. A small group of traveling actors performed a dramatic retelling of King Augustus the Wise, a none-too-subtle dig at Harry’s late father, much to Harry’s delight.

Y/n watched it all in a dreamlike haze, the velvet of her seat warm beneath her and her crown tugging gently at her temples. She caught Harry looking at her between sips of wine. He reached across the table, not for her hand, but to slide a sugared fig onto her plate.

Y/n picked it up and bit into the fig. Sweet. Sharp. Decadent.

She looked at him with gratitude, holding his gaze a beat longer than proper, feeling something settle in her chest, something warm, steady, and terrifyingly real. Before she could say anything, Fred appeared beside the table with the stiff posture of a man who’d tried to interrupt twice already and failed.

“Your Majesty,” he said quietly, bowing slightly toward Harry. “Lord Chancellor Whitely requests a word regarding the foreign trade representatives. He says it won’t wait.”

Harry groaned under his breath, tilting his head back like a man being dragged to the gallows. “Of course it won’t.” He gave Y/n’s hand a final squeeze under the table. “This is important. I will return as quickly as possible.”

As Fred guided him away, a soft voice called Y/n’s name from just behind her. She turned to find Phoebe leaning in with that same practiced smile she wore whenever navigating nobility like thorns.

“Your mother’s asking for you. I told her you’d come as soon as you’d had a moment and now that the king has been called off…”

Y/n blinked, surprised, rising carefully, nodding her thanks as Phoebe adjusted the fall of her gown behind her. The palace loomed vast and glittering, but with Harry’s warmth still clinging to her skin. Y/n lifted her chin and walked toward where her mother and sisters were standing.

Her mother let out a dramatic sob and pulled Y/n's hands into her warm ones. "You are the Queen. I hear the whispers of everyone around me, but I know you and you are worthy. Even if he already has his mistress up in his room waiting, we all know who his wife is. Whom he has chosen as his queen."

"His mistress?" Y/n looked over her shoulder at Phoebe, who shook her head in confusion, eyes flitting between the mother and daughter.

"Yes. I heard some people talking about a woman named Pearl. She's waiting for him in his chambers right now. Did you not know?"

Y/n swallowed, the back of her throat hollow as she shook her head in disbelief. Her head swirled, making her dizzy, and her sight suddenly shaded in red. Had that been the real reason why he was called off so suddenly? Had he lied to her about what he thought of Pearl? But why?

"I did not know. Thank you, mother. I need to sit."

Y/n tried not to let the dismay that clenched at her heart show on her face. Phoebe was speaking, but Y/n couldn't put together the sentences or make sense of anything. If he'd just been honest the first time around, she wouldn't have so suddenly been caught off guard. She had expected him to take a mistress but when he told her he wouldn't be…

Sitting back in her place, she looked around at the lingering gazes and then at her plate in silence. The food she hadn't finished staring back up at her in a taunt. She couldn't believe that she'd been deceived by him. But she refused to let tears stain her cheeks. She was already the butt of the joke and now she knew it to be true. She'd been so stupid.

Even though the room was full of wealth and opulence, no one danced to the music, and very few applauded the children's entertainment on the other side of the Great Hall. The longer she sat in her fancy chair, in her beautiful dress, without Harry by her side, the more she became certain that he was with Pearl. Why would he be rushed away on the evening of his wedding if not to secretly see his new lover? Would he really allow a business meeting to take precedence? None of it made sense anymore.

Y/n drank down her glass of wine and motioned to have another filled. If she was going to be ignored by her new husband while he played with his mistress behind her back, she was going to try and get on with things, and a bit of drink couldn't hurt. Phoebe had tried to offer her comforting words but it didn't help.

"He's off with her. How long has he already been gone? It's been an hour? I know better than to trust him again."

"Please, madam… I think your mother was mistaken. The king only has eyes for you—"

"My mother knew her name. Someone was speaking about it right in front of her, and she learned a secret that was not meant to be exposed. I'm happy to be armed with the truth. At least I know now."

The chatter in the room softened as heads turned toward the hall's arched entry when Harry and Fred stepped back inside. Y/n looked away. It wasn't fair that he was so handsome after having come back from wherever he'd been. His bed with Pearl likely.

When he sat back down, he reached his hand under the table to place over her skirt but she scooted herself away as much as possible and turned sharply to look anywhere but at him.

"What's wrong, mouse?"

She lifted her glass to her lips and took a long pull of her drink before setting it back down with a loud clunk onto the table. She refused to look at his face. "Do not call me mouse ever again."

Harry glanced up at Phoebe, who was standing near Y/n's chair and then back at his bride's side profile, speaking louder that time. "What is wrong? Tell me what has happened?"

Those who sat closest to the king and queen watched on curiously.

"Did you have fun while you were away? Was it necessary to take an hour to do it?"

"The Lord Chancellor had very important news, and I needed to settle an issue. I did not intend for it to take as long as it did. I apologize. Is that why you're angry?"

She felt her heart thudding in her chest as anger rose up her spine. "Liar."

"Liar? Do you think I am lying right now? Why would I lie to you about something like this? I did not… Will you turn and look at me?"

Y/n turned away further stubbornly, into an uncomfortable position in her seat as she kept her gaze set away from him. Harry groaned and a few seconds later, Y/n felt her chair being pulled back and a hand grasping at the top of her arm, pulling her up to stand. She huffed as Harry brought her with him away from the table and toward the servant's door out of earshot of the guests.

"Look at me right now, Y/n. I will not tolerate your cryptic anger. Tell me what's wrong at once."

She clenched her jaw and slowly, ever so slowly, let her eyes land on his. "I know what you did. You don't need to lie to me and make a fool of me. At least have the respect to be honest with me!"

Harry wanted to laugh, but he was beginning to get angry himself. He hadn't the slightest idea of what she was on about. "Okay. Then tell me what you think I did."

Y/n tried to maintain a stern, defiant expression and not let her emotions rise to the surface but the longer she looked at his pretty face the harder it was. "Pearl."

He raised his brows and blinked. "What about Pearl? The Mables were all disinvited from the wedding. They are not here. What of Pearl?"

"She was waiting for you in your chambers, and you just went to her. Everyone already knows that's what you did. Your secret got out, and now I know."

He couldn't help it when he a laugh fell from his mouth, and Y/n scowled. "You think that I was with Pearl? Are you serious? Have you not learned yet that believing the whispers of the overly pampered people in this room are as good as fiction?"

She blinked at him, her lips turning downward as her conviction faltered. "My mother told me."

He shook his head. "I don't care who told you. You were lied to. I was with Fred, the Lord Chancellor, and two of his men…" Harry pointed behind Y/n. "Look. There they are now. Taking their seats."

She turned to see three men sitting down, smiles on their faces. And as she let her eyes wander the room, she noticed that many people were not paying much attention to her at that moment. A few were staring, but most were drinking their wine and talking to the people around them.

She looked back up at him. "Do you have a mistress? You might as well tell me now, Harry. At least be honest with me. It's not like I'm going to end the courtship or anything. Too late for that."

"I told you I wasn't taking a mistress, and I meant it."

Y/n searched his face, eyes flitting between his irises and the anger, and the sharp ache of betrayal slowly dissolved when she found nothing but honesty in his eyes. She realized that someone had purposely said those things about Pearl in front of her mother for this very outcome. She'd fallen for the lies.

"You need to trust me. No one else here can be trusted. No one cares about you like I do, so you can't listen to them. They are lying to put a wall between us but it won't work because you're smarter than that. Look who I married?" He ran his knuckles along her jaw. "You're all I want. Why would I ever go with Opal when I have you, here, looking like this…" he said as he looked down over her gown.

"Pearl."

"Who?" He grinned playfully.

She smiled, finally, and Harry let out a breath. "There's that smile. Beautiful."

Y/n looked down, feeling embarrassed by her behavior.

Harry ran his hand down her arm and pulled her closer. "You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."

She breathed out a soft laugh. "And you're the devil."

"A handsome one?"

Nodding, she grinned wider, unable to stifle it any longer.

"Let's go back and take our seats before we politely make leave."

The great hall had grown quieter. The candlelight, though still plentiful, seemed to flicker more lazily now, wax dripping down to silver trays as though the evening itself were beginning to loosen its corset. The musicians had shifted to slower, gentler melodies, less formal, less performative. A lull had settled in.

Guests were beginning to drift away in pairs and small clusters, offering final bows and well-wishes to chamberlains and assistants rather than seeking out the king or queen directly. No one had announced the end, but the message was clear: the night was folding itself closed, and that was more than fine with Harry and Y/n.

Y/n's back ached faintly beneath the weight of her new crown as they took their seats again. Across the room, Phoebe stood watchfully near the far wall with Niall next to her, whispering, while the kitchen staff had begun clearing away the final courses with quiet precision.

Harry slid his hand against hers under the table, and quiet chatter surrounded them. She was ready to leave the Great Hall and be done with the theatrics of the day. Her emotions had been quite volatile all day, and the quiet of Harry's bedchambers was beginning to sound like a dream right then.

Fred appeared at Harry’s side and said something in his ear. Harry gave a faint nod, then turned to Y/n with that same roguish smile he’d worn at the altar, but softer, laced with something she couldn’t quite name.

He leaned toward her, close enough that only she could hear. “It's time for us to depart.”

She rose with him, and though no formal announcement followed, the shift was immediate. Some of the guests turned their eyes away in practiced discretion. A few nobles bowed as they passed. Some merely watched with disapproving eyes.

They exited through a smaller side corridor, footsteps muffled on hand-woven rugs. The hall behind them continued to hum, but it was like walking away from a fever dream, something ornate and strange, but already fading.

Once they were alone, past the eyes and expectations, Harry reached for her hand again as he led her up to his room. The corridors of the royal wing were hushed, dimly lit by flickering sconces.

Neither of them spoke. There had been enough of the show. Enough talking and forced smiles. As their footsteps echoed down the long hallway, Harry’s thumb traced idle circles against her knuckles, and Y/n held onto his hand like it was the first real thing she’d touched all day.

At the doors to his chambers, he paused only briefly before pushing them open. The room had been set up for the wedding night, warm with candlelight and perfumed faintly with cedar as the fireplaced crackled. The moment the heavy doors clicked shut behind them, something inside the silence softened. The weight of the crown, the stifling eyes of the court, the perfect stillness she’d worn like armor… it all began to peel away.

Harry turned to her and reached for her waist to pull her close, his touch gentle and secure. Her hands slid over the lapels of his coat, anchoring herself in the solid warmth of him.

"My Queen," he spoke just above a whisper as he palmed at her cheek softly.

Y/n smiled shyly. "My King."

He leaned down, slowly, unhurried, and pressed his forehead to hers as they both closed their eyes. There was no rush to move away from the quiet moment; in fact, it had been necessary, vital. The sound of their breaths, the feel of closeness between them… Y/n trailed her fingers up his arm and tilted her face toward his lips, before pressing them to his in a kiss that was sweet and filled with quiet relief.

. .

Chapter 6 is where we'll finally be getting the smut. I'll be dedicating the entire next part to their wedding night 🤭 xoxo

. .

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[mmmrat]

The bamboozlers everybody

[maudie-duan]

Summary: You're at a frat party, drunk, but how do you convince Harry to stay when he's demanding you leave...Nothing better than a Fratboy!Harry attitude.

A/N: This story was based on this ->bot<- by the lovely @misspossessiveharry who was so freaking kind and let me use the idea for a quick smut shot! If you're a bot lover, go check her out. She's amazing!!

Word count: 5.8k

Warning: Reader Insert, Pure Fucking Filth, Basically Blow Job Smut. Take it or leave it, you've been warned!

It wasn’t what Harry wanted—to be here. 

Surrounded by people.

He knew he was already over it the second he felt the music thumping so hard, he could feel it through his chest like a pestering annoyance he couldn’t shake. Everywhere he looked was chaos, people packed tight into the crowded room not giving a single fuck about personal space, and that was fine because he knew what he was getting himself into when he agreed to come. 

It wasn’t until he looked over and watched as beer splashed down someone’s arm beside him, lighting another spark of annoyance, and with the flick of his glance, he spotted someone off in the distance throwing up in a corner not even second-guessing their action, and the couch, god the fucking couch, don’t even get him started on the couch. It looked like it might collapse under the weight of the people on it, and as little as that was, it had him at his breaking point for the night.

He was not having fun, but you were.

Tour had just ended with the boys, so he decided to come visit you at Uni for the weekend. He knew he hated this kind of party, but you wanted to go. You had said something about needing a night to blow off steam, how school had been killing you lately, and you just missed being young and dumb for a night. 

And he got it. He really did. It was a feeling he knew all too well.

At first, he thought it was cute. The way you clung to him with your drink in hand, dancing like nothing else in the world mattered, your body pressed to his, getting closer as you laughed into his neck, everything funnier the more you drank. He could tell you were tipsy, teetering on the edge of drunk, but not too far gone, at least not yet.

But an hour in, things seemed to shift, because somehow he had lost you. He had only taken his eyes off you for two damn minutes to get you water, and when he turned back, you were on the fucking table, arms in the air, your hair a wild mess around your face, shirt slipping a little too far off your shoulder, and holy fuck, then you started shouting the lyrics to some old Katy Perry song like it was the national anthem, laughing like you were on top of the world, and for a second Harry froze. A jolt of panic as he watched you wobble, a cute, careless smile splayed across your face.

And there he stood, torn between playing Mr. Safety and giving you your freedom. Part of him thought you were adorable, but the rest of him was screaming that this wasn’t okay. Not because He didn’t trust you, but because the room was full of people he didn’t trust. Not a single bit, especially the guy near the edge of the table leaning in with a smirk, saying something to his friend, and when he pointed at you, Harry’s heart began to race. 

That’s when he started pushing through the crowd, ignoring the spilled drinks and elbows in his side. You didn’t even see him coming; you were so lost in your own world. It wasn’t until he was right there in front of you, hands on your waist, lifting you down to the ground, and you gasped, eyes wide, but before you could say anything, Harry hoisted you up and over his shoulder like some damn cliché, a fucking, ‘Captin save a ho’ kind of moment and all Harry heard was:

“Harry! What the hell!” But you were laughing, slapping his back, kicking your feet as Harry’s hand patted your ass to console you.

“Okay, that’s enough. We’re going home—” He demands, not even trying to hide the edge in his voice, because yes, at this point, he was getting frustrated as He started walking, one hand on your thigh to steady you, the other pushing open the front door like it might swing off the hinges, and as soon as the night air hit his face he sucked in a deep breath, still pissed at the world around him.

He needed to get the hell out of here, yet there you were fighting him as you wriggled the entire way down the steps, but fuck that, he wasn’t going to put you down until he reached the car, until he knew you wouldn’t run away, and when he did, of course you stumbled, catching yourself on the side mirror, mascara smudged, your eyes glossy.

You looked up at him then, all flushed cheeks and a breathless grin.“I was just having fun,” you whined, barely above a whisper. Harry couldn’t help but sigh, brushing a loose strand of hair off your face. 

“I know, love. I know you were.” And you sway forward, and Harry catches you again, hands on your waist like muscle memory.

And your hands grip the fabric of his shirt for stability. “Listen, I’m not letting you fall off a table and break your neck in front of a bunch of drunk strangers, alright?” To his surprise, this makes you laugh, and you lean into his chest, mumbling something he couldn’t quite catch, and when your arms wrap around his middle, that seems to be enough for him.

“C’mon,” He whispers, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “Let’s get you home.”

That’s when, of course, you chose to protest because your night wasn’t over just because his was. “Home?” you ask, pushing from his chest.

“You heard me,” He said, reaching behind to yank open the passenger door to nudge you inside, but you refused, crossing your arms, ready to put up a fight.

“Please don’t give me that look. What? Do you want to stay the night at a frat party?”

Harry watched the pull between your brow deepen, “You said you would be down to party tonight?” 

“Yes, love, and that’s exactly what we’ve done. Now all that’s left in there is a bunch of morons I wouldn’t trust to watch a hamster, and you’re all cute and drunk and too trusting—”

“Baby—” you plead.

Harry sighs, “Don’t ‘baby’ me. You’re not talking me out of this one…just get in the car.” He tells you, giving you another nudge.

“What if we just stay a little longer…we could find a quieter place…like one of those rooms upstairs? I’m not getting in that car.”

This makes him laugh, and he shakes his head. “Babe, you must be drunker than I thought…you think I’m going to go back in there?” 

“Only good things could happen…if we do…if you let it.” And you both stare back at each other, a silent indifference, and when the corner of your mouth turns up, Harry can’t help but return the smirk, his body humming with the thought of your hands all over him.

“Fine…” is all he says, staring back at the house, his eyes trained on a couple of people stumbling out, and when he looks back, your looking at him all wide-eyed, and fucking hopeful and how could he resist you, or stay mad at you when your so goddamn cute. 

He grabs hold of your hand then, “Okay, just because we’re going back in doesn’t mean I’m letting you out of my sight. Got it?” He pushes as your eyes lock onto his.

“Fine…god, you’re so bossy sometimes…” You breathe, stumbling forward as he begins to walk.

He looks back with an amused smirk, “Yeah, but you love it.” He says as you reach the porch stairs, and you both duck past a few people already making out by the front door, and Harry makes sure that you’re close behind him, not trusting anyone to touch you.

 As you weave through the crowd, Harry gives your hand a squeeze here and there, keeping you focused. When you stumble again, he pulls you around to his front, his chest to your back, and he wraps an arm around your waist. Your body now secure with his.

“Baby…wait, I’m so fucking dizzy. I need water…I think.” You tell him, stopping dead in your tracks.

Harry couldn’t tell if you were serious or playing games, but he could see the dizziness in your gaze, a drunk glaze in your eyes.

“For fucks sake.” He huffs.

That’s when Harry pulls you to the side, forcing you back against the wall, keeping a firm grip on your hips. “Stay here for a sec...”

“Make me—” You tell him. Plain and simple.

And here’s the thing. Harry was used to your stubbornness, but not like this, not when you were all pliable and flushed like this, your whole body silently begging him to touch you, and he steps closer, trapping you between his body and the wall, hands still on your hips.

“Is this not enough? I thought this was what you wanted?” He asks, his voice a teasing whisper as he leaned in even closer, and he pinches your hip, making you squirm under his touch.

“Is it ever enough?” You answer, shifting the conversation, gazing up at him, and you tuck your hands behind your back, nudging your hips forward just enough to meet his.

Harry reaches for your chin, hooking a finger to tilt your gaze toward him, “No,” He tells you, his minty breath fanning over your face, and there goes your hips again, pressed flushed to his, making his dick stir. 

He liked this side of you, how confident you are when you drink, not that you weren’t always confident, but this was different. You knew exactly what you wanted right now, even if you might regret it in the morning. “It’s never enough. I want more—” You push.

Harry smirks, feeling the warmth rising between you, and fuck you were the perfect flush, your lips parted, and fucking begging for attention, and this is what he wanted. He wanted you just like this, he thought, as his thumb traced over your bottom lip, and he could see your eyes darting to his mouth as your lips closed around the very tip of his thumb.

“You want more?” he rasps, his tone dipping lower, and he knew you wanted more by the way you pulled his hips toward you as your back slammed against the wall.

“You said you were going to take me to one of the rooms, sir…you know, upstairs.”

“Sir, huh?” He repeats, forcing his need into the grip on your hips as he pins you against the wall. “I did say that, didn’t I?”

“You did…” and you lick your lips then, sending a spark to Harry’s growing bulge, and he knows he needs to get you alone soon, before his dick is rock hard, about to be on display for the whole fucking world to see. 

To your surprise, Harry leans down and wraps his arms around your waist, then lifts you up against his chest. Without thought, you wrap your legs around him and bury your face into his neck, but he can feel your grin growing against his skin, and when you say:

“You smell so good, my love.”

You draw a laugh from him, “You’re just saying that because you’re drunk.” and your teeth sink into his neck for being a smart ass.

“I can walk you know…” You tell him, on the verge of protesting again, and you both knew all you would have to do is drop your legs, but Harry tightened his hold on you anyway.

“I’m not fighting with you. I don’t want you to trip and fall and bust your ass, then I would just have to carry you anyway, enough with the bitching and moaning, miss.”

When you laugh into Harry’s skin it sends a shiver down his spine, “If you don’t want me to bitch, you better make me moan.” And fuck, you were naughty tonight, everything about you sending Harry to the edge and he hadn’t even gotten you fully alone.

Once Harry reaches the top of the landing, he slaps your ass hard, making you laugh out as the fire settles into your ass cheek, “Put me down, I’m a big girl, I can walk on my own.” you say, starting to kick your feet. 

But of course, he doesn’t listen as he pushes through one of the open doors, and kicks it shut behind you guys, locking it as the world spins around you, “Okay, big girl…Your wish is granted…” and he gently sits you down on the bed.

That’s when you reached up and tried to pull him down, but he stayed standing, looking down at you with a smirk. “Baby—don’t make me beg.” You pout up at him.

“Hmm…and what if I do?” he asks, a hand resting against your face as his thumb strokes your cheek, and he has to fight the urge to just kiss that stupid, drunk look off your face, because it’s so fucking tragic, and sexy—and fuck.

“I don’t beg,” you tell him, reaching for his belt, “I take what I want…”

The urgency in your movements catches him off guard, and he lets out a soft huff, “Do you now?” he pokes, as your hands fumble with his belt, and he wraps a hand around your wrist, holding you still.

“Careful,” he warns, his voice dipping. “Are you sure you know what you’re doing, love?”

Your laugh fills the space then, “Baby, I could do this with my eyes closed. Trust me.” and with your free hand, you continue on with your task, and that was to obviously get him naked.

There was something about your driving force tonight that was driving him insane. He didn’t know if it was your confidence or the alcohol pumping through your system, but his grip tightened on your wrist as you carried on, his knuckles white from the restraint, because he needed it. Every ounce of it, and somehow that was the only thing keeping him calm.

“Trust…yes, trust—” he muttered, clenching his jaw, his eyes roaming over you as you tried to undress him, taking in the sloppy state you were in, your breathless expression, the way you bit your fucking lip as you looked up at him through thick lashes, and he knew he was fucked—that he had to fuck you in this bed, tonight, or he would explode.

“You’re mine.” You tell him, pulling the belt from his pants, every movement messy.

And he watches you struggle with the button on his jeans, “I’m yours…” He echoes almost in a daze, his voice huskier than before, and he drops your wrist, placing a hand on your shoulder, his grip tightening when he feels the button of his jeans give way, and he gasps out in relief, his dick already pressing hard in his jeans. 

“You in a hurry, love?” He asks when you tug at the him of his shirt

Harry couldn’t help but laugh at your uncoordinated movements, “I’m not in a hurry, babe, I just fucking need this.” you say, the words flying out in frustration as you gaze up at him.

The hunger in your eyes was undeniable. Harry let you tug on his shirt, feeling the fabric pull up over his stomach as you tried to signal for him to remove it. 

“I know you do, baby,” he whispers,  his hand moving to the nape of your neck. “You need me that bad, huh? You need this?” He asks, smoothing a hand over his lengthy bulge, now perfectly outlined through his skinny jeans. 

And your eyes never leave his stroking hand. “Off…take it all off!” 

“Little Miss Bossy,” He mutters, but his lips curl with an amused smirk, and he lets go of you just long enough to pull his shirt off over his head, feeling your breath fan over his skin as you sat there and watched his every move, your hands already on his bare chest as soon as possible, tracing over his skin like you were trying to reacquaint yourself.

That’s when you lean forward and lick across the tattoo inked at the center of his chest, “So good…” and then your eyes flick to his as you stand to take his nipple into your mouth. “Baby, this body is fucking gold.”

Harry’s hands grip the back of your head as you move, his eyes closing for a moment, and his fingers tangle in your hair. The fucking sensation of your hot wet mouth on his skin was driving him crazy, and he inhales sharply, his chest rising and falling with the effort under your touch.

“Baby…you’re killing me,” he breathes, his voice heavy with want.

“You like this?” you ask, moving to his other nipple, and then your

moving back down, slowly lowering to your knees before him, and Harry follows your gaze to his open jeans, his bulge hard as a fucking rock. 

Harry’s breath grows shorter, shallower as he looks down at you. “I love this so much, love…I love all of you.”

“Good, now can I have a taste?” You ask, licking those beautiful lips of yours, already getting them ready for him.

Harry hooks a finger under your chin, lifting it up so he can see your face. His thumb finds your bottom lip, tugging gently as the words leave his mouth.“Go ahead, baby. Have a taste...”

Your hands reach for his jeans, then, working them past his hips, bringing his boxers with them. “Oh fuck baby…” and Harry listens to the gasp leave your mouth as his huge dick springs before you.

When he peeks back down, he watches as your eyes widen and your mouth falls open, and the sounds you keep making has his cock twitching against his thigh.

“Something wrong, love?” He teases, feigning innocence, but he can’t help teasing you like this, and his hand finds your hair again, his fingers twisting, and he gives you a gentle tug.

“See something you like, or is it too much?”

You swallow hard, resting your hands on the tops of your thighs, as Harry observes you intently, your eyes taking in every inch of him, your lips parting, looking so, so tempting.

“You’re a sight on your knees like this, you know that?” he says, his voice growing ragged, and he uses his hand in your hair to tug your head back, making you look up at him, but all you do is smile, a fucking wicked smile playing at your lips and he knows, what’s coming next, and he’s already trying to hold his composure, because he couldn’t dare give himself away. 

Yet that smile gets him every time, even in your current state, “Yeah, You know you look good like this, don’t you love?” and this time when he runs his thumb over your bottom lip, he presses harder, watching the flesh indent around the pressure as he pulls it down. “So, fucking pretty.”

“I want it!” you force.

“You want this?” Harry asks, taking his hard dick into his hand, “Is this what you want, baby?” and his voice is soft, playful as he runs a hand down his shaft. Your eyes are locked on his cock as it drops, heavy against his leg, and he leans down and captures your mouth with his, his hand still holding your hair, and when he pulls back he let’s his lips graze over your ear. “I’m gonna need a little more than that, love.”

“Harry—I need that fucking dick in my mouth,” you tell him, straightening your spine, and Harry can hear the impatience in your tone, but it’s only feeding his want. 

“That’s my good girl,” He coos, his smile matching yours as it spreads across his face, and his hand tightens in your hair, keeping you in place.

“How do you want it, Love?” he asks in a low voice. “You want me to play nice?”

And his words make you laugh, “I want you to choke me with it. I want to gag on this thick cock until I can’t breathe.” You tell him, wrapping your hand around his girth. “Fuck, baby! It’s so big, I fucking love this dick. Don’t play nice…I’ll know if you’re holding back.”

The look on your face sends a rush of excitement down his spine, and his breath leaves his lips with a huff of anticipation. That’s when his hand in your hair tightens and he draws your face even closer to his cock, guiding you to exactly where you needed to be, your mouth so close to the head of his dick he could feel the warmth of your breath graze over the tip, “Let me see you try and put that pretty little mouth around this cock. You know it won’t even fit. Tell me how you’re going to make it happen?”

God, the smirk that rises on your face sends a fucking ping straight to his dick, and it pulses in your hand, “I’m gunna have to be a good girl, right? Get it all wet before, is that what you taught me, baby?”

 “Yeah, love…just like that...” He breathes, eyeing you lick a teasing stripe up the underside of his shaft, your hot, wet tongue working slowly and tediously, as your hand begins to stroke what your mouth can’t reach.

“Damn, you look so fucking hot like this, baby. Your eyes all blown…shit…looking at me like that.” and he leans down to brush a loose strand of hair out of your face so he can watch the tip of his dick disappear into your mouth. 

“Mmmm…” you hum, sending the vibration down his dick, and he halts his hips, trying not to buck them forward, and you rip his dick from your mouth, “What did I tell you…no holding back.”

And Harry feels the pressure on the base of his dick, tighten, and he bites down on his lower lip, trying to suppress his smile, “Baby—” he says, his voice, grovel under your touch.

“If you do it again, sir, we stop…got it?” you demand, and Harry nods, lacing his hands behind his head, an act of surrender, and the second his dick is on your mouth again, you both moan, a low noise filling his ears as he closed his eyes. 

Your tongue hits first, broad and flat, landing with a vulgar smack that sounded around the room, a sound that broke any illusion of grace you had left. Your mouth began to work then, trying to scrape him across every tastebud you had, before you took the head of his cock back into the cavern of your mouth. 

There was nothing coy about the way you sucked: no gentle preamble, no teasing flicks. Because you were over the games and Harry could tell by the way you forced your mouth down over the tip, your jaw already straining, lips peeled back, and fuck, Harry had to look, gazing down as your shiny lips wrapped around him, spit pooling at the corners, readying to drip down your chin in clear, ropy strands.

This time, when Harry bucked his hips, his hand flew down to your scalp as if by reflex, fingers diving in and clamping tight, using your head as a handle, aggressive in the way that you wanted to play, because he wasn’t holding back this time, and the hum across his dick said you liked the violence of it—the surprise in his touch, the reflexive need to claim you.

But Harry knew you were in control; he could feel it with every stroke as your gaze held his, even as you took on more of him, the girth forcing your jaw to hinge open further. 

He knew there was no comfort, but you kept working, taking the challenge like the fucking pro you were, needy for him, and then your tongue was dragging along the ridge beneath his crown, a rough stuttering line grating across your palate, your fucking eyes watering—And all Harry could do was stand there, anticipating every move, knowing that the back of your throat burned with the promise of everything he wanted in that moment.

Then you pulled back until just the tip was resting on your tongue, and dammit, Harry lost control then, and his hips strained up, desperate to fill the sudden emptiness, greedy for the warmth of your mouth, and you let him hover there as your lips tightened around his thick circumference, letting him go with a loud pop. 

You smacked his dick against your lips then, and as it bounced his eyes were trained on your mouth, spit rising to the surface, gathering into a puddle, pooling into a bubble at the center of your mouth, and you smacked your lips harder this time, the sound loud and wet. It was pure fucking filth, your hand stroking down his dick as you dragged the spit across your lips, a fresh sheen of gloss, ready to wet his dick even more—your mouth a sloppy paradise beckoning to bring Harry home.

And, holy fuck, the second you flicked the tip of your tongue up his slit, he let out a fucking groan so loud it filled the room, guttural and messy, like he’d been holding in every noise for months and they were just now escaping, and maybe he had, because it had been a while since you were on your knees for him.

The more noise Harry made, the more it fed your determination: the little choked gasps, the involuntary twitches, the way Harry’s thighs tensed and quivered, and when you plunged back down, nose smashing into his soft pubic hair, you drew in a hard breath, your throat relaxing as you took him completely in your mouth. 

Out of nowhere, Harry made a sound so unhinged it almost startled him. And as you laughed, your throat constricted around him, then you let out a loud gurgle, your mouth flooding with spit, and as you choked, Harry felt the overflow of saliva spill down his balls, coating them in a dense shine that caught the light—and he wasn’t sure how much more he could take of this.

God, you were a machine. No, not a machine—you were a fucking creature, a single-purpose transforming you into some kind of animal, evolved for just this, for him. Your jaw working in a slick, insistent rhythm, cheeks hollowing with each pull, your mouth becoming the dark bottom of a well, and when you hummed around his shaft, making him twitch in response, the sound vibrated up your tongue and through his cock straight into his spine.

Your hands were barely even moving, and it was still fucking bliss. One hand cradled his balls, rolling them with obscene tenderness, the other stroking what your mouth couldn’t reach, wrist twisting on every upstroke. When you squeezed at the base, Harry’s cock pulsed, his perfect dick a shade deeper, and you pressed your thumb to the spot where his shaft met his body, making him cry out again, sharper this time, voice cracking in midair. 

His grip on your head tightened, desperate and vicious, but you didn’t let up. If anything, you doubled down, slurping harder, faster, using every ounce of suction your cheeks could muster. “Jesus—fuck, fuck—” Harry hissed, his voice strangled and high. “You’re—Christ, you’re going to—”

And with no hesitation, you cut him off by taking him deep again, this time swallowing around his head, flattening your tongue, and relaxing your throat. Harry could feel the head of his cock punch past your gag reflex, and you let your eyes roll up, watering freely now, tears streaking down your beautiful face in perfect, ravaged lines. 

That’s when you gagged, coughing but forced him down again, harder, until your lips met his base and his cock was buried, deeper than you had ever taken him before, deeper than he thought possible, and christ, Harry’s whole body shuddered, contracting like he might come just from the feeling of you suffocating on his dick.

You drew back with a gasp, choking on air, and you spat a glob of spit down his shaft as pre-come cascaded down your chin, then you dove back in with a desperate hunger that Harry knew was about to send him over the edge. Every time you pulled off, a spit-slicked string connected your mouth to his cock, stretching and breaking with a little pop. But this wasn’t the time to worry about the mess, and you continued with the achingly good twist of your wrists, your hand moving up and down his shaft, jerking him as you licked and sucked the head, working him into a state of perfect, desperate need.

And he wanted to stay like this forever. 

Harry tried to hold back, and he knew you could see it, his jaw clenched, the cords in his neck straining like steel cables. But he was failing, minute by minute, losing the fight as you pushed him closer to the thoughtlessness taking over him. He knew you wanted him to lose—that this was your plan all along, that you wanted to scrape every last drop of dignity from him, and he wanted you to. Wanted you to fucking destroy him with every savage move you made.

When you tongued the slit of his dick again, he watched your mouth slip over his head, and this time your tongue flicked at the slit, fast and mean, sending a craze through Harry’s entire body, and Harry bucked his hips hard, forcing his dick to the back of your throat, unable to control the movement as his hips pistoned up and down as he face-fucked you with a pathetic, desperate rhythm that had you gasping for air, but he didn’t stop, he wanted to watch you choke until you signaled to stop—your eyes streaming tear after tear, mascara leaving streaks of glory, and your eyes never left his.

He could tell you loved it as you opened wider, jaw probably aching, and you let him fuck your mouth however he wanted, your arms looping around his thighs to hold him in place, trying to keep him from retreating. Harry was moaning now, not even trying to stay quiet, making soft, broken noises that had you matching his moans between every gag or cough. Harry felt you reach with your free hand and you grabbed his ass, fingers digging in, using his body as leverage to pull him deeper into your face.

His cock was huge and he knew it, the sight of the struggle almost too much, but you told him you wanted all of it, and he wanted to give it to you. He wanted you wrecked, wanted to bruise your throat with every pump, wanted you to taste him in your nose, your sinuses, behind your fucking eyes for hours after if it was even possible. 

He wanted to choke you with his length, let his tip ram into the soft tissue at the back of your throat with a brutality he knew that only you could take as you fought the urge to gag—fuck your throat until it overwhelmed you—and that’s what he did as he felt you splutter all over his drenched cock, snot running from your nose, a fucking beautiful disaster but you obviously didn’t care. He was going to ruin you, destroy you, leave you dripping and breathless and marked as his.

Because you were his, and he was yours.

Harry saw you reach down then, busting the button open on your jeans, and you slipped two fingers under the waistband, and he knew you were soaked, you had to be, his mind imagining the slippery arousal coating your fingers, knowing this had nothing to do with Harry and everything to do with the act of giving yourself over to this—this monster of a master piece—the two of you slipping into a beautiful oblivian as you fingered yourself, sucking his dick in and out of your mouth, rolling your own pleasure into the sound amplified around Harry’s cock.

He was close now, and you must have known it, a smirk tilting the corner of your mouth as his peak climbed, his balls tightened, his hand shaking in your hair as an animalistic panic rose in his voice. “Fuck, I’m—please—”

And you pulled off just long enough to drag your tongue along the length of his shaft, from base to tip, swirling it around the head before sinking him back inside. It was torture, the pleasure that filled him, a fucking master of your craft. You wanted him to watch, that teasing gaze, staring up at him with a devastating beauty that stole his breath. Because this was love, pure and simple, you destroying yourself, he thought, watching your mouth stretch obscenely wide, keeping that same eye contact as you tongued the underside of his cock, never breaking the connection.

That was all he needed, your eyes, your mouth, and he came with a shout like you were stealing his soul, his whole body rigid, hips bucking forward as his cock pulsed inside your mouth. The first spurt was volcanic, thick and hot, hitting the back of your throat so hard you nearly choked again. But like the good girl you were, you swallowed it down, greedily, milking him, all lips and tongue, not letting a single drop escape you. The next spurt was almost as strong, and the next, until he was spent, cock twitching weakly against your relaxing jaw. 

When he felt his dick slide from your mouth, the tip of his cock dragged against your teeth, and he watched you wipe your chin with the back of your hand, dutifully showcasing your mouth—wide, tongue out, glistening with come and spit—then you closed your lips with a smirk and swallowed it all in one noisy gulp.

Harry was stunned, his mind unearthed, somewhere above still floating on the cloud you left him on, and all he could do was stare at you, your eyes glassy, cheeks fucking flushed, your chest rising and falling, heavy as you caught your breath. 

He felt like a man who had just seen god, somehow crawling back on his knees less holy than before as he smiled down at you, and he reached down, stroking your hair, worshipful, yet to your surprise, almost shy now, and this made you smile as you wiped the last trail of spit from your cheek, and he pulled you to your feet, lips swollen and red, throat raw but satisfied.

“Holy fuck,” Harry whispered. “You’re amazing…”

You laughed, soft, but wolfish. “I said I wanted that dick.” You tell him, your voice ragged.

Harry could only nod, still panting, cock lying heavy and half-hard against his thigh.

You wrapped your arms around him, and he slid his fingers into your jeans, wanting to feel your wetness, kissing along your jaw that he knew had to be sore, and when he found what he wanted, he pushed his fingers inside you just enough to wet the tips. 

Harry pulled his fingers out then, slipping them into his mouth, groaning in your ear, “If you let me take you home, I’ll fuck this sweet pussy all night, make you come as hard as you made me” he said, pushing his rasp into the flesh of your neck.

You pulled away with a grin, “You better fuck me so hard I can’t fucking speak…”

“Baby, I’ll fuck you so hard, you won’t be able to walk tomorrow, and that’s a promise”

“Then you better take me home…now”

Taglist: @sassamanda77 @harryyloverrr @panini @unfuckwitablenarry @triski73 @haleyannaw @dipmeinhoneyh @lizsogolden @spinninc @iloveharrystyles04 @mema10 @avas-queen-black @starshollowgazette @practistyles

Other One-Shots<-

[cloudyluun]

Rewrite The Stars | Patreon Series

famous actor!harry x famous actor!reader

New series out now on Patreon!

Series Summary: Y/N and Harry had a one-night stand that went horribly wrong. Now, they’re starring in a romance film together—and the studio wants them to fake date for PR. Between past regrets, scripted passion, and way too much unresolved tension, pretending gets a little too real.

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆

Rewrite The Stars Chapter 1 | Teaser

Summary: Y/N and Harry had a one-night stand that ended in disaster, and now they’re forced to play soulmates on screen—and fake date off-screen. Between scripted kisses, red carpets, and unresolved sexual tension, things spiral fast. Cue the angst, smut, and emotionally constipated idiots.

A/N: Look, I love a good “ex-lovers forced to fake date” trope almost as much as I love making Harry suffer with feelings. This is messy, steamy, and full of bad decisions. Enjoy watching these two idiots pretend they’re not in love. 😌

Word Count: 3,7k

Warnings:

Angst (like, so much angst)

Fake dating shenanigans

Smut (desperate, messy, emotionally charged)

Swearing & sexual tension at unhealthy levels

Poor communication (they are DUMB)

Flashbacks to bad decisions

Mentions of alcohol (drunken one-night stand)

Tabloid gossip & PR manipulation

Harry looking stupidly good in a suit (a warning in itself)

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆

The studio conference room is buzzing with quiet conversations, papers rustling, and the occasional scrape of a chair against polished hardwood. Y/N steps inside, adjusting the strap of her bag on her shoulder, her pulse thrumming in her ears. It’s nothing. Just another table read. Just another job.

And then she sees him.

Harry Styles is leaning against the far end of the long mahogany table, deep in conversation with Sofia Laurent. His profile is sharp in the golden morning light streaming through the windows, his expression unreadable. He laughs at something the director says, and it sends an uncomfortable heat crawling up Y/N’s spine.

She hasn’t seen him in over a year.

Not since that night.

The memories slam into her without warning—a wrap party, too much champagne, his voice low and teasing in her ear, his hands finding her waist as they stumbled into the dimly lit corridor of their hotel. The way he kissed her like he had been waiting for it forever. The way she let him. Tangled sheets, desperate touches, whispered names in the dark. And then the morning after—him sitting on the edge of the bed, already pulling his jeans back on, raking a hand through his messy curls. The silence that stretched between them like a chasm.

His cold, distant text hours later: Last night was a mistake. Let’s not make this a thing.

Y/N had responded with nothing but a thumbs-up emoji. Then she’d blocked his number.

Now, he’s right in front of her, and there’s no blocking, no ignoring. Just a long, inevitable collision waiting to happen.

She forces a smile, smoothing a hand down her sweater as she moves toward an empty seat. Someone’s already put name placards at each spot. Of course, hers is directly across from Harry’s.

He looks up as she slides into her chair. Their eyes meet.

Something flickers in his gaze—recognition, hesitation, something she refuses to name. Then it’s gone, and he nods in greeting, cool and professional.

“Morning,” he says. Like he’s speaking to a colleague. Like he doesn’t remember every inch of her skin under his hands.

Y/N swallows down the bitterness rising in her throat. “Morning.”

Sofia claps her hands together, drawing everyone’s attention. “Alright, let’s get started! We’re diving in with the final scene today. I want to establish the emotional stakes right away.”

A production assistant starts handing out script copies. Y/N flips hers open, her fingers tightening around the pages when she sees what’s in front of her.

EMILIA: “It’s always been you.”

LUCA: “Then stay.”

(They kiss. It’s desperate, raw. Years of longing unravel in one final embrace.)

Y/N can feel Harry’s gaze on her before she even looks up. When she does, his expression is unreadable, but his grip on the script is just a little too tight.

Everyone is watching. Waiting.

Sofia leans forward, smiling. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

Y/N exhales slowly. They have no choice but to dive in.

Except she already has—just not here, not in this room full of watchful eyes and murmured instructions. No, she’s already drowning, slipping under waves of memory that pull her back to that night.

It had been inevitable. The tension had always been there, simmering beneath the surface, threatening to boil over. It lingered in stolen glances on set, in the way their banter teetered on the edge of something sharper, something that made her pulse race.

But that night? That was when it finally snapped.

The wrap party had been a blur of flashing lights, clinking glasses, and too much champagne. She remembered the way Harry had watched her from across the room, half-smirking, half-serious. She’d pretended not to notice, even as her body betrayed her, drawn to him like some gravitational pull she couldn’t fight.

They’d danced. Not together, not at first. But close enough that when she turned, she could feel the heat of him at her back, the ghost of his breath against her skin.

And then the teasing started.

"Didn’t know you could move like that," he'd murmured against the shell of her ear, his voice thick with something that made her toes curl in her heels.

She’d turned to face him, lifting a brow. "There’s a lot you don’t know about me."

His eyes had darkened at that. "Yeah?"

One more drink. One more shared smirk. One more second of letting the tension coil tighter and tighter until neither of them could stand it anymore.

They’d barely made it out of the venue before it exploded.

A rushed exit. A slammed hotel door.

Clothes peeling away between frantic, breathless kisses.

Harry had been different that night—possessive, desperate. His hands mapped her body like he was trying to memorize her, his lips tracing a path down her throat, her collarbone, lower. She could still hear his voice, raspy and wrecked against her skin.

"You feel so good."

"Been wanting this for so long."

She’d been lost in him, in the way he made her feel like the center of the universe. But when morning came, the warmth was gone.

She’d woken up to sunlight filtering through the hotel curtains, stretching out across sheets that were already cooling beside her.

Harry had been sitting at the edge of the bed, half-dressed, running a hand through his curls.

Something in his posture had been different. Stiff. Guarded.

She’d wanted to reach for him, to trace her fingers along his spine, to whisper something to break the silence.

But before she could, he’d spoken.

"Let’s not make this a thing."

Just like that. No hesitation. No second thought.

Then he’d stood, buttoned his jeans, and walked out the door.

Y/N had stared at the empty space he left behind, the ghost of his touch still burning on her skin. She’d told herself it didn’t matter. That it had just been a mistake. That it hadn’t meant anything.

But then, three days later, she’d seen the pictures.

Harry Styles, arm draped around some model, grinning for the cameras like that night had never happened.

And now, sitting across from him, script clutched in her hands, she wonders how the hell she’s supposed to pretend it still doesn’t hurt.

She doesn’t have long to dwell on it.

The read-through begins, and like clockwork, she and Harry slip into their roles. The dialogue flows, their voices weaving together effortlessly, but it’s the way they look at each other—the tension thick, electric—that makes everyone in the room take notice.

It shouldn’t surprise her. Their chemistry has always been undeniable, even before that night. It was why they were cast together in the first place. But now, it feels different. More loaded.

He delivers his lines with the same careful precision he always does, but his eyes linger too long, his throat bobs when she leans too close. Her pulse quickens, betraying her.

When they reach the final scene—the kiss—Sofia watches them closely, tapping her fingers against the armrest of her chair.

Afterward, as the room empties out for a break, a couple of the studio execs murmur to each other before motioning for her and Harry to stay behind.

The door closes.

“We need to talk,” Sofia says, exchanging a look with the executives.

Y/N folds her arms, already bracing herself. “That’s never a good start.”

One of the execs, a tall man in an expensive suit, steps forward. “We need buzz around this movie. There’s already speculation about you two. We want to lean into that.”

Y/N frowns. “What kind of speculation?”

Another exec, a woman in a sleek black dress, smirks. “Oh, come on. The tension? The history? The way you two look at each other?” She tilts her head. “People think there’s something real there. We think it’s good for the film.”

Y/N scoffs, crossing her arms. “You want us to fake date?”

“Not just fake date,” the man clarifies. “We want the world to believe you’re soulmates. We want red carpets, Instagram posts, candid moments. Full package.”

Y/N shakes her head, the absurdity of it all making her chest tighten. “Are you serious? That’s—”

“Fine.”

Her head snaps toward Harry so fast she almost gives herself whiplash.

He’s standing next to her, hands in his pockets, looking entirely unaffected.

Y/N blinks. “What?”

“We’ll do it.” His voice is steady, final.

She stares at him, stunned. He won’t even look at her.

The deal is made before she can even process it. The studio execs beam, Sofia claps her hands together, and within minutes, their PR team is already setting the plan in motion. By the time Y/N steps outside the meeting room, her phone is buzzing with an email outlining their first official appearance as Hollywood’s hottest new couple.

The Venice Film Festival.

Three weeks later, she stands in front of her hotel mirror, smoothing down the silky fabric of her dress. The deep emerald slip hugs her in all the right places, skimming over curves in a way that should make her feel powerful. Instead, her stomach is twisted in knots.

A sharp knock at the door makes her jump.

She exhales, then opens it.

Harry stands in the hallway, devastatingly gorgeous in a perfectly tailored black suit. The crisp lines, the slightly unbuttoned shirt, the rings that catch in the soft light—unfair.

His gaze drags over her, slow and unreadable.

"You ready?" His voice is even, detached.

"Do I have a choice?" she mutters, grabbing her clutch.

He doesn’t answer.

The red carpet is a blur of flashing lights, shouted questions, and the ever-present hum of cameras capturing their every move.

Y/N can feel the heat of Harry’s hand on the small of her back as they step into the crowd, can hear the low murmurs of speculation from reporters lined along the velvet ropes. She lifts her chin, slipping into the role expected of her—one half of Hollywood’s most talked-about on-screen lovers, now supposedly together in real life.

Harry leans in slightly, voice just above a whisper.

“Smile, love.”

The way he says it—low, smooth, his accent curling around the words—sends a shiver down her spine.

She forces one. It looks real.

The cameras love them, and the world is eating it up. The flicker of their fingers brushing together, the easy way he laughs at something she pretends to say, the way his eyes drop to her lips like they’re the only thing in the world worth looking at.

And then, the questions start.

“Harry, Y/N—are you two dating?”

“You look very comfortable together.”

Y/N opens her mouth to respond, but Harry beats her to it.

“We’re lucky to have found each other.”

The words roll off his tongue smoothly, like he actually believes them.

Y/N swallows, gripping the fabric of her dress.

By the time they’re back in the car, her phone is already blowing up. Twitter is in flames. The headlines are everywhere.

HARRY STYLES AND Y/N CONFIRM THEIR ROMANCE AT VENICE FILM FESTIVAL.

LUCA AND EMILIA, BUT MAKE IT REAL.

The internet explodes.

Her notifications are a wildfire, consuming every corner of her phone. Harry Styles and Y/N CONFIRM their romance at Venice Film Festival. The chemistry is REAL. Fan edits, speculation, analysis of every touch, every glance.

But none of it is real.

And she’s seething.

That night, Y/N storms through the dimly lit hallway of Harry’s hotel floor, fists clenched at her sides. She barely takes a breath before pounding on his door.

It swings open almost immediately.

Harry stands there, now stripped of his red-carpet polish. His suit jacket is gone, shirt half-unbuttoned, tattoos peeking through the undone fabric. His curls are messier than they were hours ago, like he’s been running his hands through them.

“Y/N,” he sighs, already sounding exasperated.

She pushes past him, stepping into the spacious hotel suite. “What the hell was that?”

He exhales heavily, shutting the door behind them. “You’ll have to be more specific.”

She spins to face him. “Oh, I don’t know, maybe the way you told the entire world we’re together without even discussing it with me first?”

He shrugs, undoing the cuffs of his sleeves. “You want this movie to succeed, don’t you?”

Her jaw clenches. “Don’t act like you’re doing this for the movie.” She takes a step closer, glaring up at him. “You’re doing it because it’s convenient.”

Harry’s expression shifts, something flickering behind his eyes—something dark. He mirrors her step forward, closing the distance between them.

“And you’re not?”

Her breath catches. The air between them thickens, electric. His voice is lower now, rougher, and his gaze flickers between her eyes and her mouth.

“You don’t get to act like you care now,” she forces out, but it sounds weaker than she intends.

Silence.

His jaw clenches, and something snaps in his expression.

“You think I don’t care?” His voice is quiet, but there’s something dangerous in it, something raw.

She doesn’t get the chance to answer.

Because suddenly, Harry is on her.

His hands find her face, his mouth crashes into hers, and whatever fight they were having burns away instantly.

It’s all heat, all frustration—pent-up anger bleeding into something dangerous, something intoxicating.

Harry backs her up until she collides with the dresser, the sharp edge pressing into her lower back. His hands find her waist, fingers digging into the silk of her dress, and he lifts her onto the cool wood like she weighs nothing.

Y/N gasps, gripping his shoulders, nails biting into his skin through his half-unbuttoned shirt.

“This doesn’t mean anything,” she whispers, even though she knows it’s a lie.

Harry exhales a sharp laugh, lips ghosting along her jaw before he nips at the sensitive spot beneath her ear.

“Say that again.” His voice is low, thick, dripping with something smug—something dangerous.

She doesn’t. Because she can’t.

Not when his hands are already pushing her dress up, fabric bunching around her thighs. Not when his fingers are dragging up the bare skin of her legs, slow, purposeful, teasing.

Not when she’s already aching for more.

Her breath stutters as he palms the inside of her thigh, pushing her legs wider. He’s watching her now, eyes dark, hungry, waiting for her to stop him.

She doesn’t.

His fingers skim higher, over the lace of her underwear, pressing against the damp heat there.

“You hate me, don’t you?” His voice is softer now, coaxing, but there’s something else layered beneath it. Something vulnerable.

She should say yes.

But then he pushes the lace aside and slides a single finger through her slick folds, teasing at her entrance before dipping inside, and her only answer is a sharp gasp.

His lips curl against her skin.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, dragging his mouth along the line of her throat. “That’s what I thought.”

She clenches her jaw, refusing to give him anything more, but it’s impossible when he moves his fingers so deliberately, so expertly. Curling, twisting, stroking that spot inside her that makes her thighs shake.

Her head falls back against the mirror behind her, exposing more of her throat to his lips, his teeth. He takes advantage of it, sucking a mark into her skin as he works her open, one finger turning into two, his thumb circling her clit just enough to make her hips jerk.

“Harry,” she chokes out.

He hums, pleased.

She doesn’t realize she’s gripping his arm until his muscles flex beneath her fingertips, his bicep taut as he keeps her steady. Her entire body is trembling, the coil inside her winding so tight, pleasure mounting too quickly for her to stop it.

And he knows.

He knows exactly how close she is, how desperate she’s becoming, how much she needs him.

But he doesn’t let her have it yet.

Instead, he withdraws his fingers, slow and deliberate, watching her reaction like it’s his favorite thing in the world.

Her lips part in protest, but before she can speak, he’s undoing his belt with one hand, shoving his trousers down just enough.

His cock is already hard, flushed and leaking, and when he grips himself, stroking slowly, she nearly whimpers at the sight.

“This what you want?” His voice is rough, teasing, but there’s something else behind it—something just as desperate.

She doesn’t answer.

She just grabs his face and kisses him again, hard, as she hooks her legs around his waist, dragging him in.

Harry groans into her mouth, lining himself up, and then—

He thrusts forward, filling her in one slow, deep stroke.

Y/N gasps, fingers digging into his back.

He stills for a moment, forehead pressing to hers, breathing heavy.

“Fuck,” he rasps. “So tight.”

She swallows hard, barely able to think, barely able to breathe as he pulls back and thrusts in again.

And then again.

And again.

His grip on her tightens, hands curling around her thighs as he sets a steady rhythm, each roll of his hips perfectly precise, perfectly deep, like he needs her to feel every inch of him.

Like he wants to ruin her.

The dresser rocks beneath them, the sound of skin against skin filling the hotel room.

It’s fast, desperate, filthy.

And yet—

It’s also slow. Lingering. Drawn out in a way that makes her chest ache.

He leans in, pressing his lips to her shoulder, her throat, breathing her in like he doesn’t want to let go.

And that’s what makes this different.

Not the way he fucks her, but the way he holds her.

The way his hand comes up to cup her jaw, tilting her head to look at him as he thrusts deep one final time, the coil inside her snapping, her body shattering apart around him.

The way he follows right after, groaning her name into her skin as he spills inside her.

Afterward, the room is quiet, save for the heavy rise and fall of their breaths.

Y/N lies tangled in the sheets, barely able to process what just happened.

She waits for him to leave.

Because that’s what he did last time.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he stays.

Y/N barely sleeps.

She should, after the way he wrecked her—after the way they wrecked each other. But her body won’t let her, still thrumming with adrenaline, oversensitive and restless even as exhaustion weighs her limbs down.

It’s not just the sex.

It’s the way he’s still here.

The way his arm is heavy around her waist, pinning her to the mattress. The way his slow, steady breaths tickle the back of her neck. The way his fingers, even in sleep, twitch against her skin, as if his body refuses to stop touching her.

The last time this happened, he left before she could even open her eyes.

Now, she’s the one who wants to leave first.

Déjà vu.

She stares at the ceiling for what feels like hours before she finally moves. Careful, slow, untangling herself from his grasp as gently as she can. His arm is heavy, muscles flexing even in sleep, and she has to hold her breath as she lifts it off of her.

When she’s finally free, she exhales. Swings her legs over the edge of the bed.

Her dress is still on the floor, a heap of silk puddled near the dresser. She moves toward it, keeping her steps light, mindful of every shift in the sheets behind her.

Almost there.

She bends down, fingers just brushing the fabric—

“Don’t.”

Her heart stops.

His voice is hoarse, thick with sleep, a quiet rasp in the dimly lit hotel room.

She freezes.

Her fingers curl into the fabric of her dress, but she doesn’t lift it. Doesn’t turn around.

“Y/N,” he says again, softer this time.

Her breath comes shallow, uneven. She forces herself to stand upright, forces herself to steady her voice.

“I should go.”

Silence.

Then, the rustling of sheets, the mattress shifting.

She doesn’t have to look to know he’s sitting up.

“I don’t want you to.”

It’s barely above a whisper. Like he doesn’t want to say it out loud, doesn’t want to give it power.

Her throat tightens.

Last time, he didn’t say anything at all.

Last time, she woke up to cold sheets and an unreadable text hours later.

Now, he’s asking her to stay.

And she doesn’t know what the fuck to do with that.

Slowly, she turns around.

Harry is watching her, propped up on one arm, hair a mess of curls, lips still swollen from kissing her. His eyes—greener in the dim light—stay locked onto hers, searching.

She grips the dress tighter.

“I don’t know what this is,” she admits, voice barely above a whisper.

Harry exhales, running a hand over his face. “Me neither.”

She nods once, lips pressing together. The moment stretches, tense and fragile, like one wrong move could shatter it completely.

He shifts again, swings his legs over the side of the bed. “But I know I don’t want it to be like last time.”

Her chest tightens.

And for the first time since that night over a year ago, she lets herself wonder—

If maybe… just maybe…

He doesn’t either.

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆

If you love angst, tension-filled romance, and two idiots pretending they’re not in love, Rewrite the Stars is for you! 

[bahngnxxx]

୧ ‧₊🎧 No turning back once we’re connected. 

Dentist bangchan x !f!paitent 

author's note: I was at the dentist and I was sleepy asf, but then this fineass doctor came in and absolutely PENATRATED my mouth with his hands and that got me thinking about bangchan, since earlier i was watching thirst traps before entering the appointment lol. Im ovulating so i jus wanna get straight to the smut... pls spare me, this is my first fic. Ill write better ones, not just pure smut. TmT Anygays, enjoy!! 

word count: 5.3k 

warnings: (NOT PROOF RED) p in v (unprotected, NAURRR) vaginal creampie, multiple orgasms, fem overstimulation, nipple pinching/biting, biting overall, vaginal fingering, eating out (both fxm), dirty talk, slight sadism, spanking, squirting, possible impregnation, dry humping, a bit of piss, clitplay.. Too lazy to list anymore. Lmk if sumn catches your eye, but overall this is just a really filthy one.🤷‍♀️ 

A cold, chilling woosh of air hits you, the automatic doors swinging open, the gentle cool breeze of the AC brushing against your skin, causing a slight grow of goosebumps against you. You clocked in at the entrance for your first dentist appointment after 3 months of being abroad, so the difference between the humid air of palm springs and the cool contrasting air of Canada really didn’t sit well with you. You were still jetlagged too, so maybe you could shut your eyes during your appointment, I don’t think the doctor would mind. You don’t think you could keep your eyes open for any longer, anyways. 

You gently sat down on a coach in the distance. You had booked an appointment down near the south, suburb corner of town. The places lounge was small, crowded, but managed to still have a nice cozy essence to it, a tv table at front, small beige couches stacked all around, plants and trees hanging off from the wooden plated walls and light spruce floors, the scent of minty Colgate mixed with a fresh smell of coffee filling the lounge. You nuzzled into the pale couch, scrolling away on your phone to some k-pop thirst traps on your free time, adjusting the bra strap that hung out of your off shouldered white sweater, clinging around your curves slightly, your body slumped down lazily, legs spread out shamelessly, until a doctor had called out for you, startling you. You stood up straight, brushing off yourself before bowing down apologetically, following the lady down a long hall, until you had arrived to the room.  

As usual, the room was white like an asylum, a long chair centered in the middle of the chaos, a large light gazing over it as well as a tv attached to the ceiling. There was a crack of golden sunlight peeking through the room, giving a nice crisp color to it. You laid down onto the seat as the doctor told you to, and did the average things like plucking and tapping at your teeth with a bunch of pointy gadgets, blah blah, the usual. She then nodded and went outside the room, assumingly calling your new doctor. 

Ever since you had switched to the southern side of town, and doing things, there seemed to be a lot of Koreans working in the area, not that you were complaining, and you had a suspicion for your new doctor. He went by Chris, or Christopher, but you did a little digging to catch a glimpse of the name ‘Bang Chan’ and that unleashed a fantasy in you, so you’d hope that you would get a nice Korean doctor. You were single and in your mid-twenties anyways, it’s time you’d find a partner.  

You heard some shuffling in the halls, and they approached closer before a black heeled shoe entered the room, then another, and then he popped into the room. A man who looked a year or two older then you, his hair a crisp black and middle parted, going down to his neck, slightly shaggy and curly, his eyes wide and kind, but also so seducing in a way, his nose larger than usual and a diamond piercing on one side, as well as small hoops in his ears and a chain around his thick slender neck, and oh my gosh, he had his coat off, and had this BODY CLENCHING black shirt on, revealing the massive tits and curved abs he had. His lips were large and plump, nothing like you’ve seen before, his tongue slightly out as his eyes slowly crept their way towards your gaze, his mouth crinkling into a jaw dropping smile, dimples forming on both sides of his cheeks, his aegyo Sal puffing up and his eyes wrinkling on the sides as he did. His eyes formed to small crescents as he smiled, a kind twinkle in them. HOLY FUCK.  

Your jaw was dropped. You sat there on the long chair, your body hunched over as you stared at him with wide eyes, you looked like an idiot, honestly. He let out a breathless chuckle as he walked over to you, spinning the scaler perfectly in between his gloved, veiny hands. “So how’ya doing today?”  

He spoke in a deep, but kind voice, with a rich Australian accent. You let out a stuttered, shy response as he pumped the seat downwards until you were lying flat, his face towering over yours, only his eyes visible now, the mask covering the rest. “U-uh yeah, I’m good.. How about you..?” 

 He smiled back down at you, his chest heaving over your head as he moved the strands of messy hair off of your face, sending heat through your abdomen through your stomach. It felt like there were butterflies—no, birds flying in your stomach. You bit on your lower lip, as he set a gentle thumb on your chin. “Hmm, pretty good, thanks. How ‘bout you open wide for me, yeah?” 

 and you almost immediately followed his command, widening your jaw, a line of spit against your tongue and tooth. Two of his fingers entered your jaw, coated in your spit as he pressed down on your tongue lightly. You were ovulating too, so this didn’t make it any better at all. You held back a whimper, fighting demons against yourself. You fidgeted with your hands below your lap, curling your feet upwards, and he could sense your nervousness, letting out small breathy laughs. “Good girl, relax. I’m not gonna eat’chya.”  

and again, immediately, your body loosened--almost a little too much—going limp and melting under his words. There was a calm jazz playing over the radio, the crisp golden sunlight hitting his blazing eyes, and ever so lightly brushing against his black, curled locks.  

All through his work, he didn’t seem to be paying attention to your mouth, not at all, honestly. He just kept staring into your eyes, his eyes crinkled up ever so slightly, meaning that he must still have a smile under his face. He just wouldn’t stop smiling, it staying, his intense gaze remaining on you as he tapped on each of your teeth, his fingers tracing around your mouth, exploring it. His eyes just got heavier and heavier on you, narrowing slightly down subtly before he stood up and grabbed those mini mirror things up from a shelf, unwrapping it from its shell and discarding of the flimsy plastic before he shone that damn light from above onto you, blinding you. You squinted at the light before looking back at him. He provided some sort of shadow from the light, so you relied on staring at him back, since you didn't really have any other choice.  

The wind outside started to densen up, the once sunny outside sending a dark shadow through the room, the dim lamp now being your only support of light. You hated the light at first, but now you were holding onto your dear life with it. You don’t think you could survive farther then 5 more minutes, or you would go wild. You clenched your thighs shut tight, which he immediately and shamelessly switched his attention to. His eyes narrowed further at your legs, his seducing gaze running up and down them. Theres no way that your dentist is doing this. No way hes checking you out, but no matter how much you denied it, he totally was. He looked back up at you, now only one of his eyes crinkled, his eyebrow cocked up. “Something bothering you?” 

 he spoke in a low, more breathy tone now, taking his hands out of your mouth and sliding his gloves off, his veiny hands now clear to you. You breathe caught in your throat as you let out a shakey response.  

“You.” you whispered; you don’t know why you said that. You slapped a hand over your mouth, your eyes slightly wide, cheeks turning red, and almost immediately, Chan smiled deviously, removing his mask and closing the door behind him, sitting back on the wheelie chair, spinning back to you, his hands now levitating over your chest. “Hm? What was that? Couldn’t quite hear you.”  

You let out a hitched breath, your eyes fluttering shut halfway as your back arched towards his hands until you were now sitting up, lodged up against the chair in a restrained position, both his veiny slender forearms propped up in the crevasses of your waist. “Gettin’ comfy, hm? If you want it, say it.”  

“P-please Bang Chan.”  

he let out that deep, incredibly sexy chuckle, smooth as butter, and almost instantly did your panties fill with a gush of arousal. With that, his final strings of restraint tore apart, his mouth drifting over to yours, his lips lush against your thirsted tongue. He fought a rough battle with your mouth, his tongue darting delving deeper into you, exploring every inch of your wet throat, his fingers now grazing over and under your thick sweater, pulling your shirt up with a swipe as he unclipped your bra with one veiny hand, still working at your mouth. His rough thumbs drifting over your plump bottom lip, extending your jaw for deeper access. His lips parted away from yours, his breath growly and panting before he looked up at you with that damned, deep dimpled grin, his mouth leaving a wet trail down your chin and neck, to your collarbone and straight to the cleavage of your breasts, the tips of his fingers slowly making its way to your tits, curling around the velvety, thick material.  

You let out a high-pitched whine—near a yelp as you bucked your breasts up toward his hands, another quick gush of arousal filling your already soaked panties. “F-fuck Chris--.. what if.. We get caught...?” 

 he looked up at you, his mouth still latched at you like a leech, with wide eyes, almost innocent looking despite the situation, but quickly they narrowed to those same teasing eyes as he hooked off you, a string of spit on his tongue that dribbled down the cleavage of your boobs. He silently brought a finger to his mouth, shushing you before he slowly led his soft puckered mouth to your tit, his breathe hot against your hardened, perked up brown patch. He agonizingly brought his tongue around it, his lips curling around the tip of it as he suckled on your soft breast. You couldn’t help but let out small squeals as he licked and slurped at you, his free hand sliding down the side of your waist and to your small pretty jeaned up pussy, clenching the fat top layer before a finger slid slick into your folds, the outline of your throbbing clit palpable through the thick fabric. Your hips buckled towards his fingers in a desperate attempt for some sort of friction, his slender calloused hands curling up into your aching core through the fabric, his plump lips latching off your nipples with a soft moan. He soothed the aching sensation on your nips with a few gentle kisses as he pulled off your shirt, you were bare and had those porn star like tits. Not too big, but perky and rounded for sure. He led his hungered gaze over them. “So pretty.”  

he breathed out. The soon admiring gaze snapped back to in between your legs, you were clamping them shut against his hands, needily grinding and humping against him. He popped his hand from between your heat and with one swift motion, picked you up from the chair and SAT in it HIMSELF. You were about to scoff before he pulled you onto his lap, in the type of position where your perfect little ass was laid above his muscular thighs, your legs straddling him from both sides, his dick standing straight up right before your camel toed pussy, your cheeks tinting a bright rosey red. “Move those hips pretty girl. Need your clit rubbing ‘gainst me, yeah?”  

you are NOT his strongest solider because holy shit, the way this man has spells over you.. You start to transfer your heavy hips atop his and grinding downwards to his cock, but he lets out a ‘tch’ and holds your love handles to stop you from moving. “This won’t do. Need you in those pretty pink panties.” 

 now how the hell did he know what color it was? Whatever, and with a huff you start to unzip those tight jeans from off your legs until your pants were on the floor. His own slacks met yours on the floor in a crumpled mess, and God was it huge, full of girth and length, it was dying to be released from the boxers, like a huge water bottle in his garments.  

You were so turned on, you knew exactly the feeling, you needed him now. You were a hot mess, you wanted and needed him so quickly and without much thought, you sat back on his lap, trying to put your embarrassment aside, you sat down facing him, with your legs in the air on either side of the chair, Chan was surprised and felt so delightful your weight on his erection, he didn’t think you were going to position yourself like that but you left him absolutely charmed. You were dealing with the bulge between his pants pressing against your pussy. He was so hard, you could feel it if only through the slightly thick, rough cotton of his black garments. Just the thought of seeing his cock made your skin bristle with excitement. And suddenly, a wave of confidence hit you, a little too strong like a slap in the face, and now you were gliding your flaps perfectly through his shaft, apparent through boxers. You could feel the way the hard girth pulsated and pushed into your wet entrance even through the fabric, the mix of his precum in his shorts and your slick making it intoxicating and barely bare able. As the grinding of yours against him got more intense, small pants left his parted lips, hips bucking up often with every push of your pussy down against him.  

Chan moaned, letting out soft, melodic “A-aah, mmnh..” and then he raised his gaze, staring into your eyes, causing you to shiver at his lustful stare. “Fuck, look at you moving for me like that, keep doing what ‘your doing, just like that.. So good, love.” he licked his lips, leveling his face with yours, talking to you in such a sultry tone that it made your cheeks hot. You were so pathetically horny and starved that you were enjoying to the fullest-- bouncing on Chan’s cock under the hard cotton, pressing all over your pussy, your labia, moving them nimbly that it made you blur your vision.  

“God yeah-- you’re doing so good, beautiful.” His voice aroused you more and more bringing you so close to your orgasm, you were so concentrated in the sensation of your movements on his cock, you couldn’t stop, you moved your hips and Chan helped you with his hands squeezing your waist, guiding your every hump; you felt so hot and trapped, so desperate to get your clothes off but you didn’t want to stop, you weren’t going to stop until you were tired, it was as if you had no choice but to climax right now, just like this, and under his gaze it was physically impossible, flushed and sweaty, eager, watching you with keen, firey eyes. Chan was sighing and straining to make you feel good at the same time you were making him feel that effect on him, squeezing his cock so hard, expelling precum and not so far from his ejaculation. 

 Chris bit his lower lip and caught your mouth again, touching your restless and desperate body, he was about to cum. You were starting to get tired but it was a tiredness so inexplicably pleasurable, your chest was burning from the constant strong heartbeat. You were at your limit and you were doing almost nothing, but both of you were a mess of heaving breaths, Chan didn’t want to change anything about you either at that moment, he just squeezed you tightly enjoying every movement until he cum inside his underwear, in a gasp, throwing his head back, feeling one pressure release pleasantly but another coming so abruptly and quickly not wanting to finish yet with you. You held onto his shoulders tightly, pressed your legs into his body, Chan knew you were close so he encouraged you, with a kiss on your mouth half open and words that warmed even your ears. “Go on, cum, princess, let yourself go… Cum for me.” 

You gasped in despair and a little high-pitched moan, you cum all over your panties, leaving you flushed, breathless and with your pussy sticky. Seconds later you wanted to catch your breath, you still felt immobile before his big hands squeezing your body, you were at levels of agitation you didn’t think you’d reach in the near future with another guy. He was so the one, no matter a side chick from a new dentist you just met, you’d be booking appointments weekly with the daily pathetic excuse of tooth aches. That's one way to go.  

One orgasm down, so many more to go, left a sloppy panting mess atop him, he gently carries you until you're sitting at the side of the chair, on the edge, legs spread wide, head in a daze, not a care in your eyes until the sensation of his cold hands hits your underwear – a loss of warmth but a new sensation. Only when you look down is when you catch the concentrated man on his knees for you, peeling off your pink panties and licking the slick off of it so none went to waste, letting out an approving hum.  

“You taste so fucking good.” 

Chan said it, in such a thick voice so lost in the image of your pussy. You were a hot trembling mess, letting out a shuddered moan as you felt his warm, full lips on the skin of your plump mons pubis, giving you kisses and leaving little hickeys down his way until his mouth took your clit, making you squeal; you were beginning to relax and let yourself be carried away by the tingling of the tip of his index finger caressing your soft, moist vulva, playing with your wetness, until two of his fingers teased your entrance until he inserted his fingers, while his mouth never let go of your sensitive spot, licking and sucking it gently, causing you pleasure and the beginning of trembling in your legs. 

Chan fucked you gently and deeply for a few moments, teasing you and reaching sweet places inside your tight pussy, but he withdrew his fingers from you, positioned both his hands on your thighs, squeezing them gently and began to move his mouth all the way down your vulva, licking the right places, sucking delightfully on your labia and filling himself with you, from his chin to his nose, so focused working on you. You felt so hot, and he looked so good eating you out while you were a panting mess, arching your back and being pleasured. Your slick dripped its way down his chin, covering his faces with your whipped up, once clear but now creamy and sweet juices. “Fuck," He groaned out, lapping up and sucking at your clit, then going back down to collect your juices.  

You were close, again, your hips stuttering against his plump lips as he alternated from eating your pussy to sucking at your clit. He could feel the way your hips bucked up, the way your needy pussy clenched around his tongue, before with one last suck of your vagina, he slid up and started going savage onto your clit, opening his mouth with a wide grin, flicking his tongue against you as he plunged two fingers, slick with spit inside of your already seeping pussy, thrusting in and out and curling his fingers up in a way that was sure to drive you over the edge, and so it did, a mix of juices and release spewing all over his fingers, up to the muscles of his forearms, squealing out his name in a desperate moan.

 “Chris- chrischris—c-christopher!! Cumming!!” 

He stared at you in awe and immense pleasure, cock twitching in his boxers as he witnessed your climax, shaking and trembling, heartbeat pounding, sweat dripping, hot and messy flushed face, hips bucking up so high he could have sworn he was seeing stars, and before you knew it the sound of fabric sliding down filled your sensitive, worn-out ears, and a deep sensation hit your overstimulated pussy. 

Within seconds, as you came down from your haze, you were immediately sent back to that trance but so much deeper as his girthed cock unmercifully pounded its way deep into your pussy, kissing your cervix with every deep thrust. His hips slam against yours as he slides back in, you're so warm and wet around him that he's losing his mind. He's like a rabbit in heat as he moves his hips, harder and harder, his balls hitting your ass and the sounds that leaves your lips encourages him more. One minute you have your legs wrapped around his waist pulling him deeper and the next your legs are against your chest as Chan's large hands are on the back of your thighs as he slams his hips against yours again. He's hypnotized. Your pussy sucking in dick so well, and you're taking it like a good girl too. Tears falling from your eyes and words leave your lips but he doesn't really understand what you're saying. The word daddy leaves your lips, and you chant it over and over.  

You felt so full, his dick filling you up so nicely and you honestly believe that you could cum just like this. And the way the tip of his head hits your sweet spot it makes you feel on cloud nine. Thrusting into you with a sharp hit of his hips, and you internally cringe at yourself for hiccupping at the force. “G-god-!!” is all you manage to say as he continues slamming his hips into you at a painfully slow pace, looking you dead in the eye as you crumble beneath his intense gaze. 

gripping at his biceps and biting your lip as an attempt to keep your moans in, but the little whimpers and whines end up spilling out anyway. You can feel Chan's cock twitch inside you every time you say yes for him, especially with the way your walls are throbbing around his length as he groans the words “good girl” in the midst of it all. 

“So so good for me,” he continues, grinding his hips in a way that makes his pelvis graze your clit rhythmically, and you’re sure you’re seeing stars once his hand finds your neck, just resting it there to get your attention. “W-want you to fill me up so bad,” you whimper, and he lets a groan out right after you… one that makes your stomach flutter with emotions given how beautiful it sounded. 

“Channie--” you blabber out pathetically, your own mouth filling with saliva at how amazing he’s making you feel right now. “P-please-!!” you cry out, and it’s a weak cry. He finally lets his lips find yours in a needy kiss, and a string of spit keeps y’all together as he breaks away to let out a moan of his own, but you’re pulling him back into you, wanting him to be as close as possible to you in this moment.  

“Feels so fucking good inside you, sooo fucking good,” he grunts, and you know he’s almost close just from the way his eyebrows are screwing into adorable little crinkles, his thrusts becoming sloppier and sloppier by the second. 

“F-fuck-” you mewl against his lips, feeling the knot in your own stomach tighten as his cock hit mesmerizing places inside you. He keeps his hand snug around your neck while looking into your eyes, and his hips can’t bare to piston into your cunt any longer once your walls clench around him, making him feel dizzy in the head. At that point, hes too far in to care about anything, gripping your ass cheek with an intense need as his hands lands a hard slap against it, leaving a red stain of his handprint on your cheek, the stinging pain of his hands and soothing rubs making you go insane.

With each 3-4 hard thrusts, he adds in a hard WACK, marking both cheeks with a rosey red that looked like it was blushing, and soon enough he was lifting one leg straight up like a candle, toes curled as he fucked deep into you, with a new refreshment that was only yours to claim, luckily enough. He fucked into you with a matched fervor that can only be described as wild, and with that, chan finally lets himself go, barely getting any extra thrusts in before painting your walls with his hot release, groaning shamelessly like a porn star. “Oh my God,” he grunts with a strained voice, using his last bit of strength to prevent himself from collapsing on top of you given how spent he is now. He pops out of you soon enough, after having his soft cock warmed up by your wet walls, his cum seeping out of your used pussy, but his cock doesn’t look... normal. Its soft yet still kind of up, like maybe his balls were too big and propping it up? No, it was infact still semi-hard, his eyes meeting yours with a mutual agreement, a challenge, as if asking to help him out, and so you did, backing up into the marbled countertops containing of those small sinks and that random hole filled with garbage.  

His hand slides to the back of your neck, firm but gentle, and pulls you closer. “Good girl,” he praises, voice laced with an almost indistinguishable amount of contempt, and it has you reeling. You lick a bit along his tip, slowly and gently kissing along the sensitive skin, and you can already feel it start to rise along your lips. His fingers weave through your hair with a slow sigh. You press another kiss to the side of his cock, soft at first, as if tasting the moment before plunging in. His body shudders. The saltiness lingers on your tongue as you part your lips wider, slowly taking him into your mouth. “Fuck,” he breathes, the word barely audible, more an exhale than speech.  

His hand slightly tightens in your hair, not pulling, just holding, grounding himself. You hollow your cheeks, sliding further forward, and the groan that rumbles in his chest sends a thrill through you. The weight of him is heavy on your tongue, and you let yourself sink into a languid pace, drawing him in, inch by inch, savoring the way his body reacts. His hips jerk, just a little, involuntarily, and you can’t help the slight moan that leaves your throat. The sound and vibration seem to undo him.  

“You’re so fucking good at this,” Chan grunts, his voice rough around the edges, raw with need. His hand cups the back of your head, guiding you—not forcing, but encouraging—as you take him deeper, working with a mix of tongue, lips, and a shit ton of spit. 

You glance up, catching his gaze. A carnal glint is in his stare, and he smiles. Fuck. The sight of him nearly takes your breath away. His jaw falls slack, his lips part, and his eyes lock on you—heavy-lidded and burning with something primal. The tension in his thighs grow as you continue, a gradual acceleration in the way you take him in. The soft, wet sounds fill the air, mingling with his labored breaths and low groans. His thumb brushes your cheek, a ticklish touch that feels oddly tender amidst the heat. “Just like that,” Chan murmurs, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Don’t stop. You’re—perfect.” You give an hum, letting it thrum in your mouth. Chan whimpers and it’s an absolutely beautiful thing to hear. You hum again, louder this time. Your chest heaves at the limited breathing but Chan is slowly losing his sense of control and it arouses you, motivates you to keep going. “God, your skilled. I work in oral care, yet you seem to be better at it.” Chan laughs to himself, head thrown back, words spiked with unmistakable lust. His hands move to your shoulders, fingers digging into the soft flesh as he fights the urge to thrust into your mouth. “I won’t last if you keep going like that.” His voice cracks, betraying the thin line of self-control he’s holding onto. You pull back slightly, just enough to take a breath, then bob your head back into his girth, but this time you take him deep and you swear you can catch glimpse of his soul leaving his body, eyes rolling back and brows furrowed in a pornographic way. You choke and gag slightly on his cock, but being the sadistic girl you are, you take pleasure in the way he thrusts less carelessly into your mouth, fucking into you as he tugs on your hair as a guide, the only pillar of support besides the cold counter behind him, his other hand holding onto the edge so he wouldn’t slip, but the moment you hollow your cheeks again and gaze up at him with that stare is when he looses it. Before he could mutter any more words, he just lets out a series of swears. “F-fucking hell-! O-oh my god cumming--” 

And a hot liquid fills your throat, forcing its way inside until your throat is sore, raw and hot from his salty liquids. It’s murky and a bit penny-like in a way, but your addicted to the taste that would normally seem gross. As you pull back with a mix of spit and cum on your tongue, he ruffles up your hair and helps stand you up, kissing an awkward kiss onto your messy forehead as he sets you back down onto the chair, scooping out the remains of his liquid out of your spent pussy and dabbing it up with a tissue, the light fabric teasing your overstimulated clit, drawing a whine out of you. He gently hushes you and continues to clean you up and pack up his stuff.  

“Until next time, yeah? And wear those pink panties again, they look good on you.” He waves out with a charming wink, despite his current state. 

God, this man. Guess your next appointment won’t just be one type of oral... 

[miracle-negative]

"To you who gave up but couldn't."

"To you who are alive but not alive."

"To you who are in pain."

"To you who didn't see the light."

"To you who are still alive and brathing."

Determination

[fatalfragility]

𓆩♱༻♡༺♱𓆪

welcome ༻♡ !

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about me:

i’m eva and i’m 17 years old 🪽

♍︎ virgo sun, ♋︎ cancer moon, ♍︎ virgo rising

in love w the music of lana and lizzy (obv), the smiths, brigitte bardot, phoebe bridgers, grouper, fiona apple and shoegaze/dreampop bands like slowdive, ozean, my bloody valentine etc. ♡

24/7 dissociative dreamer

sylvia plath, rilke and mary oliver enthusiast

lives off poetry, music, and romanticism

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follow me!

pinterest 🧸

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everskies 🩰

[xzenky1vfx2d]

Hi Tumblr!

Це моя перша публікація, і я хочу поділитися чимось особливим — малюнком, який я створила з великою любов’ю.<///33

[ameliacatattack]

#FIRSTPOST

[maudie-duan]

Guys! I'm so freaking behind on this!! How are there already five chapters. Holy shit! @gurugirl you've been putting in work!!!

It's Good to Be King |Masterlist

MAIN MASTERLIST

Series Summary: Harry, a handsome, but ill-mannered new king, bound by tradition, must select a queen, and against all expectations, he chooses Y/n, a street beggar. Now, Y/n finds herself caught between the gilded cage of royalty and the cold, harsh simplicity of her past, navigating a court shocked by her presence and a king who revels in the scandal of it all.

Requested by @tobegoodisgood

Note: 18+ only!! Harry is mean/uncouth in this, though things do get better. He doesn't treat anyone around him with much respect at all. Expect to not like him much at first. Also, this is set in the 1800s England, and while not completely historically accurate, I did my best to keep it as accurate as possible. READ THE WARNINGS! SOME OF YOU WON'T LIKE THIS SERIES! YOU ARE RESPONSIBLE FOR THE CONTENT YOU CONSUME. xoxo

Series Warnings: Smut, manipulation, coercion, corruption kink, humiliation, pregnancy, angst, health scare, aggressive behavior, jealousy, misogynistic views, class discrimination, descriptions of poverty, parental death. (may add more to this list as the story progresses)

✨series music inspo✨

🎧 Leonard Cohen | Avalanche

🎧 Tom Petty | It’s Good To be King

Chapter 1 (8.3k)

Chapter 2 (8.7k)

Chapter 3 (8.7k)

Chapter 4 (8.7k)

Chapter 5 (8.4k) [Wedding Chapter]

Chapter 6* (tbd) [Night of the Wedding]

>>> more to come >>>

mean king!harry tags: @matildasatellite @stylesftcher @hinnyrx @eversincehs1 @sunshinemoonsposts

@whoreonmondays @archerxnn @daphnesutton @spinninc @haliastyless

@multiplefandomstan @bruhk @sassamanda77 @cherryshouse @montgomery-929496

@cherriesncupcakes @practistyles @matildalittlefreak @imaginexxharry @oifukinloser

@hoolabalooba

(let me know if I forgot to add you!)

[smol-trans-gerblin]

hai!

I'm just a smol trans goblin boi who's new to tumblr but thinks it seems great! I'm excited to meet people!

[maudie-duan]

Series Summary: Harry has been fighting to keep his relationship with Olivia afloat for nearly two years. At what point do you choose to either endure or let the strain of the world defeat his ambitious hopes of a lasting relationship? Or will a single night and a fleeting encounter be enough to change the projection of Harry’s path? Maybe our ‘Mystery Girl,’ Shiloh, will just happen to be in the right place at the right time. 

Word Count: 8.8K

Warning: SLOW-BURNER, Strong Language, Major Angst, Mild Smutty Situation, Emotional.

The knock on my door was soft, almost reluctant in the way it died off, but it might as well have been thunder as the sound reverberated through my entire body, and I froze, mid-step in my living room, my heart thick in my throat as soon as the reality hits me—he's here. He's actually here, on the other side of that door, after two weeks of silence that seemed to stretch through my mind like months.

I don't remember crossing the room. One moment, I'm standing there. The next, my hand is on the doorknob, trembling so violently that I have to grip the handle with both hands to steady myself, and suddenly it's like I can't breathe, like I'm holding my breath about to dive underwater, my lungs already burning with the anticipation of what awaits me on the other side, and when I pull the door open, time seems to collapse around me as he stands there across the threshold, staring back at me.

And there he is.

Harry.

His hair is messier than usual, dark circles smudged beneath those familiar green eyes, his shoulders hunched slightly as if he's carrying the weight of the world, and maybe he is, but somehow he looks beautiful and broken all at once, making something inside me splinter at the sight of him. When his gaze meets mine, haunted, heavy with guilt, I can see the war raging behind those eyes, an array of emotions I can't even begin to decipher.

Because there's so much, so fucking much.

There are no words; we don't even speak. We don't need to, and my body is moving before my mind can even catch up, and I lunge forward, throwing my arms around his neck like I'm drowning and he's the only thing that can save me, because in this moment I know he's truly the only thing that can save me.

The force of it nearly knocks him backward, but his arms are there, wrapping around my waist, grounding me, bringing me home, his whole body trembling against me, a slight shiver that seems to run through his entire stature, betraying the composure he's so desperately trying to maintain.

But I see it and feel it even if I can't comprehend it in this very second. But still, there's strength in how he holds me, his fingers digging into the small of my back like he's afraid I might disappear if he loosens his grip even slightly, and I'm sinking into the weight of him, my own eagerness giving me away.

But there's nothing to hide, not anymore.

"Shiloh—" he whispers against my hair, my name reborn into something sacred as it falls from his lips. Then he's hoisting me upward, strong hands securing the backs of my thighs as my legs instinctively wrap around his waist, our bodies already desperately seeking to eliminate any space between us.

My want is fierce, my grip so tight that I can barely breathe, my chest constricted with the force of my need to be closer, closer, so fucking close that my ribs are starting to ache. So close that every cell in my body sings with the relief of his presence, with recognition, yes, I think, this is it, this is what I've been missing, this is who I've been aching for—my missing piece.

As Harry carries me past the threshold, it’s everything. He kicks the door shut with the heel of his foot, his grip on me never faltering, our bodies now fused together in this needy embrace that feels like deliverance, like surrendering, like finally, this is it. And when I bury my face in the crook of his neck, breathing him in, my lips brush against the warm flesh of his throat, not quite a kiss but a faint touch that makes him tighten his hold as a gasping shudder hums through the energy engulfing us both.

My fingers move with need, tangling in his hair, feeling the soft strands between my trembling hands as he walks us deeper into the space, neither of us willing to separate even an inch.

I can feel his heart hammering against mine, a painful rhythm in step with the adrenaline coursing through my veins, and each breath that he takes comes in shallow bursts against my ear, warm and uneven, telling me he's just as impacted as I am, taken by the force of whatever it is, because my head is spinning with it, my senses overwhelmed with the sheer realness of him.

"I thought—" I try, but my voice cracks, my throat so tight with every emotion taking over me that the words scrape on their way out. "I thought I would never see you again."

Then his arms are tightening around me with a force that steals the breath from my lungs, painful yet sweet, one hand sliding up to cradle the back of my head, his fingers threading through my hair with a tenderness that nearly conflicts with the desperation of his wanting embrace, and then I'm wondering how it could be too much and not enough all at once—the feel of him, warm and solid under my touch after existing for so long as just memory, as a maybe I thought was completely out of reach.

I press my mouth against the warmth of his neck, a delicate kiss I hope will say everything my voice can't convey in this second. That's when I hear the sharp intake of his breath, feel his pulse jump beneath my lips, and I kiss him again, more deliberately this time, a silent reassurance that I'm here, I'm real, I'm his.

When he finally speaks, the rasp of his voice is splintered, unraveling all my edges. "I'm sorry. God, Shi, I'm so fucking sorry." And the words vibrate against my skin, seeping into my flesh, into my bloodstream like a drug, each word like a hit I've been restlessly craving.

There's something raw in the way his words land, something broken that makes my chest ache with a pain that could only be his, that could only be mine, ours, and when I pull back just enough to see his face, my eyes trace the familiar lines and it’s like I'm seeing him for the first time—in awe of the curve of his sharp jawline, the flushed tint of his lips, the green that glimmers in his eyes, like molten as his tears threaten to spill over, and it all feels new because something is different, we’re different.

And I never want to let him go again.

As soon as our eyes lock, for a moment, it's like looking straight into his soul, like there’s relief ebbing toward the surface, but something else too, something heavier—like a shadow that looms with every burden I'm yet to understand, and the way he's looking at me says it all, like maybe I, too, am his salvation, his great undoing, conflicted like he's memorizing every detail of my face in case it's the last time he sees it. The thought sends a chill down my spine despite the warmth of his body against mine, and maybe there's fear because I feel it too as the silence stretches between us.

In this moment, time doesn't exist; it seems to hang motionless, suspended as we gaze at one another as a sliver of space opens between us, charged with everything we haven't said. Two weeks of silence, of questions, of a longing I didn't think I could endure—all gathering into this unfathomable moment where absolutely nothing else exists but us.

"You're here now," I force, my voice barely a whisper in the quiet room, and I press my forehead to his, our breaths becoming one in the narrow space between us. "You're actually here."

The sensation of his body against mine feels like exhaling after holding my breath for far too long, a relief that floods through me, washing away the anger and doubt that have been constantly at odds, waging war within, slicing at every thought. In this moment, with his arms around me and his heartbeat steady against mine, nothing else matters because what else is there?

For now, this feels like enough. He's here. That's all that matters, that he's come back to me, and even though some distant part of me knows this is just the calm before the storm—that whatever drove him away still waits to be confronted—I let myself sink into this moment of pure bliss, give my soul a rest, and allow myself to find strength in his strong arms.

Allow myself just to be here now.

Before another word could leave my mouth, Shiloh's lips were crashing against mine with a devastating hunger that stole the air from my lungs. Her body pressed flush against mine, her hands moving with a hopeless purpose across my chest, my shoulders, the nape of my neck, like she was committing every inch of me to memory.

That’s when every rational thought in my head scattered like ashes in the wind.

Suddenly, she was breaking away, her breath coming in short gasps as she took my hand, fingers intertwining with mine, and I followed her silent direction without question, my entire body helpless against the magnetic pull between us as I watched the way her hair caught the afternoon light, turning the tiny stray strands of her hair into a glowing amber.

She pulls me from the entryway to the living room, my heart hammering harshly against my ribs, so loud in my ears that I swear she could hear it. My mind was already struggling, conflict raging inside me—the heavy weight of what I came to say versus the desperate need to feel her beneath my touch, just once more, before everything changes, before the way she’s looking at me right now changes forever.

When she turned to face me, her smoldering green eyes knocked whatever breath I was trying to take from my body. That same look from that day in the studio, the one that stole me completely. The one full of hunger, vulnerable, that one that spoke with a silent permission that made my blood run hot. That's when she guided me down onto the cushions, a gentle hand pressed against my chest, and I sank back, entranced by her beauty, by the sight of her as she stood between my parted knees, looking down at me.

Without a word, she was lowering herself onto my lap with a slowness that had me straightening my spine, her thighs bracketing mine as she settled her weight against me. The pressure of her body awakened me with the memory of our past, the photoshoot playing out in my head as my dick woke beneath her, drawing a sharp inhale from us both as our eyes locked in the silent recognition of what's happening between us.

It's like the photoshoot all over again as the world around us fades, and all I see is her, and all I feel is Shiloh and every want my body has been craving all this time—that electric charge, that fucking incomprehensible tension that seems to pull deep in my bones—but this time, there were no cameras, no dictations being called out, no reasons to hold back. Just Shiloh and me, alone in the quiet of her home, with nothing between us but the truths I wasn't ready to speak.

And in the silence, her hand came up to my face, a curious look in her eye as she delicately traces the contours of my face with such tender curiosity that I have to close my eyes against the rush of emotions threatening to take me. The tips of her fingers are warm as she maps my features as if her touch alone could hold a memory—the arch of my eyebrows, the slope of my nose, the fullness of my quivering bottom lip.

"Look at me," she whispers, and when I open my eyes, the stripped vulnerability of her gaze nearly shatters what little composure I have left because I know I'm about to lose it, and something in me knows it would be okay, that she's safe, but my ego wants to be strong, wants to show her I'm fine.

That's when my hands find the curve of her hips, my fingers digging into the soft flesh as I pull her closer, everything in me trying to eliminate any space between us, and when her warm center meets the bulge in my jeans, she gives me a soft smile, my heart picking up at her knowing gaze that has me so fucking weak for her because she had me wholeheartedly—mind, body, and soul.

Shiloh still fits against me perfectly, like her gorgeous body was meant to align with mine, and only mine, I think, as my thumbs find the sliver of exposed skin where her shirt has ridden up, and I feel the tremor that runs through her at the touch, sending me deeper into the spiral of want, of fucking need, and then I say:

"I thought about you every night," I confess, "Every fucking night, Shi."

As a single tear escapes, trailing down my cheek before I can stop it, she catches it with the pad of her thumb, the gesture so unbearably gentle that I'm aching with it, and when she leans forward, replacing her thumb with her soft lips, kissing away the grief, I grip her hips tighter, dragging her against my dick, and I gasp out a breath of longing as she grinds herself into me, so slow, so fucking deliberate it hurts, our need only building.

Then she stops, sucking in a sharp breath as she settles heavy against my hard bulge and presses her forehead to mine, a suffering pause as we share the same breath, suspended in a moment of perfect stillness. And it's like she's aching with it too because then she's rolling her hips against mine again—the move purposeful, a slow, torturous movement that draws a groan from deep in my chest—and I feel the hunger, yet her smile is innocent and knowing, an agonizing combination that has me so fucking weak as my head falls back against the cushions.

"Do that again," I push, my voice rough with a need I can't control.

And when she complies, this time there's more pressure, more intention, and I can feel our control slipping, a heat building at the base of my spine.

My hands move with need, sliding beneath her shirt, tracing the warm skin of her flesh, memorizing the slim curve of her waist, the ridges of her fucking spine that slowly straighten as my fingers move up, and when I brush the band of her bra, her breath hitches, a soft sound of anticipation moving past her parted lips, her movement more evident than any other sound in the room.

"Harry," she breathes with an edge of weakness as she falls forward, her arms caging us in, lips now only inches from my face.

And dammit, it's all I need, and then I'm capturing her mouth again, hoping that I could pour everything I couldn't say into this one single kiss. Every apology, all my heart's desires, the fucking desperate fear of losing her, and then her mouth is moving with the same pace, the same need as her velvet tongue slides against mine, and her fingers tangle in my hair, tugging just enough to send sparks of pleasure shooting through my tight chest.

It's all want as the kiss deepens, growing more urgent with each passing second. Her body seems to move against mine with the same drive, instinctive and maddening. I could feel the heat building between our bodies through the layers of clothing we have yet to shed, could fucking sense how ready she was for me by the need in each grind against my painful bulge, and the thought nearly undoes me completely.

"Shiloh—" I gasp into her mouth, torn between all my desires and the weight of my conscience. "We should—"

"No—" she interrupted, pressing a finger to my lips. Her green eyes dark with that same desire, and shit, it's like a plea I couldn't refuse. "Not yet. Not now. I need this first."

Deep down, I knew I should push the impending conversation, knew I should tell her everything before we crossed a line we couldn't uncross. But the warmth of her weight in my lap was tantalizing, her familiar scent surrounding me, invading every sense in my body, and it's the taste of her lips on mine that has me surrendering—how could I deny the one thing she's asking of me? Deny her this moment of escape.

So I give in, indulging in her request, dangerously dragging her closer, letting the current of our desire sweep us both away from the shore of our reality, letting myself slip deeper into the tranquil waters that her presence brings. In this moment, all we have is time, and I keep telling myself there will be time enough later for truths and consequences, but for now, there is only Shiloh, only this, only us. When she breaks the kiss and her mouth moves to my neck, I buck my hips up, listening as her hot moan ghosts across my skin.

Then her tongue drags up my neck and takes the lobe of my ear into her mouth, grinding down against me, her breath picking up, and my hands slide up her back, unhooking her bra. When she pulls away, her eyes lock onto mine, and I pull her hips forward as her hands come down to the hem of her shirt, tugging it along with her bra over her head, and holy fuck, the sight of her bare breasts has me groaning.

And just as I'm about to lean up and take one of her nipples into my mouth, distant voices cut through our heavy breaths as Shiloh's eyes go wide, and she reaches for the shirt she tossed on the couch beside me, covering herself, just as Annie and Ryan round the corner from I don't even know where, but all I can do is stare at Shiloh, who is gazing back at them with a bewildered look that seems to match my own shock, and my whole body tenses. "Fuck..." Ryan says, and when I look, he's turning away, covering his eyes.

Then Annie starts laughing, "Didn't realize you guys would be hanging out in the living room... we were just on our way out..."

"Yeah, I didn't think we were going to..." And when Shiloh bursts into laughter, I feel my body relax enough to suck in a breath of relief.

Annie's eyes shift to me, my hands still on Shiloh's waist, and I try to force a smile to my face. "We're going to head out, but we weren't planning on being gone very long; we have some editing to do... so..."

"Yeah—got it... We'll move to my room... if you need anything," and the smile that Shiloh and Annie are sharing is making my heart race, the strange interruption bringing the moment to light in a way that has me scared of even moving another inch because that will mean we're that much closer to facing the reality of why I’m actually here.

When Annie waves goodbye, she grabs Ryan's arm, leading him out of the room, his hand still covering his eyes, but they are both smiling, and I watch Shiloh's eyes as she follows their exit, her grip tightening on the shirt covering her breast.

The click of the heavy wood door sounds around us, and when Shiloh's eyes move to mine, "Shit, that was close..." She laughs out, running a hand through my hair, and my head falls back with the movement, my whole body going slack because this was the part I was fearing the most, the moment when our want could no longer distract us.

"Don't look so scared... we're not done yet..."

"Shiloh—" I force past the burning lump in my throat, "I don't think sex is the answer..."

Her smile widens at the mention of sex, and she leans forward, her lips inches from mine, "No one said we had to have sex... I just want—" then she's reaching for my hands that have gone limp by my sides, "Harry... I need these hands on my body... and yes, I said need."

The words have my mouth going dry, and I swallow hard, nodding my head, "I’ll do anything you want me to do?" I rasp out, my voice hoarse, my mind already racing with everything I want to do to her.

"I want these hands..." she tells me, pulling herself upright, taking my hands with her, "to make me feel good," and the second she places my hands on her bare chest, I cup them in my hands as her hips move against me again, and now I'm fucked, completely and utterly fucked.

I honestly didn’t know why I was pushing for a physical touch; it just felt right. Maybe it was something about the forbidden aspect of everything we had been, but he was here, and I didn’t want to let him go.

My entire body felt drawn to him, every inch of me wanting to be as close to him as I could—close meant he was real, and every time he touched me, it was him exploring all the pieces of myself I was ready to give, because how do I explain something that just feels right, a soul-deep knowledge only we shared? But I knew it in my bones, already knew him with my eyes closed.

Every kiss seemed to quench a thirst I was grasping to satiate—call me desperate, or call it horny, but I needed him, I needed whatever he was going to give, and the second we moved to my room, there was no pause.

My hands were on his chest in a matter of seconds, my chest tight with the anticipation of what he would give; him moving meant he wanted it, wanted me, that he wanted to make me feel good, and maybe it wasn’t a simple ask, but he did it, he was doing it, even if each touch felt like agony we both continued.

And when I pushed him down onto my bed, I dropped to my knees. My first thought was to have him bare; I wanted to press my naked body to his, fulfill that aching longing inside me—if flesh to flesh meant this was the closest we could become one, then I wanted it, I wanted all of him.

I wanted to press my heart to his and feel his body's rhythm dancing against mine. I wanted to feel the rise and fall of his chest flush to mine, feel the weight of his body, heavy over mine, have his fingers touch me in places I swear could be his forever.

It started with his shoes, Harry patiently waiting as I untied each one, gently nudging them off one at a time as we sat in the silence of our own thoughts that wove between us, heavy like a weighted breath I was yet to release. Every word I wanted to say was lodged deep in the ache of my throat; each emotion haunted the desperate thoughts filling my head.

I didn’t know how to convey a single emotion. How could I explain my excitement when the whole time I’ve been on the verge of crying, the tears stinging at my eyes as a harsh burn flooded my nose? I felt myself slipping the moment I watched a tear fall from Harry’s eyes, making the sadness brutal against the strong facade I had been trying to keep.

As soon as I tossed his shoes aside, I came up to my full height on my knees, placing my hands at the top of Harry’s thighs. With gentle hands, he grabbed my face, placing a delicate kiss on my lips, his mouth beginning to move at a tender pace that only made me want him more, faster, and when I broke the kiss, I stood to my feet before him. My bare chest on full display, and he spread his legs, giving me space to step closer.

I could see the hunger in his eyes the closer I got, and when his hands came up to my waist, drawing me close, tears filled his eyes, making me weak, and I held his beautiful face between my hands. “I’ve missed you,” I said, forcing the words out.

“I just want to be with you, like this… tonight, and tomorrow we can talk… is that okay?” I almost pleaded.

And as soon as the words left my mouth, Harry burst into tears, forcing a jagged breath in as he buried his face into my chest, his tears moistening my bare skin, and I held him close, pressing a kiss to the top of his head, while his body trembled beneath me, and I let my mind float with the idea of him clutching to my body, me becoming his anchor in the lull before the turmoil of whatever is about to upheave us hits, because I feel it in his sadness, the pain that emanates from every gasp of breath that floods my chest.

In the stillness of our silence, I felt him let the weight fall away, and when his body relaxed under mine, I didn't dare move. I wanted him to move at his own pace, and if he told me he didn't want to keep going, I would be okay with that. And when he said:

"I'm sorry..." his warm breath brushed over my skin, and he looked up, his green eyes red, everything breaking inside him rising to the surface, and I felt my own tears then, a harsh sting as hot tears spilled over, his face blurring for a single breath, and that's when his hands started to move.

Gliding up my back as he pressed his mouth to the wet skin between my breasts. When his hand moved back down to my waist, he gently pushed me back, his eyes meeting mine. I watched him reach for the hem of his shirt, pulling it up and over his head, laughing when he brought it to his nose to wipe it, "I'm a bit of a mess, yeah..." and before he tossed his shirt aside, he reached, ready to dry the leftover tears that were wet against my skin.

"Leave it..." I said, halting his motion, and when his eyes stayed trained on my chest, I reached a hand up to smear the tears into my skin, each one like a gift I wasn’t ready to part with, and the gesture seemed to awaken something inside him, a new spark filling his pained eyes, breathing new energy into the room, sending a flutter to the pit of my stomach.

He brings a hand up to my waist then, pulling me closer, and without a pause, his face is moving to my chest, reaching with the other hand to cup one of my breasts, and it's like everything is moving in slow motion as he buries his face again, but this time, there's hunger, and when he presses the flat of his tongue to the hollow space, my whole body shudders, peering down as his tongue licks a slow stripe up the center of my chest.

I can't help the gasp that leaves my mouth, and when I feel him pop the button on my denim shorts, it sends a pulse between my thighs, my pussy already throbbing for what I've been aching for this whole time, and I know I'm ready for whatever he wants to do, "So beautiful," he breathes, his breath fanning over my skin.

When he pulls back, his hands are on the waist of my shorts, starting to work them over my hips, and it's driving me crazy, his delicate pace, too slow, too fucking slow for the need I have bursting inside me, and I want it so bad, his fingers touching me, his fingers inside me, "Harry..." I push, as my shorts drop to my feet and I step out of them, my hands resting on Harry's bare shoulders, my nails already digging into his flesh.

He stands then, grabbing hold of my waist to pull me near, my mouth instinctively moving to meet his, and when they collide, he draws in a long, weighted breath, stealing the air as it leaves my body, and the wait is agonizing. That's when my hands move to the button of his jeans, pulling them open at a pace that has our teeth colliding, Harry sending a breathy laugh into my mouth as he pulls back enough to help me with his jeans.

I don't even realize how hard I'm breathing until I'm watching Harry kick his jeans aside, my eyes catching sight of my moving chest when I peek at the hard bulge in his boxers, and fuck, this is the photoshoot all over again. This silent desperation filling my chest, my whole body tensing at the sight, a strange excitement flooding me as I gawk down at him, gazing at his rock-hard dick as Harry smooths a hand over the perfect contour, and I have to swallow back the saliva filling my mouth like a fucking animal, and he knows it because the smile on his face says it all.

And now the only thing that stands between us is the thin material of our underwear.

I don't waste a second, and when I push past him to climb onto the bed, he follows suit, our eyes catch, igniting the thrill, and as I pull the blanket back, I feel Harry press a kiss to the skin of my back, slowly peppering kisses down my side while I adjust the pillows, and when I look back, I watch the playful grin stretch into a smile on his face.

Happiness doesn’t even begin to define this moment. I know I'm smiling too, the muscles in my cheeks tight, and I'm so fucking excited, yet scared. All I want is to have him near, feel his skin against mine, and as we both climb under the blankets, a nervous shudder begins to quake, moving like a chill through my entire body, and I can't control the shaking, the nerves that are giving me away, as we move and bend our bodies to fit together.

And all at once, we both still beneath the blankets, my head now resting against his chest as I find something other than Harry to focus on, because suddenly I can't look at him, my nerves getting the best of me.

I feel torn; what was confident before feels completely different, the realization dawning that the warmth of his body against mine is real, that we could be real, not just an idea or a memory—Harry is here—my cheek buried in the flesh of his chest—his smell, his touch, his presence so real that it's overwhelming, and the tears are back as the silence steals my words.

"Shiloh, you're shaking, love... are you cold... talk to me?" Harry asks, shifting to try and get a better view of my face, but I only bury my face further into his chest, not wanting him to see me cry.

"I don't know..." I finally answer, and my voice breaks, a dead giveaway, then Harry is scooting down on the bed, lining his face up with mine.

The change in his position has given me nowhere to hide, and when he says, “Talk to me, darling,” his voice is low, and he drags his body closer until his body is level with mine, and our faces are inches apart.

There are no words, just feelings that can’t be spoken out loud, not in this moment, not when all I want is to feel his body against mine.

Silent tears fall as my hand reaches for his waist under the blanket, drawing him even closer, and he follows my command. Our faces are so close now that all I would have to do is shift ever so slightly to feel his lips against mine again. “This…” I whisper, looking down at his lips as he swipes his tongue over his bottom lip, slowly, almost as if he were teasing me.

Then his hand comes up to my face, and his fingers move to the nape of my neck. My heart stops when Harry gently pulls me forward, planting a soft kiss on my mouth as if he were testing the waters, and my hand grips the small of his waist, slowly moving around to his lower back.

We’re close, but I want him closer, so I pull him into me, shifting my lower body to line myself up with his, and press into the kiss. With every breath, our mouths ease into their own rhythm—slow and deep, like two lovers lying bare after years of separation.

With a delicate hand, I smooth up the surface of his back, grazing his warm skin, and I feel his lips part at the motion as a soft laugh slips into my mouth. “Are you trying to tickle me, Miss…” he whispers against my lips, and it makes me laugh, lightening the air around us and pressing us back into the kiss.

Each of his movements is slow, his hand traveling down my body as if he’s taking inventory over every curve, and when his hand finds my ass, he pulls me into his already growing bulge, and it’s exactly where I want to be.

His dick is already hard and stiff, alluring as I let my body relax against him as his hard mass rubs against my inner thigh, and that’s when that pressing need for him bubbles up inside me, and I can already feel the pace shifting.

Both of us wanting more.

I feel it in the way our bodies are heating, the way our heavy breaths slip out, labored, each one a shared intake of air. I know there’s a mix of emotions running through me, a list of unanswered questions, but I cast them away, only want rising as his bulge pushes into my leg, sending me reeling toward a driving need.

Yet, I find myself timid, too scared to reach down and touch him, even though there’s a coursing hunger begging me to just do it. To feel him, suddenly wondering what he would taste like, how he would feel on my tongue.

I need him; I have to have him.

And this is where the hunger lies, in this very moment, as his breath fills my mouth, and I hook a leg around his body, trying to draw him into me, to get a feel of him. Seamlessly, his hand moves back to my waist, sliding down to my hip bone, and he pushes me onto my back, breaking the kiss. My brows pull together, then, I feel them, and when he smiles back at me, licking his swollen lips, I know I’m in too deep already. Because there’s that fucking smile playing at his lips, and the longer he stares back at me, the more he’s working me up.

How can he be completely calm in this moment? How is he holding his composure when it feels like everything in me is ready to explode the second he starts tracing a lazy finger along the top of my underwear? And it’s brutal as my heart slams against my chest, the motion sending a quiver to the depth of my belly, and I’m so fucking nervous.

The slow gesture of his fingers tingles across my skin, pulling a nervous gasp from me as every muscle in my abdomen seems to tense at his touch, drawing away as his fingers continue, a tickling sensation crawling up my spine, and I let out a jumpy laugh, staring over at him.

All of the sudden, I feel completely unprepared, a knot forming in my throat, and as my eyes search his face, I wonder what he’s thinking, if he feels the same way. I’m nervous, but there’s something in the way that his fingertips move across my skin that feels safe, like he isn’t just after this one thing, this one moment.

On the other hand, the thought has my whole body heating up as my heart races towards all the possibilities that I have already been mapping out in my head because I’ve wanted him from the moment our eyes met—everything I’ve ever dreamed of doing with him. This was one of them—him and his touch—and that anxious fear is there, constricting the air in my lungs as I clench my thighs together, trying to find relief—I want this; I’m just not sure I’m feeling brave enough.

Harry’s eyes move back to mine, sweeping back and forth. His smile is gone, his brows forming a crease between his eyes, and maybe it’s concern, but I see it etched into his clenched jaw, and I watch as his Adam's apple bobs up and down, swallowing hard—I can’t read him. It’s something about the way his eyes keep searching my face that makes me want to retract, find a place to hide.

But there’s nowhere, just this, us face to face.

All I can do is swallow down whatever lump is trying to form at the back of my throat, any fear, and I slowly lift my hips to his touch, pressing into his fingertips as they finally make their way to the other side of my hip. When his fingers grasp at the fabric of my underwear and dip in, I suck in a breath, pressing my lips together to stifle the giddy rush filling my chest as I exhale.

In a hasty moment of fear, before I can even think it through, my hand is stopping him, a tight grip around his wrist, conflicted as I hold him in place. All the air has left my body as I stare back at him with panic as our eyes meet. It’s like this sudden pang of guilt is threatening to overtake me, and I’m mortified that maybe I just fucked this up—scared at what his reaction will be.

Harry lets out a slow breath as he leans down, kissing along my jawline until he reaches my ear, “We don’t have to… if you don’t want to.” He tells me, and for a second, his words seem to ease some of the tension, but then my thoughts are sucking me back in—never in my life have I wanted something this badly, or been too scared to take it. Never have I felt this desperate need, this unspoken want that he seems to pull from me. The urge to want to be with someone this badly, and also feel afraid to ruin anything by making the wrong move, and I can’t help wondering if we’re already making too many mistakes.

“I know, no sex, right?” I answer him, clearing my throat, practically forcing the words from my mouth, “I want this—I’m just a little scared, I think.” And the fucking words come out, and even I know they sound unconvincing, and I bite down on my lip, gazing back at him as another wave of emotions floods my system.

He lets out a soft laugh, “We have time… no rush,” he says softly, the look in his eyes reassuring me with every word, and when he starts to move his hand away, I tighten my grip before it can slip too far away.

“I WANT you to touch me,” I answer, gently pulling his hand between my legs, and my heart skips a beat as the bold statement settles between us. For a split second, I’m questioning everything, but when I let go of his hand, he whispers, “I want you to tell me if you want me to stop…okay?” tucking a strand of hair behind my ear, and all I can do is silently nod, trying to fight back more tears.

As he moves, his eyes don’t leave mine as he scoots his body closer, almost hovering over me, and he brings his face down to push his lips into mine, moving to find that same rhythm as earlier, except something has shifted, his hands slower as they travel back down my body, and I feel my thighs spread of their own accord when his hand nears my lower belly, creating space for him.

His hand drops between my legs, stilling my breath for a brief moment when his fingers drag up the length of my slit through the fabric of my underwear. That’s when I feel myself letting go a little bit, letting my body relax to his touch.

I release a breath, then, closing my eyes to turn away. “You’re already so wet,” he breathes into my ear, nipping at my earlobe, and the pace of my heart picks up as Harry starts working my underwear down my thighs, and I shift my body and help by kicking them away under the blankets as a smile finally takes way on my face.

The feel of his hand traveling back to my inner thigh has my head spinning, a flawless motion working toward my core, actively making my body react as an involuntary squirm moves through me, awakening that nervous giddiness still looming under the surface, and I let out a quiet laugh.

Heat builds at my center, my body warming up the longer he takes, so I bring his face to mine and kiss him. This time his fingers move effortlessly, gliding down the folds of my pussy and back up the slit, teasing at my inner lips, slightly parting them. And here’s that pressing need that has my fucking clit throbbing with a dull ache—pulsing, just waiting to be touched. It’s like torture, and I’m already lifting my hips.

And my god, I have to brace myself the second his fingers graze over my bud, and my hand wraps around his upper arm in need of a sudden anchor as he starts rubbing slow circles, his pace matching his even breaths—slow and steady.

Another squirm has my hips moving, slightly lifting, and I hold my breath, letting the sensation spread throughout my body as the heat continues to rise, reaching my face, and my cheeks burn with it as I close my eyes, pressing my head into the pillow.

When his mouth moves to my neck, he applies more pressure between my legs, making my grip tighten on his arm, and I breathe out a small moan. He’s heavy as he presses his upper body into mine, and he moves his mouth to my ear, “Does that feel good?” he whispers, his voice adding to the building sensation, and the warmth of his breath sends a spark between my legs, spurring me on, and I press into his fingers harder.

I wasn’t expecting the question. His words were simple, yet they lit my fire even further, sending me deeper into whatever pleasure hold he was pulling me under. As I slipped deeper, I found my grip loosening on his arm, mindlessly slinging my arm around his neck to draw him closer, “So… good…,” I barely breathed into his neck.

This must please him because his pace picks up then, and I press my mouth into his neck, gently sucking on his skin, then kiss it. That’s when a laugh vibrates down the flesh of my neck, and he lifts his face to mine.

“Hey, now…” he pokes, pausing his movement.

I smile, suddenly shy, and turn my face into the pillow, peeking at him from the corner of my eye, “I won’t leave too many marks,” I tell him, drawing him back in. When I feel a nibble on my neck, I gasp, the laugh filling the quiet space.

I like the way he’s able to make this silly. I’ve never had whatever this is happening between us, something that feels safe this quickly. I decided then to let go of any reserve I had been holding and completely meld into him. At least at this very moment, I want everything he’s willing to give me right now.

I want him; I want this.

It doesn’t take long for Harry to find that same pace, and his fingers are back to work. When I buck my hips forward, he takes the hint, applying more pressure. I’ve never been this turned on by someone before in my life, and then I’m suddenly taking action, “I want to touch you—” I ask, the words riding out on a wave of pleasure, louder than I intended, and my hips come back up as the waves keep coming.

I don’t even wait for his answer before my hand is coming down to the top of his boxers, tearing them down until his hard dick falls to the top of my thigh as the warmth penetrates the flesh of my skin.

Harry’s eyes flood with relief as he exhales hard with a small groan filling my neck, and it’s like his whole body relaxes, releasing any building tension, no longer being bound in his boxers.

The thought alone of him getting off too has me spiraling deeper into this ocean, this vast space that is slowly becoming us—spreading through me like a slow burn, each wave of pleasure like a spark of electricity pulsing throughout my whole body, tiny electric currents building in the depth of my belly, drawing me closer and closer to my threshold.

“Fuck,” he says, the word muffling into my neck. Harry lifts his head, locking eyes with me as my hand gently wraps around the head of his penis, and I watch the smile spread across his face.

My grip is firm, brushing over his tip, slowly sliding my hand down his shaft. When my hand hits the base of his dick, I gasp out as my thoughts circle back to earlier, me staring at him through his boxers. He’s bigger than anyone I’ve ever been with, and the very thought sends a tingling sensation to the tips of my toes, piquing my curiosity as my hand moves back up to the tip.

Before long, Harry is pressing his lips into mine as my hand continues to work up and down his shaft, and I listen as his breathing picks up, pushing air into my mouth until every breath is a shared breath. A soft moan fills my mouth as he starts breathing words into my mouth, drawing each one out, “So—fucking…good.”

He’s getting so lost in the pleasure that I have to buck my hips to remind him to keep touching me, and he lets out a breathy laugh, “Sorry…” he whispers, pressing his fingers back into my clit as his hand continues slow circles, and I’m already close, my grasp tightening when it brushes over the head of his penis.

Then he crashes into the crook of my neck as his breath speeds up, and the thought of him feeling the same pleasure is bringing me to the edge as heat builds between our bodies. This rhythm working between us is taking over like a haze of pleasure I don’t think I’ll ever want to come down from.

Harry’s fingers press into me harder, picking the pace back up as his thumb softly slides down to my entrance, and I let out a quiet moan, pushing down onto the tip of his thumb as it dips in, and I close my legs around his hand, my hips grinding against him, inviting him in.

When he gently moves his hand away, he parts my legs, delicate in the way his fingers slide into me, stopping partway, and slowly bringing them back out—I feel like I’m dripping, like I’ve never been this turned on in my life, and he must think the same thing because I feel his breath push into my ear, “God…you’re so fucking wet,” he tells me, and I moan out, pulling him closer to me, as if he could get any closer, but I want to feel him, all of him.

Each time he draws his fingers in and out of me, they go deeper and deeper until the entire length of his long fingers is inside me, and when his thumb begins to move over my clit, slowly working small circles, my grip on his dick tightens, and I close my eyes, riding another wave.

And as I close my eyes, I let my hand paint a picture of what he could feel like inside me. The swell of his cock, thick, his length hitting every spot. With each pump up and down his shaft, I’m closer to my peak. The closer I get, the harder my legs press together, forcing his fingers to stay inside me.

He’s getting close. I can tell by the way our breaths sound in unison, heavy with all the effort we’re both putting in, which only adds another layer of pleasure. “You’re going to make me come—don’t stop,” I beg, yelling out as I fill the space with my cry, but Harry is quick, and he lifts his head, pushing his lips against mine, stifling my words as they turn to moans in his mouth—I’m so close. I’ll fucking die if he stops. I want this. I want him. I want this over and over—

And fuck, it’s building, building, tightening in my lower belly, and I gasp in air and hold my breath as my walls clench around his thick fingers. My only reaction is to wrap my arm around his neck, pressing his mouth against mine harder and harder, trying to control any sound that slips past my lips.

My body is trembling as I push down onto his fingers one last time, sending the loudest moan that has ever left my body straight into his mouth, and I feel my walls contract, tighter and tighter, and I know I’m over the edge as a sweeping wave of pleasure washes over me, pulling me under, and my whole body seizes with it.

It’s all happening so fast, and when I hear a loud grunt leave Harry’s throat and he shoves his face into my neck, burying his own moans, his body tenses up and fills my hand with a burst of warm cum.

It’s all so fucking glorious, the comedown; my hips slowly circle his fingers as I ride out the rest of my orgasm, completely stopping when my body can’t handle another second, and our bodies go still, unmoving as we both try to collect our breath.

“Fuck,” is all I can breathe out, and I release my grip from his neck as Harry lifts his face to mine.

His face is completely flushed, and I can only imagine what I must look like, but I don’t even care because there’s a huge smile on his face. “Fuck is right,” he says, starting to pull his fingers from my body, and the motion is overstimulating, and my hand is on his wrist in a matter of seconds, slowing him down.

“Ahhh… slow, slow, slow…” I warn, pressing my forehead to his.

His breathy laugh fans over my face as he says, “So tight for me, so perfect” And when we both laugh, I press a kiss to the sheen of sweat on his forehead.

“With a dick like that, I’m sure anyone feels tight… I can’t even imagine that thing inside me…” I joke, pushing the words into his skin.

When our eyes meet again, he’s smiling, a cocky smirk playing at his lips. “Can we shower?” he asks, brushing his lips across mine. “Maybe one day we’ll both find out…”

“I’m counting on it… and God, yes, let’s shower… oh or maybe a bath?” I answer.

Harry presses his lips to mine, then. “That was amazing, by the way… thank you.”

“No, thank you… I haven’t come that hard… I think. Ever. I swear.” I tell him, and it’s true; that was insane, and now I’m even more obsessed.

“Well, hopefully there will be more to come… no pun intended.” He laughs, pushing his mouth against mine before I can answer.

And now I hope whatever he’s bringing to the table is something we can manage, something that won’t ruin this, ruin us, when I feel like maybe, just maybe, we might have a chance.

A/N: The next chapter will be posted Monday 6/2. I have a ton of stuff going on but don't want to leave you guys hanging. Hope you enjoy this chapter. I really liked their connection in this one!! 🙃

LET'S TALK ABOUT IT: A close connection indeed...do you think Harry will go through with telling her or do you think he'll chicken out? Should he have just told her right off the bat. They were wild for this one.

->chat with me<-

Tag List: @howling-wolf97 @sassamanda77 @babegoalsreads @palmettogal508 @indierockgirrl @lizsogolden @sexymfharriet @pologoonies @amateurduck

Chapter Fifteen

All Chapters Here <-

[cloudyluun]

No Cameras Allowed (p4) | famous!harry

Summary: Your private messages have been leaked, the world is dissecting every detail, and the paparazzi are relentless. Harry is furious, protective, and ready to go to war for you. But as the pressure mounts, the question lingers—are you worth the fight? And more importantly… will you let him fight for you?

A/N: If you ever wanted to know what a PR nightmare looks like, welcome to the disaster! This part is 80% stress, 10% emotional turmoil, and 10% Harry being a human shield. Enjoy the angst, darlings. Don’t forget to leave me love (or therapy bills) in the comments. ❤️

Word Count: 5,4k

Warnings: 

Invasion of privacy (leaked messages, paparazzi harassment)

Emotional distress & self-doubt

Angst, tension, and existential crisis moments

Mentions of legal action & media scandals

Protective!Harry in full-on war mode

A tiny, fragile glimpse of hope at the end

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆

The silence in the room is suffocating.

The bright, sudden flash still lingers behind your eyelids, a harsh imprint against the darkness. Your breath stutters in your chest, too shallow, too fast, as your mind struggles to catch up with what just happened.

A camera.

Someone is outside.

Someone is watching.

Harry moves before you do.

His reaction is pure instinct, muscles tensing as he pushes off the couch, his body a solid wall between you and the window. His head snaps toward the source of the light, green eyes flashing with something raw, something dangerous. His breathing is sharp, controlled, but you can see the way his fists tighten, knuckles blanching as rage coils through his body like a live wire.

You don’t even realize you’re gripping your phone like a lifeline until the notifications blur together on the screen. The vibrations are constant, the messages rolling in like an avalanche—unstoppable, overwhelming. Your name is everywhere, attached to headlines that twist and stretch the truth into something grotesque, something unrecognizable.

Your stomach clenches. This isn’t just gossip anymore.

This is war.

Harry’s entire body is coiled with tension as he storms toward the window, yanking the curtain back just in time to see movement—a shadow darting away, camera still in hand. He curses under his breath, every muscle in his back flexing as he fights the urge to chase after them, to do something, to stop this before it spirals even further out of control.

But it’s too late.

The damage is already done.

You can feel it in the way your fingers tremble as you swipe through the messages. See it in the way Harry’s breath comes too fast, too sharp, his entire body wound tight with barely restrained fury.

He turns back to you, his expression shifting from anger to something else—something quieter, something more desperate. His brows are drawn together, his jaw tight, but his eyes are searching yours, scanning your face like he’s trying to gauge how bad this is, how much more you can take before you break.

“We need to get out of here.”

His voice is firm. Unshakable. A decision already made.

But all you can do is stare at the screen, the words bleeding together, the weight of them pressing down on your chest like a vice.

EXCLUSIVE: PRIVATE MESSAGES LEAKED. THE TRUTH ABOUT Y/N AND HARRY STYLES.

Your world is falling apart. Again.

And this time, you’re not sure you’ll survive it.

The air in the room feels thick, pressing against your ribs, making it impossible to breathe. The weight of the flashing headlines, the invasion of your privacy, the sheer force of the betrayal—it crushes you from the inside out. Your fingers are still curled around your phone, but you can’t bring yourself to look at the screen anymore. You can’t read another twisted version of your own life, can’t stomach another invasive headline dissecting your relationship, your secrets, your body.

Harry is moving before you can.

His presence is sharp, controlled, but barely. You can see it in the rigid line of his shoulders, in the way his breath comes fast and uneven, like he’s fighting to keep himself from unraveling. His jaw is clenched so tight it looks painful, his hands curling and uncurling at his sides as if he’s physically restraining himself from putting his fist through the wall.

“We need to get out of here.” His voice is rough, edged with frustration, but beneath it is something softer. Urgent. Protective.

You finally lift your gaze, meeting his. He’s watching you closely, his expression unreadable, but his eyes—his eyes are burning. With determination. With something fierce and unrelenting. You nod, unable to form words, and that’s all it takes.

Harry grabs what he can—his phone, his jacket, the well-worn cap he always wears when he wants to disappear. You follow suit, hands moving on autopilot as you shove your essentials into a bag: your phone, your keys, your wallet. Your sunglasses, even though it’s late and useless against the darkness outside.

Harry is already dialing before you even reach the door. His voice is clipped when Jeff picks up, sharp with frustration and urgency.

“I need a secure place. Now.”

A pause. You can’t hear Jeff’s response, but Harry’s free hand is already tightening around his cap, knuckles white.

“Somewhere remote. No press, no paps, no one. Just make it happen.”

Another pause. Then Harry exhales sharply, shaking his head. “Yeah. Fine. Send the address. We’re leaving now.”

He hangs up without another word, shoving his phone into his pocket. His fingers find the small of your back, pressing lightly as he steers you toward the door.

“Come on,” he murmurs. “Car’s downstairs.”

You barely process moving through the hallway, the elevator ride down, the cold night air hitting your skin like a slap. Your thoughts are a blur, looping endlessly—Who leaked it? What else is out there? Will it ever stop?

Then—

The flash.

The moment you step outside, cameras explode around you, white-hot bursts piercing the night.

You flinch, instinctively ducking your head, but Harry is already there. His arm loops around your shoulders, pulling you in tight against him as he guides you toward the waiting car. Voices shout from every direction.

“Harry! Y/N! Do you have a statement?” “Are the leaked messages real?” “Harry, how do you feel about Y/N betraying your trust?” “Is this the end of your relationship?” “Are you going to sue?”

The words hit like bullets, each one a fresh wound, but you don’t stop. You can’t.

Harry keeps his head down, his grip on you firm as he hauls the door open, practically shoving you inside before climbing in behind you. The moment the door slams shut, the noise outside dulls to a muffled roar.

Your breath stutters as the car peels away from the curb, the tires screeching slightly against the pavement. But even as you leave, the flashes continue, cameras desperate to capture every last second.

Jeff’s team was fast, but not fast enough. The paparazzi are already following.

Harry curses under his breath as he pulls his cap lower over his face, one hand gripping the back of his neck in frustration. The driver takes a sharp turn, speeding up in an attempt to lose them, but they’re relentless. Two, maybe three cars tail closely behind, cameras flashing through the tinted windows.

You swallow hard, curling into yourself, fingers twisting the fabric of your sweater in your lap.

The silence in the car is thick, charged with unspoken words, with fear, with the weight of everything crashing down all at once.

Your throat tightens. “Is this ever going to stop?”

Harry doesn’t hesitate.

He reaches over, sliding his fingers through yours, squeezing tight. His grip is warm, steady, anchoring you even as the world around you spirals out of control.

“We’re going to end it.” His voice is low, firm, a promise. “I swear.”

For the first time in days, you almost believe him.

The words settle over you, warm and steady, like a fragile shield against the chaos. But the feeling is fleeting. The moment the car speeds into the countryside, the city lights disappearing behind you, doubt creeps back in—slow and insidious.

The villa is remote, just as Jeff promised. Hidden behind towering trees, the long driveway winds through a dense forest before opening up to a sleek, modern house with floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook a vast stretch of land. It should feel like a sanctuary. It should feel safe.

But it doesn’t.

Not when your phone still vibrates with endless notifications. Not when you know that, even here, you’re just waiting for the next wave of headlines to crash over you.

Inside, the villa is silent except for the faint hum of the heating system. Harry drops his bag near the door, running a hand over his face before turning to you.

“You should sleep,” he says, voice softer now, exhaustion seeping into the edges.

You nod, not because you’re tired, but because you don’t know what else to do. Because the weight of everything is pressing so heavily against your chest that you feel like if you speak, you might crack open entirely.

You disappear into the master bedroom without another word, closing the door behind you.

And then, finally, you let yourself fall apart.

You sit on the edge of the bed, your head in your hands.

The villa is beautiful. Quiet. Untouched by the rest of the world. But your thoughts are loud, relentless. Your mind replays the headlines, the leaks, the accusations—each one sinking into your skin like poison.

It’s your fault.

You should have been more careful.

You should have never let yourself believe you could have this—him—without consequences.

Because the truth is, you’re dragging him down with you.

Harry Styles, the golden boy, the untouchable icon, the man whose career has been meticulously crafted over a decade—he’s being torn apart for something he didn’t do.

And it’s all because of you.

Your stomach twists violently, and suddenly, you can’t breathe. You stand abruptly, pacing the room, arms wrapping around yourself as if you can physically hold yourself together.

The thought has been lingering in the back of your mind since the second your private messages leaked, but now it takes full shape, solid and undeniable.

You’re ruining him.

The realization knocks the air from your lungs, sharp and brutal.

And there’s only one way to stop it.

When you finally step out of the bedroom, Harry is sitting on the couch, scrolling through his phone. His jaw is tight, his brows drawn together, and you know he’s reading something about you. About him. About this nightmare you’ve pulled him into.

You hesitate for a moment, your fingers curling into fists at your sides.

Then, before you can lose your nerve—

“Maybe you should just let me go.”

The words are quiet. Fragile. A confession and a surrender all at once.

Harry’s head snaps up. His phone drops onto the couch beside him, forgotten. His expression sharpens instantly, disbelief flashing across his face. “What?”

Your chest feels like it’s caving in, but you force yourself to keep going.

“I mean it,” you whisper, wrapping your arms around yourself. “Maybe—maybe this isn’t worth it. Maybe I’m not worth it.”

The silence that follows is deafening.

Then—

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

His voice is hoarse, raw, disbelief laced with something sharper—anger, hurt. He’s on his feet in an instant, closing the distance between you.

“After everything?” His hands curl into fists at his sides, his breathing shallow. “You really think I’d just walk away?”

You swallow hard, blinking against the sting in your eyes. “I don’t want to be the reason you lose everything.”

Harry exhales sharply, shaking his head. “Jesus, Y/N.”

Then, before you can retreat, before you can even think—

His hands cup your face, thumbs brushing against your cheekbones, grounding you. His touch is firm, steady, a contrast to the way you feel like you’re unraveling.

His voice drops to something softer, something that aches.

“You are everything.”

The breath punches out of your lungs.

Your fingers curl around his wrists, holding onto him as if he’s the only thing keeping you tethered to the earth.

For a moment, you just stare at each other, the space between you charged, crackling with everything unsaid. His eyes are wild with frustration, with something dangerously close to desperation.

This should be the turning point.

But it’s not enough.

Not yet.

Because even though his touch feels like home, even though his words dig deep into the part of you that wants so desperately to believe them—

The doubt is still there.

And you don’t know how to make it go away.

Harry’s words should be enough. The way he looks at you like you’re the most important thing in the world should be enough. But the fear is still there, tangled deep in your chest, coiled so tightly around your ribs that it feels impossible to breathe without it.

Maybe it’s because you’ve been here before—at the mercy of the media, of strangers who think they know you, who think they’re entitled to pick apart your life like it’s a story written for their entertainment. But this is different. This is worse.

Because now, it’s not just you.

It’s him.

And you don’t know how to live with that.

You don’t know how to fix it.

But Harry does.

By morning, he’s already in fight mode.

The villa is eerily quiet when you wake up, the morning light filtering through the massive windows. For a brief second, you allow yourself to pretend that things are normal—that you’re just waking up in some beautiful, secluded place with him, that the world isn’t currently tearing you apart outside these walls.

Then you hear his voice.

Sharp. Clipped. Angry.

You pull on a sweater and follow the sound, padding barefoot down the hall until you find him standing in the open-concept living room, pacing near the floor-to-ceiling windows, his phone pressed tightly to his ear. His jaw is set, his brows furrowed, and the tension radiating off him is almost palpable.

“I don’t care how they got the messages,” he snaps, voice cold and lethal. “They posted them. That’s illegal.” A pause. He shakes his head. “I want every single one of those outlets served by the end of the day. I don’t care if we bankrupt the whole fucking tabloid industry in the process.”

You swallow hard, hovering near the doorway. You’ve never seen him like this before. So furious. So unwavering. So willing to burn everything down.

But he isn’t just fighting for himself.

He’s fighting for you.

And it’s terrifying.

He scrubs a hand through his curls, exhaling sharply as the person on the other end responds. His shoulders are tight, his body wound like a coil ready to snap.

“I want their sources,” he says, voice low and venomous. “Who sold it. Who leaked it. Every single name.” Another pause. “No, I’m not issuing a fucking apology. I have nothing to be sorry for. Neither does she.”

The words send a jolt through your chest.

Because that’s what they want, isn’t it?

For you to apologize for something that never should have been anyone else’s business in the first place.

For you to shrink.

For you to disappear.

Harry won’t let that happen.

And for the first time, you start to wonder if you should stop letting it happen, too.

By the time he finally hangs up, he’s exhausted but determined, his shoulders slumping slightly as he drags a hand down his face. He turns to you immediately, his expression softening the moment he sees you.

“Morning, love,” he murmurs, reaching for you instinctively.

You let him pull you in, resting your cheek against his chest, inhaling the familiar scent of him—something steady in the middle of the chaos.

“You’re really doing this,” you whisper, voice muffled against his hoodie.

“Of course I am.” His lips brush the top of your head, lingering there. “We’re not letting them control the story.”

You swallow hard, your hands curling into the fabric of his hoodie. “And what if it just makes it worse?”

Harry exhales slowly, pulling back just enough to tilt your chin up, making you look at him. His eyes are softer now, but still burning with that same unshakable determination.

“It won’t.” His voice is low, steady. “Not if we control it first.”

His PR team has already started working—turning the conversation away from scandal, away from gossip. Instead, they highlight what this really is: an invasion of privacy. A crime. A disgusting violation that no one should have to endure.

The narrative shifts.

Headlines start to change: “Harry Styles & Y/N Take Legal Action Against Tabloid Invasion” “Private Messages Leak Sparks Celebrity Privacy Debate” “Leaked Conversations Were Stolen—Legal Consequences to Follow”

The message is clear.

They’re not going to bully you into silence.

Later that afternoon, a statement is drafted.

Not a denial. Not an apology. Just the truth.

A firm, unwavering declaration:

"Our privacy was violated. Our personal conversations were stolen, twisted, and used against us. We refuse to be shamed for something that should have never been made public in the first place. We will not be bullied into silence. Legal action is being taken."

Jeff sends it over for final approval, but before it goes live, Harry turns to you.

“You don’t have to do this,” he says softly, watching you carefully. “I’ll put it out myself if you don’t want to say anything.”

You hesitate, your throat tightening.

You know this statement changes everything.

If you put this out, you’re no longer just the girl caught in a scandal. You’re taking a stand.

You press your lips together, staring down at the message on your screen. Your fingers hover over the keyboard.

“I don’t know if I can,” you admit quietly.

Harry shifts closer, brushing a strand of hair from your face. His voice is gentle but firm.

“It’s your choice,” he says. “No one else’s.”

You swallow hard, heart hammering.

“But don’t let them scare you into silence, love.” His voice drops to something almost reverent. “That’s what they want.”

You look at him, at the unwavering belief in his eyes, and for the first time, the fear starts to loosen its grip on you.

Maybe…

Maybe it’s time to fight back

You don’t sleep that night.

You try. You lie in bed next to Harry, listening to the slow, steady rhythm of his breathing, feeling the warmth of him beside you. But your mind won’t stop. The headlines, the messages, the invasive betrayal—it all loops endlessly in your head, pressing down on your chest like a weight you can’t shake.

And then, sometime around three in the morning, it clicks.

You’re tired of running.

Tired of being reduced to a victim. Tired of letting other people decide the narrative. Tired of being silent.

You slip out of bed quietly, careful not to wake Harry. The villa is dark, save for the soft glow of the moon spilling through the massive windows. You grab your phone and pad into the living room, curling up on the couch as the screen illuminates your face.

Your fingers hesitate over the keyboard for a second.

And then, you start typing.

You don’t craft some polished PR statement.

You don’t ask for sympathy.

You don’t justify yourself.

Instead, you write from the rawest part of you—the part that’s been stripped bare, the part that has spent too long feeling ashamed of something that was never your fault.

"This past week has been one of the hardest of my life. My privacy was invaded, my personal conversations stolen and used against me. I’ve been dissected, humiliated, and turned into a headline—treated like I’m not a real person, like I don’t deserve the basic human right of keeping parts of my life private."

"I refuse to apologize for something that never should have been made public in the first place. I refuse to let strangers twist my words, my choices, my relationship into something grotesque and scandalous. I refuse to let people make me feel ashamed for existing."

"To the people who did this, to the ones who made a profit off my pain—I hope you understand that what you’ve done is not journalism. It’s not news. It’s cruelty. And I hope one day, you feel the weight of it."

"To those who have supported me, who have spoken out against the invasion of my privacy—thank you. You have no idea what it means to me."

"I’m not running anymore."

You stare at the words on the screen, your pulse hammering.

And then—

You hit post.

It explodes.

Within minutes, your phone starts buzzing—notifications flooding in so fast that your screen freezes. The world reacts instantly.

Your name trends worldwide, but for the first time, it’s not attached to scandal.

It’s attached to your story.

People rally behind you. Fans flood your mentions, sending messages of love and support, calling out the media for their invasion of your privacy.

"This is disgusting. NO ONE deserves to have their private life exploited like this." _"Proud of Y/N for standing up for herself. We love you." _"The way the press treats women in the industry is fucking horrifying. This needs to stop."

But it’s not just fans.

Celebrities start speaking out.

Big names. **A-list actors, musicians, influencers—**people who understand the fear of losing control of their own lives.

"What happened to Y/N is beyond unacceptable. The industry needs to do better." – [Famous Actress] "Paparazzi culture is predatory, and the fact that she even has to defend herself is sickening." – [Well-Known Musician] "Proud of Y/N for standing her ground. Privacy matters." – [High-Profile Model]

And then—

Harry reposts it.

No caption.

No additional statement.

Just your words.

Because they say everything that needs to be said.

By morning, everything has changed.

The headlines that once painted you as a scandal now tell a different story:

“Harry & Y/N Fight Back: Privacy Matters” “Celebrity Culture Under Fire After Leaked Messages Scandal” “Fans & Celebs Support Y/N Against Media Exploitation”

The tabloids try to keep up, but the tide is turning. The public is angry, not at you, but at the people who did this to you.

And for the first time since this nightmare began—

You feel like you can breathe again.

The shift in public perception is undeniable. The voices that once dissected you like a scandal now speak with outrage at the invasion of your privacy. Fans defend you fiercely. Celebrities take a stand. Even news outlets that once sensationalized your pain are forced to acknowledge the ethical violation at play.

But it’s not enough.

Because while the world moves on, while the headlines start to shift to the next big thing, you’re still left with the wreckage.

And Alex Carter?

He’s still out there.

He’s still breathing.

You don’t go looking for revenge recklessly.

No, you do it right.

You gather information. You use every resource available—Harry’s legal team, your own contacts, private investigators. You dig into Alex Carter’s every move in the past six months, compiling evidence, timelines, bank transactions, leaked communications.

And then—

You find it.

The proof. The direct link between him and the leaked messages. The money trail from a tabloid to a shadowed offshore account. The receipts.

And just like that—

He’s fucking done.

You don’t wait for him to come to you.

You go to him.

His office is a glass fortress in the middle of the city, all sleek surfaces and sharp edges. You know this place well—you spent years being mentored here, being told how to survive this industry, how to be grateful for every opportunity.

It’s almost poetic that this is where it ends.

The receptionist looks startled when you walk in, but you don’t stop. You push through the doors, unannounced, unapologetic, unstoppable.

Alex is sitting behind his desk, his laptop open, a half-empty cup of coffee beside him. He looks tired. Stressed. Like a man who knows his world is crumbling.

When he looks up and sees you, his face drains of color.

“Y/N.” His voice is tight, forced into something that almost sounds casual, as if you’re just an old client stopping by for a chat. “This is—unexpected.”

You shut the door behind you.

And you smile.

But it’s not friendly.

It’s the kind of smile that precedes destruction.

You take your time. You don’t speak right away, just let the silence stretch, let him feel it.

Then, finally, you sit down across from him, folding your hands neatly on the desk.

“You leaked the messages,” you say.

A statement. Not a question.

Alex exhales through his nose, feigning exasperation. “You don’t have proof of that.”

You tilt your head. “Actually, I do.”

And then—you lay it all out.

Every transaction. Every email. Every direct link between him and the tabloids.

You watch as his mask cracks. As his calm façade shatters into something desperate, something frantic.

He scrambles for excuses. For anything.

“It wasn’t personal,” he rushes out, leaning forward, his hands flat on the desk. “Y/N, you have to understand—this is the business. The industry would have come for you eventually. I just—” He swallows. “I just made sure it happened on my terms.”

You almost laugh.

His terms.

Like he ever had control over you.

“You always told me the industry would eat me alive,” you say, voice quiet. Steady. Unshaken.

Alex exhales, nodding quickly, latching onto your words like they might save him. “Exactly. I was protecting you, in a way—”

You cut him off with the final blow.

“Guess what?” You stand, smoothing your hands down your jacket. “I’m still here.”

You lean in slightly, dropping your voice to something dangerous.

“And you? You’re done.”

His mouth opens, but no words come out.

Because he knows.

He knows you didn’t just come here for revenge.

You came to end him.

And you have.

By the time you walk out of that office, head held high, shoulders back, something in you has shifted.

You’re not just surviving anymore.

You’ve won.

The realization settles deep in your bones as you step out of Alex Carter’s office and into the cool evening air.

For days—weeks—you’ve felt like you were drowning, gasping for air as the world pressed down on you. But now?

Now, you’re lighter.

It’s over. Really, truly over.

There’s only one thing left to do.

You take a deep breath, pull your phone from your pocket, and text Harry.

Come outside.

The villa is quiet when you return.

The sun is sinking low in the sky, setting the world on fire with streaks of orange and pink, reflecting off the calm surface of the lake beyond the house. You spot him immediately—standing at the water’s edge, hands shoved into the pockets of his hoodie, his shoulders hunched ever so slightly.

He hasn’t heard you yet.

You take a moment just to look at him.

The tension in his frame, the weight he’s been carrying for you, with you. The way his curls shift slightly in the breeze, the golden light catching on the angles of his jaw, his cheekbones.

God, you love him.

And you almost lost this.

You step forward, your shoes crunching lightly against the gravel.

His head snaps up at the sound.

For a second, neither of you move.

His green eyes are careful, searching, waiting. There’s something fragile in them, something hesitant—like he’s afraid of what you might say, like he’s bracing himself for another fight, another wound.

But you don’t give him one.

Instead, you smile. Soft. Small.

And you say the only two words that matter.

“It’s over.”

Harry exhales sharply, like the air has just been punched from his lungs. His whole body sags, the tension draining from his frame all at once.

And then—

He moves.

In three long strides, he’s there, hands cupping your face, his thumbs brushing against your cheekbones like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you, like he can’t believe you’re really here, saying these words.

His voice is hoarse when he speaks. “Are you sure?”

You nod. “I have proof. He’s finished.”

Harry swallows hard, his eyes flickering between yours, searching. Not just for confirmation, but for you.

For the girl he’s loved through every storm, every headline, every broken moment.

And when he finds her—when he sees that you’re okay—

He kisses you.

Not desperate. Not rough.

Just deep. Slow. Sure.

Like a promise. Like relief.

His hands slide from your face to your waist, pulling you against him, and you melt into him, arms winding around his neck, fingers tangling in his curls.

The world fades. The noise, the past, the pain. None of it matters anymore.

There’s just this.

Just him.

Just you.

When he finally pulls back, he presses his forehead against yours, breathless, his fingers still tracing gentle patterns on your back.

His voice is soft, full of something raw and unshakable.

“We made it.”

Your heart swells.

You cup his face, brushing your thumb over the stubble on his jaw, smiling as you whisper,

“Yeah.”

Your lips brush his, featherlight, a quiet, steady truth.

“We did.”

The words hang in the air between you both, simple but profound, the quiet reassurance you’ve both been craving after everything that’s happened. The chaos. The heartbreak. The betrayals.

You pull back just enough to look at him, your hands still intertwined, your eyes locking in a moment that feels like the calm after the storm. Harry’s gaze softens, his features still raw, but there’s something else now. Something that wasn’t there before.

Relief.

For the first time in days, you feel the weight of the world lift just enough to let you breathe.

A few days later, you find yourself standing in front of a crowd again, this time not as a victim but as a force of your own.

Harry’s hand is warm in yours, his fingers gently threading through yours, and for once, the press is the farthest thing from your mind. This isn’t about the headlines or the lies anymore. It’s about the two of you, walking out into the world side by side.

The cameras are relentless as you step into the venue. The flashbulbs pop, lighting up the night like a thousand tiny suns, but you don’t flinch. You’ve faced worse, and you’re not backing down now.

You squeeze Harry’s hand, a silent declaration to yourself as much as to the world. You’re not hiding anymore. You’re standing tall.

And then, as if the moment is its own kind of defiance, you do something you never would’ve dared before.

You don’t hesitate. You interlace your fingers with Harry’s, showing the world exactly who you are—and who you’re with.

In full view of the press, you and Harry are undeniable. A team. Unbreakable.

It’s a quiet rebellion, but it’s a victory all the same.

The next morning, the news shifts.

“Harry & Y/N Fight Back: Privacy Matters.”

No more scandal-fueled drama. No more manipulation. This time, the story is yours to tell.

And in the flood of positive messages, supportive comments from fans, and even messages from celebrities condemning the invasion of privacy, you feel something shift deep inside. The narrative is no longer in their hands. It’s in yours.

As the evening draws to a close, the event winding down, you find yourself standing with Harry by the door. His hand still hasn’t left yours.

He leans down, his lips brushing against your ear, the warmth of his breath sending a shiver down your spine.

“No cameras allowed.”

The words are full of quiet pride, but also a promise—one that you can finally believe.

And for the first time, you believe it.

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆

Thank you so much for reading! I appreciate any support so remember to comment, reblog, & like ❤️‍🔥

taglist: @oscahpastry @mema10 @angelbabyyy99 @iloveharrystyles04 @cinemharry @drwho06 @donutsandpalmtrees @panini @mads3502 @imgonnadreamaboutthewayyoutaaaa @one-sweet-gubler @rizosrizos26 @ciriceimpera @everyscarisahealingplace @hello-heyhi @sexymfharriet @lizsogolden @hannah9921 @chicabonitasblog @huhidontknowstuff @berrywoods1245 @jennovaaa @angeldavis777 @prettygurl-2009 @almostcontentcreator @run-for-the-hills @maudie-duan @dipmeinhoneyh @harrrrystylesslut @georgiarose94 @stylestarkey @watarmelon212 @hopefullimaginer123, @fangirl509east @bethiegurl19 @adoredeanna @secretisme4 @harry2121 @hopefullimaginer123 @fangirl509east @uncassettodiricordi @2601-london @zbaby @harryscherries28

[artificialpillow]

Meet Eloise!

The time has come - let’s introduce you to my OC!

I will not be writing a regular fic, so it might be a little bit harder to properly get to know her. But! There WILL be one shots, mostly about the most important events in her life and obviously some to describe her relationship with the love interest (😏).

Let’s start!

Eloise’s profile

Basic information:

Name: Eloise Veredi

Age: 17

Birthday: March 26th

Blood Type: A

Love Interest: Yuno Grinberryall

Birthplace: Outskirts of Clover, town of Guerdia

Magic: Glass Magic

Appearance:

Height: 165cm

Eyes: Dark green

Hair: Shoulder-length, wavy blonde hair with curtain bangs. She mostly ties it in a bun as it bothers her during training or work.

Clothing: Eloise values comfort, so her clothing generally allows a wide range of movement. As a commoner she does not own lots of fancy clothes (however she gets some when she starts working with the Magic Knights). Her favourite outfit contains a dark gray high-neck shirt, brown pants and leather knee boots. Her favourite piece of clothing is a green cape, which she received as a gift from her dad. Eloise rarely wears dresses, but with time she grows fond of them and puts them on for special occasions

Special features: With her magic being glass magic, she used to get hurt a lot while training. Currently, on her neck, arms and the right side of her abdomen are noticeable scars caused by her past lack of control over spells. Eloise’s face is partly covered with freckles, her ears are pierced - she wears small, silver earrings.

Personality:

Eloise is an introvert, however she enjoys spending time with people she knows. Due to her being a commoner she is cautious in making acquaintances as she fears being belittled by higher-ups. On the other hand, she appears confident while fulfilling her duties and doing things she’s skilled at. She prefers working on her own and is not a great team player. She may appear as reckless.

Eloise hates conflicts and is incredibly patient; however when the line is crossed, she bursts out with anger and lets all the emotion out. She has no problem with apologizing but would only do it when she actually believes she was wrong. She rarely confronts anyone, rather keeps comments to herself.

Despite not showing it so much, Eloise is emotional and quickly grows fond of people (the hardest part is actually meeting them). She finds it difficult to let go of things important to her and holds grudges when she gets hurt.

She tends to overthink and assume other peoples’ intentions. She is quick in judgement, but when proven otherwise she eventually changes her opinion.

Background:

Eloise is a daughter of Delano and Ann Veredi, known craftsmen. Her parents and her grandfather, Gerald, ran a business based on agricultural tools trading. As a child she would travel with them around Clover to find new clients and sell merchandise. One of the places they visited regularly was the Hage village, where Eloise met Asta and Yuno. She quickly befriended Asta, and played with him a lot. Her relationship with Yuno was not well developed, as the boy was too shy and guarded; therefore she did not know much about him. After her grandpa’s death, Delano came up with improving their products with magic. At this point regular citizens couldn’t afford to buy them, so the family started visiting the capital and wealthier towns. Eloise lost contact with Asta and Yuno completely. During one of her stays in the capital, she happened to see a Captain scolding an injured Magic Knight. Not so much later she heard an older mage bullying a squadmate for his status. At that moment, Eloise decided not to take part in the entrance exam.

When she was 13, she wanted to focus on her magic and stopped travelling with her parents. She would spend hours in the forest, trying to learn how to control the only spell she knew how to cast - The Glass Daggers. Due to her lack of control, Eloise would often get injured and come home with ripped clothes, and wounds that left visible marks on her body. Through the years she had encountered many strange creatures and step by step learned how to tackle them. At some point she became and expert and would take care of magically influenced animals and plants around the town.

Eloise never had close friends. She got on well with her classmates, but never considered them that important in her life. Her lack of closeness with people her age did not bother her, she knew how to entertain herself on her own and maintained good relationships with older and younger members of her community.

One shots background:

One day, when Eloise was figting magic boars in the forest, she suddenly got shot down. She found out that the Golden Dawns' knoghts arrived to take care of the problem on their own. When told to go home, she showed them her method for dealing with these animals. Mimosa, in awe of the girls knowledge, suggested taking her to the capital and introducing her to the Wizard King. He proposed that Eloise stays in the capital and teaches the Magic Knights her methods. (That's where the one shots start!)

Fun facts:

She has a habit of speaking too loud

She would often talk to herself

Her parents like to call her ”Apple pie”

She gets easily attached to objects

She loves teasing

At some point Eloise finds out, that with her glass magic she can cast a reverse spell and fight with sand

When asked about her scars, she jokes that she fell out of a window

Eloise does not know how to properly fly a broom, as she never really travelled outside of her town

She loves cooking but only knows how to prepare basic meals

She easily gets bored

[n5blogbeginner]

勉強の目標:

- 日記を書く

- 友達と話す

勉強 • べんきょう • study

目標 • もくひょう • the goal

日記 • にっき • diary

書く • かく • to write

友達 • 友だち • friend

話す • はなす • to talk

私の // 勉強の目標は //日記を書く//と友達と話す。

[mrspascalsworld]