uhuhmaries

[uhuhmaries]

i’m in love with you and your writings 😍😍 you’re so talented bae

I LOVE UUUUUUUI THANKS SO MUCH POOKIE

[uhuhmaries]

Ovulating | H.S.

You’re engaged to THE Harry Styles. ‘Nuff said.

Warnings: Very NSFW

⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹

You’ve been teasing him without meaning to.

Wearing those little shorts around the house. Stretching in front of the open fridge. Pressing your thighs together every time he so much as breathes near your neck. Harry’s noticed it all. He always does.

And when he found your period tracker open on your phone screen earlier—he didn’t say a word. Just smirked to himself.

“Fertile window, hm?” he murmured as he walked off to make tea, like it wasn’t the most dangerous piece of information he could’ve gotten his hands on.

Now, he’s behind you in the kitchen. You’re doing something ordinary—pouring a glass of water, checking your phone—and then he’s crowding you, warm chest against your back, hands firm on your hips.

“I know what this is about,” he murmurs, lips brushing against your neck. “You’ve been walking around this house like a little heat-struck kitten.”

“Harry—”

“You want it, don’t you?” His voice is so low, it’s practically a growl. “Want me to fill you up while you’re ovulating like a good little thing.”

You should say no. You should remind him you’re not ready, that just because your body’s desperate doesn’t mean your mind is. But your legs go weak the moment his palm slips between them, cupping your pussy through the thin fabric.

“So wet already,” he purrs. “Fucking dripping.”

He turns you around and lifts you onto the kitchen counter in one swift move. Your shorts are yanked down. Your underwear follows. He doesn’t waste a second. Two fingers dip into your soaked folds and your entire body reacts like it’s been waiting for him to do that all day.

“You ovulating, baby?” he asks again, teasing you with the tip of his finger. “Need Daddy to take care of you?”

His words burn into your skin, molten and reckless. You nod, lips parted, the heat in your belly unbearable now.

That’s all the confirmation he needs.

His pants are barely pushed down before his cock is out—thick, flushed, leaking.

“You don’t wanna be pregnant?” he asks while lining himself up, like he’s trying to give you one last chance to change your mind. “You sure?”

You shake your head. “I don’t know—fuck—I don’t know.”

“But your pussy does,” he hisses, dragging the head through your folds. “She’s fuckin’ begging for me.”

The second he pushes in, your back arches and a choked moan escapes you. He’s too big. Too deep. Too much.

And it feels so good.

He doesn’t start slow. There’s no gentle rhythm. He’s been holding back for days, maybe weeks, and now he’s unhinged.

“You’re taking it,” he snarls. “So fuckin’ greedy for my cock.”

Your legs are spread wide, your back pressed to the cold countertop, his fingers bruising into your hips as he pounds into you. You can feel every drag, every twitch. His eyes are locked on your belly.

“Gonna fuck a baby into you,” he pants. “Gonna fill you till you’re leaking down your thighs.”

Your body pulses at his words, and that’s when it happens.

You squirt around him without warning, a high-pitched cry ripping from your throat as your vision blurs. He groans deep and slams in harder, wetter sounds filling the kitchen.

“Fuck yes,” he growls. “Milk my cock, baby. Take it all. You’re gonna make me come so deep.”

And then he’s there—hips jerking, cock buried to the hilt, coming inside you with a raw, broken sound. His hands tremble as he holds you in place, making sure none of it spills.

You’re both shaking. Covered in sweat. And he still doesn’t pull out.

Instead, he slides out just enough to watch his cum drip from you… then pushes it back in with his thumb.

“Look at that,” he whispers. “Didn’t even pull out. What if that was it? What if I just made you a mama?”

You don’t answer. You can’t.

Because your body is already clenching again, needing more.

And Harry—still hard—just grins.

“Round two,” he says, eyes dark. “On the floor. I’m not done with you yet.”

Your legs are still trembling when he lowers you to the cold tile floor. You barely have time to adjust before he drops to his knees between your thighs like a man possessed.

You try to protest—softly, uselessly—something about being too sensitive, too full. But Harry looks up at you, lips shiny, eyes blazing.

“You thought I was done?” he says, voice dark and low. “Not when you’re still dripping with me. Not when this cunt’s still clenching like she’s begging.”

He grabs the backs of your thighs and spreads you wide open, forcing you to hold eye contact.

“Gotta taste what I gave you.”

And then he dives in.

There’s no warm-up, no teasing. His mouth seals around your pussy like it belongs there—tongue lapping greedily at his own cum leaking from your hole. It’s filthy. It’s feral. It makes your head fall back and your mouth open in a silent scream.

“Harry—oh my god—”

“You taste so fuckin’ good with me inside you,” he growls against your cunt, tongue thrusting in, then dragging up to your clit. “Gonna make you squirt again. All over my face this time.”

His fingers join his mouth—two, then three—stretching you open, fucking his cum back inside you while his tongue works your clit in fast, relentless circles.

You try to close your legs. He yanks them apart wider.

“No, baby. You don’t get to hide from this. Let me have it.”

And then it hits you—violent, uncontrollable. You come with a strangled cry, body jerking as you gush all over his mouth. He groans like it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted, lapping up every drop, completely drenched, and still hungry.

He’s hard again. You feel it before you even open your eyes—his cock rubbing against your soaked folds, slick from your squirt and his spit, twitching with need.

“You’re gonna take it again,” he says, dragging the head of his cock against your sensitive entrance. “One more time, baby. Let me fill you again. Wanna see it dripping twice.”

You don’t even answer. You just whimper and nod, already lifting your hips toward him, aching for more.

He sinks in fast and deep, both of you gasping. It’s too much—too full—but you take it anyway. Your walls flutter around him, overstimulated and stretched wide, and Harry groans at the feeling.

“That’s it, fuckin’ hell—milk my cock again, just like that.”

The thrusts are slower this time but deeper, heavier. He’s watching your belly again. Watching your tits bounce. Watching your face twist in overstimmed pleasure.

“You feel that? My cum still in there? Gonna fuck it in deeper, make sure it sticks.”

Your nails dig into his back. You’re shaking again, on the edge, your pussy pulling him in tighter with every snap of his hips.

“I’m gonna come inside you again, baby,” he pants, hand gripping your throat now—not hard, just enough. “And you’re gonna take it. Let me fuckin’ breed you.”

You shatter again.

Squirting around him as your orgasm explodes through you, crying out his name, soaking his thighs and stomach while your pussy clamps down and pulls him over the edge with you.

He lets out a wrecked, feral moan as he comes inside you again—thick, hot spurts spilling deep until you feel like you can’t hold anymore.

But he doesn’t pull out.

He just presses in deeper. Lets it sit there.

Lets you feel how full you are.

Both of you breathless, tangled, shaking on the floor.

Then his mouth is at your ear.

“Fuckin’ perfect,” he whispers, hand sliding down to your belly. “You were made for this. Look at you—overflowing for me.”

And somehow… you love it.

Every messy, filthy, fucked-out second of it.

⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹

📝 Author’s Note:

Who else is in their ovulation please with me because omg HELPPPPPP

[uhuhmaries]

If You Could, Would You? | PART 9

Warnings: Explicit sexual content (18+), heavy angst, emotional relapse, unhealthy coping, emotional manipulation, self-loathing, trauma bonding

Full Series: If You Could, Would You?

⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹

You start going to therapy. Like, really going.

Not just showing up and sitting there, waiting for your 50 minutes to end. You talk. You listen. You finally let your past breathe.

And that’s when you realize Reese doesn’t belong in your life.

He’s kind. He means well. But he’s just been… something to hold onto. A warm body to keep the shaking away. A placeholder for something you can’t name but crave like a drug.

You tell him the truth on a Thursday night.

You sit on the floor of your apartment with your knees pulled to your chest, and he watches you say it—not like he didn’t know it was coming.

“I can’t do this anymore,” you say. “You deserve someone who’s actually here. Not just someone trying to stay afloat.”

He nods. Says, “Okay.” Leaves a hoodie behind by accident. Doesn’t come back for it.

You cry after the door closes.

Not because of heartbreak.

But because the silence after is loud as hell.

The alone phase is the worst.

You’re not used to sitting with yourself. You don’t even know what your favorite food is when no one’s choosing for you. You don’t know how to fill time without someone distracting you.

You try journaling. Cooking. More therapy.

But you relapse.

Of course you do.

You end up at a bar across from Harry’s venue. Not his stage. Just the seedy one next door where the drinks are cheaper and nobody asks questions.

You’re too loud. Laughing too hard. Letting some stranger’s hands slide up the back of your thighs as you lean against the cold brick wall outside.

And that’s when you hear it.

“Y/N?”

The voice isn’t loud, but it slices through the night.

Harry.

You blink through the blur of alcohol, turning slowly.

He’s there, half in shadow. Dressed down, but it doesn’t matter. Your body still reacts like he’s a fucking wildfire.

“Get off her,” he snaps at the guy, who raises his hands and walks off muttering something. Harry walks straight up to you.

“You’re wasted,” he says.

“No shit,” you smile, then your lip trembles. “I didn’t know you’d be here.”

“I wasn’t supposed to be.” He sighs, looking down at you. “You shouldn’t be either.”

“I didn’t know who else to be.”

That silences him.

He takes your arm gently. Guides you toward his car. Doesn’t speak until you’re in the passenger seat, head leaning against the window.

“I’m not mad,” he says quietly. “I just hate seeing you like this.”

You close your eyes. “Me too.”

⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹

The ride is silent. But your skin? On fire.

He brings you back to his place. Smaller. Tidy. New. No Alice. You’re not even sure why. You’re not sure he knows why. But it’s too late the moment the door closes behind you.

“You want tea?” he asks, like the tension between you doesn’t feel like thunder.

You nod. “Sure.”

But you don’t wait.

You cross the room, gripping the collar of his shirt, pulling him down.

He catches your mouth with his like it’s instinct. Teeth. Tongue. Raw and furious.

He lifts you with both hands under your thighs, slamming your back into the wall. You gasp. He bites your bottom lip. Hands everywhere. Hungry. Starving.

“Tell me to stop,” he growls.

You don’t.

“Tell me this isn’t what you fucking want.”

You wrap your legs around his waist. “Don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”

He carries you to his bedroom and throws you onto the bed like you weigh nothing.

“You don’t know what you’re asking for,” he mutters, pulling his shirt over his head. You whimper at the sight—tattoos, veins, all of him tense like a wire ready to snap.

“I do. I do, Harry.”

Your clothes are gone in seconds. He kisses you like he wants to erase the world. His mouth trails from your throat to your tits, sucking hard enough to leave marks. You arch, panting. He groans against your skin.

“You’re mine tonight,” he snarls.

You nod. “Yours.”

“Say it again.”

“Yours.”

He grabs your hair and yanks your head back, mouth hot on your neck. “You want to feel used, don’t you? You want to feel fucked, not loved.”

“Yes,” you choke. “I want it. Please.”

He groans. “Fuck—this is so wrong.”

He lines up at your entrance, rubbing his tip through your slick folds. You gasp, already clenching.

“I have no condom,” he says.

You nod. “I don’t care.”

He pushes in slowly, inch by inch. You both moan, breathless. It hurts. It stretches. But it feels so fucking right.

“Oh my God,” you cry. “You’re so big.”

“Look at you,” he pants. “Taking it so well. Been waiting for this, haven’t you?”

You nod, fucked-out, barely able to speak.

He fucks you like he’s trying to forget. Like he wants to punish you. Like it’s the only thing keeping him alive.

His hand wraps around your throat—firm but not tight.

“You like being ruined, don’t you?”

“Yes,” you gasp.

He pulls your legs wider. Hits that spot over and over again. You’re crying, shaking, begging.

He doesn’t stop.

“Don’t come yet,” he commands.

You whimper. “I’m so close—Harry, please.”

“Hold it. You take what I give you.”

He leans in, kissing you so deep it feels like he’s swallowing your soul.

When he finally lets you fall over the edge, it’s with a snarl and his hands gripping your hips like he owns them. You shatter, moaning his name like a prayer and a curse.

He follows with a loud, broken groan, spilling inside you. It’s hot. It’s messy. It’s too much.

You cling to him thinking it’s over.

You think you’ll lie there, sore and pulsing, Harry’s weight half on you, and maybe fall asleep in the hazy mess of what you just did.

But he doesn’t stop.

He doesn’t even move away.

His lips are still on your neck, open-mouthed kisses turning into soft, bruising sucks. His hands keep roaming, still touching like he hasn’t had enough—like he’ll never get enough.

And then he shifts. Pulls out slow. You gasp at the sensation, sensitive and trembling—but he groans at the sight of it.

His come, leaking out of you. The wetness between your thighs glistening in the low light.

“Fuck…” he whispers. “Fuck, look at that.”

“Harry,” you murmur, unsure if you’re begging for more or asking him to stop.

He licks into your mouth like it’s the first time all over again.

“You’re not done,” he mutters into your kiss. “I can’t be done. I can’t fucking stop.”

He sits back on his heels, eyes dark and wild, then grabs your ankle and pulls your legs apart again.

“Turn over,” he demands.

You blink. “What?”

“Bend over for me,” he says, voice lower now. “Get on your fucking knees.”

The tone does something to you—cuts through your spine and straight down between your legs.

You obey. Slowly. Sore and shaky, you shift onto your hands and knees. Chest against the mattress, ass in the air. Completely exposed.

Harry exhales sharply.

“Stay just like that.”

You feel him move behind you. Expect to feel his cock again. But no—his hands grip your thighs and then his mouth is on you.

You cry out instantly, your face pressed into the sheets.

He’s starving for you. Groaning into your soaked core. Tongue licking between your folds, flattening against your clit, circling, sucking. His hands bruise into your hips, holding you in place when you instinctively try to pull away from overstimulation.

“God, you taste so fucking good,” he moans into you. “I’ve been thinking about this. Dreaming about it. Since that night in the car.”

Your back arches. Your thighs shake. You’re practically sobbing.

“Please—Harry, please, I can’t—”

“You can,” he growls. “You will.”

His fingers dig into your ass, spreading you open, and his tongue flicks relentlessly. Your cries melt into moans, gasps, and incoherent begging.

He doesn’t stop until you’re screaming into the mattress.

When you come, it’s full-body. Convulsing. Shaking. Your legs nearly collapse under you.

But still—he kisses your thighs, your spine, your shoulder blades, until your breathing slows.

Then, he rises. You feel him hard again, pressing between your cheeks. He lines himself up once more.

“Can I?” he asks this time.

You nod, dazed. “Yes… yes, please.”

He slides in deeper this time. Easier. Smoother. You’re soaked, ruined, ready.

This round is slower. Deeper. He leans over you, his chest to your back, one hand around your throat again—not choking, just holding.

“I want everything from you,” he whispers. “I want all of your broken pieces. I want to ruin every man that ever thinks he can touch you.”

You whimper, squeezing around him. His hips stutter.

“I’ll make you mine,” he grits out. “Again and again. Until nobody else fits.”

His hand slips between your legs and rubs your clit in tight circles.

“Come for me one more time,” he breathes. “Come on my cock.”

You break—again.

So does he.

His moan is loud, low, and desperate. He fills you again, collapsing on top of you, forehead pressed between your shoulder blades.

And finally—finally—the room is silent.

For now.

⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹

📝 Author’s Note:

AYEEEEEE THEY DID IT …… weird timing but they did it 🙂‍↕️

[uhuhmaries]

CHAPTER 5 | SURRENDER

Series: Surrender (18+)

⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹

— Ludo’s POV

I don’t plan on going.

But two nights pass, and I’m standing outside the warehouse again anyway. Same heavy doors. Same cigarette haze leaking from every gap in the walls. My fingers twitch with want—something to smoke, something to drink, something to take the edge off.

But I’m clean.

Mostly.

Just mascara, lip gloss, vintage heels, and the heaviest liner I own to sharpen the version of me that doesn’t care.

I’m not here for Harry.

I tell myself that three more times before stepping inside.

The place is packed. Sweaty bodies pressed together like secrets. Bass already rumbling through the floor. My skin buzzes. My pulse kicks.

And then I see him.

On stage.

Spotlight low across his chest. Fingers working his guitar like it owes him something. Head tilted down. Hair damp at the edges. His voice curls around the room like silk set on fire.

He doesn’t look at me.

Not at first.

But then—he does.

Mid-song.

One slow drag of his eyes across the crowd until they find mine.

And when he sees me?

He fucking smiles.

It’s crooked. Dangerous. Quietly proud.

And I feel it like a slap to the ribs.

After the set, I slide backstage with the casual charm of someone who looks like they belong. No one stops me. One guard lets his eyes trail down my legs but doesn’t ask for a pass.

“Harry around?” I mutter.

He nods toward a hallway.

“You’ve got five minutes before they close the green room.”

I nod, heart pounding. Walk faster than I should.

I don’t know what I’m looking for.

Not Harry.

Not really.

But curiosity’s a bitch that smells like blood.

And I always bite.

The hallway bends left. There’s a locked door slightly ajar.

The kind of door that’s supposed to be locked on purpose.

I glance around. No one watching.

So I push it open.

It’s a supply room—or looks like one.

But inside?

There’s a table. A few crates. Neatly stacked.

Cash.

Wrapped in black bands. Labeled with numbers that don’t make sense.

And phones.

Three. Maybe four. Lined up like they’re being rotated.

A printer. A stack of IDs. Laminated. In different names.

Hold the fuck up. This isn’t merch.

My stomach drops. This is something else.

This is what he didn’t want me to see.

The click of a boot behind me sends panic screaming through my spine.

I spin.

Harry.

He’s at the doorway, chest rising and falling like he ran. One hand gripping the frame.

Eyes locked on mine.

Frozen.

“Ludo…” he says, voice low, warning.

I back up.

Hands in the air, like I walked in on a murder and I’m already guilty just for looking.

“I didn’t—” I start.

He steps in.

I step back.

“I didn’t see anything,” I lie.

His eyes harden. “Don’t fucking do that.”

“I said I didn’t—I’ll keep my mouth shut, alright?” I snap, heart pounding.

“Ludo—”

But I’m already turning.

Running.

He calls my name once—sharp, broken—but I’m gone.

Out the door. Down the hallway. Back into the crowd.

Because I don’t know what this is.

And I’m not sure I want to.

I don’t go back to the hotel.

I don’t even go back to Ueno.

I leave everything in the room—passport, bag, the shirt I stole from Harry’s drawer—and I disappear the way only a girl like me knows how to disappear.

No paper trail.

No receipts.

Just ash and perfume and silence.

I take a cheap room on the other side of the city. One of those hourly love hotels that smell like bleach and heartbreak. I keep the lights off. I don’t charge my phone. I don’t open the curtains.

I just… exist.

And think.

And spiral.

The money on that table wasn’t band payment. The IDs weren’t for stage crew. The phones? No one needs that many phones unless they’re running something bigger than music.

And now I know.

I’m not just tangled up in some moody rockstar’s personal crisis.

I’ve slipped into something criminal.

And worse?

I’m not sure I want to run away from him.

But I do anyway.

Because I don’t trust myself.

Because the last time I ignored a red flag, I ended up needing stitches and therapy I never finished.

I can still feel the way Harry looked at me—after I turned, after I ran.

Like I wasn’t supposed to see that part of him.

Like he wanted me close but hated what it meant.

And now?

There’s no word. No knock. No text.

Just silence.

The kind that sounds like punishment.

⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹

— Harry’s POV

She’s gone.

No text. No call. No smartass reply.

I’ve sent six messages. Called twice. Showed up at her hotel three times.

Room empty. No check-out record. No forwarding info.

Nothing.

Even the night manager looked at me like he couldn’t remember her.

“Girl like that?” he said. “Nah, don’t ring a bell.”

But he’s lying.

They all lie when the money’s right.

I stand outside the hotel for a long time after that. Chain-smoking. Staring at the pavement like it might spell out a clue.

She ran.

I would’ve, too.

The room she saw—the cash, the phones, the IDs—it wasn’t meant for her. I fucked up. Left it cracked open because I was distracted. Because I was thinking about her when I should’ve been thinking about protocol.

Louis is going to lose it. He already suspects.

I told him I handled it.

I didn’t.

Because I can’t.

She’s not just a girl anymore.

She’s a fucking hurricane with a mouth that begs for forgiveness and a heart that doesn’t believe in it. And I’m in it—deep—with no lifeline.

I lean against the wall of the hotel and finally let my head fall back, exhaling through my teeth.

Ludo’s gone.

But I don’t think she’s done with me yet.

And I know for fucking sure—

I’m not done with her.

⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹

📝 Author’s Note:

YALLLLL IM SORRY FOR BEINF KINDA INACTIVE IVE BEEN BUSYYYYY AYEEEEE 🙂‍↕️🙂‍��️

[uhuhmaries]

Talk | H.S. — LHH

Harry’s your ex. You’ve been broken up for a full year but man…. A reunion never felt so good.

It’s your friend who notices him first.

You’re mid-laugh, clutching a half-empty tequila shot and feeling light from the salt, lime, and whatever it was she whispered in your ear—when her body tenses beside you.

Your laugh trails off, and you follow her gaze.

And there he is.

Harry.

The same Harry you’ve tried to scrub from your memories over the past year. Only now, he looks worse—better—than ever. Long hair curled at the ends. Broad shoulders stretching the seams of a black button-up. A few buttons undone, revealing the top of his chest and that stupid butterfly tattoo you used to trace with your tongue. Rings glint on his fingers. A drink in his hand. His other arm hangs loose at his side, inked and tensed, like he could crush steel if he wanted.

He’s already looking at you.

Your stomach twists. You inhale through your nose and lift your chin.

Smile. Cool. Unbothered.

But he starts walking over, and Maddie—your friend leans in close. “Shit. He’s coming.”

“I see that,” you mutter, downing the rest of your drink for courage.

Harry stops right in front of you. He doesn’t say anything for a beat. Just lets his gaze roam—slow, greedy, infuriating. You feel every inch of it like heat sliding up your spine.

Your black dress doesn’t help. Tight, short, clinging in all the places you know he used to worship. You wore it to feel hot tonight. Now it just feels dangerous.

He smirks. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

You lift a brow. “Didn’t expect to care.”

His smirk fades—just a little. “Still stubborn as ever.”

You turn to face him fully. “Still arrogant.”

Harry looks at you for a long time. Really looks. His voice drops low. “You haven’t changed.”

You lick your lips. They’re dry. “You have?”

“I went to therapy.”

Your heart kicks. You swallow. “Good for you.”

He tilts his head. “You didn’t.”

You smile. Sharp. “Never will.”

He huffs out a soft, bitter laugh. “Yeah. That tracks.”

You hate that he still gets under your skin. That one look from him can turn your insides to static.

He leans in a little closer. “You look good.”

You shrug, glancing down his chest like it’s nothing. “So do you.”

But you both know it’s not nothing.

And later, after more tequila, more side-glances, more of Maddie’s not-so-subtle glares, you find yourself outside, fresh air trying to cool the ache inside your chest—and between your legs.

The door behind you opens.

You don’t need to turn around to know who it is.

He stops beside you. Silent for a moment. The night is warm, but his presence still makes your skin prickle.

“I know you don’t want to talk,” he says softly.

You stare ahead. “Good. Then don’t.”

He hums, a low, dry sound. “You gonna keep pretending we didn’t look at each other all night like we wanted to fuck against the bar?”

You glance at him. “That what you want?”

His eyes flash. “It’s what you want too.”

You don’t respond. But your silence is loud.

He steps closer. “You want me to wreck you so you can forget all the shit you never say out loud. That it?”

You clench your jaw.

“You want to pretend it’s just sex. It never is with us.”

You turn to face him, stepping right into his space. He doesn’t move back.

“You want to talk about feelings,” you murmur, “I want to come so hard I forget yours.”

His mouth twitches. “Still such a brat.”

“And you’re still obsessed.”

He leans down, nose brushing yours. “Get in the car.”

You hesitate for half a second.

Then you do.

The second the door shuts behind you, his hands are on your hips, mouth finding yours with years of hunger behind it. He kisses you like he’s punishing you for leaving. For never changing. For not being ready. For not being him.

You moan into his mouth. Bite his lower lip. Tug his curls.

He groans. “You wore that dress to fuck with me.”

You grin. “You always were easy.”

He grabs your thighs and yanks you into his lap. “Say that again.”

You grind your hips against his, gasping when you feel how hard he already is through his jeans. Your lips brush his ear.

“You’re hard for me and I haven’t even touched you yet,” you whisper.

Harry’s hands slide under your dress, rings cold on your thighs. “You think you’re in control?”

You lean back. “Aren’t I?”

And then he slides two fingers into your panties. Just like that.

Your breath stutters.

He feels it. Smirks. “Soaked.”

You try not to whimper when his fingers start circling your clit. Slow. Torturous.

“You’re already dripping for me and I haven’t even eaten you out.”

“Harry—”

“No.” His fingers stop. “Say what you want.”

“I want you,” you pant.

“Not enough.”

You grind against his palm. “I want your mouth. Your cock. I want to be ruined, okay?”

He lifts you suddenly, pushes you back onto the seat, and kneels between your legs.

“Still don’t know how to say you miss me,” he mutters, “but you’re happy to beg to be fucked.”

He licks up your thigh—slow, deliberate.

“Maybe if I make you come on my tongue, you’ll find your words.”

He goes down on you like he’s missed the taste every night for a year. Tongue deep. Fingers rubbing just right. You cry out, hands yanking his curls, grinding against his face as he eats you like he needs it to breathe.

You’re close. So close—

And he stops.

“No—”

“You wanna come?” he growls. “You talk.”

You glare down at him, thighs shaking. “I need you. Please. I missed you.”

He grabs a condom, tears it open, rolls it on.

“Good girl.”

He slams into you hard and fast and you both moan at the first thrust. His hips roll, precise and filthy, filling you just the way he always did—like he knows your body better than you do.

“Fuck,” you gasp. “Harry—harder—”

He grips your throat. Tight enough to make you gasp. Not enough to scare you. Just enough to say you’re mine.

“You gonna listen now?” he hisses.

You nod desperately, back arching. “Yes—yes, I’ll listen, please, please—”

His thrusts get harder, meaner. You’re almost crying.

Then he pulls out. Rips off the condom. Tosses it aside.

“Harry—what the fuck—?”

“I want to feel you. All of you.”

You freeze. Blink. You should say no.

But instead you whisper, “Yes.”

He thrusts back in—bare—and it’s like your body splits open. Raw. Skin to skin. Nothing between you.

You both groan. Loud. Uncontrolled.

He growls in your ear. “You’ve never felt like this.”

You sob his name.

He flips you, face pressed into the seat, ass up, his hand smacking you once, twice.

You whine. “More—”

He spanks you again, hand then sliding up your back, curling around your neck as he pounds into you, the car rocking with every thrust.

“Say it,” he demands. “Say you need me.”

You’re almost delirious. “I need you. I need you, Harry—fuck—”

“You coming for me?”

“Yes—oh my God—yes—”

And when you come, it’s messy and loud and full of everything you never say out loud.

He follows seconds after, hips stuttering as he buries himself deep and spills inside you—hot, thick, and claiming—your name breaking from his throat in a low, desperate groan against your skin.

You sit in silence after. Breathing hard. Still shaking.

Harry pulls his shirt back on. Looks at you.

“I still love you.”

You stare at the ceiling. “Don’t do this.”

“I want us again.”

You sigh. “You’ve changed.”

He nods. “Yeah. I have.”

You meet his eyes. “But I haven’t.”

He exhales. Nods again. “You could try.”

You give him a tired smile. “Maybe.”

But you both know it’s a lie.

You’ll see him again.

You always do.

[uhuhmaries]

Metal Arm | B.B.

Warnings: vibranium-arm use, size kink, breeding kink, oral (m receiving), dom!Bucky, shy!Bucky, strangers to sex, public tension, smut-heavy.

⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹

You didn’t mean to bump into him—literally.

Your drink splashes onto your shirt and his black t-shirt both as you crash into a broad, immovable chest. You open your mouth to curse at whoever stood in your way like a wall, until your eyes drift up and—

Oh. God.

He’s huge. His eyes are a stormy blue, and his hair is slightly messy. The black shirt he’s wearing stretches across a broad chest, veiny forearms peeking out beneath rolled sleeves. A leather glove covers his left hand—no, not leather, vibranium.

Your lips part. He stares at you.

“Shit,” you whisper, barely audible.

“You alright?” he asks, voice rough, low, dangerous.

You nod, too fast. “Y-Yeah. Sorry.”

He looks you up and down—slowly, deliberately. His eyes stall at your soaked chest, nipples faintly visible beneath the thin fabric of your white top. You cross your arms instinctively.

“You sure you’re okay?” he asks again, but his tone shifts. Darker. Curious. Amused.

“I’m… fine.” You pause. “You’re Bucky Barnes.”

His brow arches. “That obvious?”

You flush, fidgeting under his intense gaze. You can’t help it—your eyes trail to the arm. That sleek vibranium arm glinting beneath the café lights, fingers curling idly like it wants to do something.

You glance up quickly.

He noticed.

“Like what you see?” he murmurs.

You swallow. “Maybe.”

Something in him clicks. His jaw tightens. He glances around the café, then back at you. You’re too cute. Too small. Looking up at him like he’s some dark fantasy come to life.

“You’re not from around here, are you?” he asks, stepping just a little closer.

You shake your head. “Visiting.”

“Alone?”

“Yeah.”

His voice drops. “That’s dangerous, doll.”

You grin, despite yourself. “You dangerous?”

His mouth twitches, like he’s fighting a smile.

“Come upstairs with me.”

Your breath catches. “What?”

He nods toward the private loft above the café. “One of the baristas is a friend. Keeps a studio for breaks. No one’ll come up.”

You hesitate. One beat. Two.

Then— “Okay.”

The second the door shuts behind you, you’re against the wall. Your back hits it with a soft thud as Bucky’s body crowds yours. His metal hand pins your wrist up, holding it with a gentle but absolute grip.

You moan—quiet, desperate—at the sheer coldness of the vibranium on your skin.

“You like that?” he murmurs, lips brushing your ear.

“I—yeah. Fuck. Yes.”

He chuckles, dark and husky. “You’re gonna make me lose my fuckin’ mind.”

His flesh hand grabs your jaw, tilting your head. He kisses you—roughly, hungrily. His tongue sweeps into your mouth with ease, claiming, possessive. His thigh presses between your legs and you grind down on it without shame.

“Fuck, you’re so small,” he mutters against your lips. “I could break you.”

You whimper. “Please do.”

That does it.

He pulls you to the couch in two strides, lifting you by your waist like you weigh nothing and dropping you onto his lap. You straddle him, heart pounding, legs trembling from adrenaline.

His gloved hand cups your ass while the vibranium slides up your spine. You gasp, arching like it’s burning through your skin. He rips the soaked shirt from your body like paper.

“Jesus,” he breathes, eyes locked on your tits. “So fuckin’ perfect.”

He kisses down your chest, trailing his tongue between your breasts, then up your throat as his hands explore every inch of you. When you reach down to rub him through his pants, you feel him—huge, rock hard, barely restrained.

“I want to taste you,” you whisper, eyes wide.

He pauses. Smirks.

“Oh, you do?”

You nod frantically.

He leans back, spreads his legs. “On your knees, then. Show me how bad you want it.”

You sink down. His cock springs free from his jeans—long, thick, flushed. You wrap your fingers around it, just to feel the heft.

“Bigger than you thought?” he teases, breath ragged.

You nod again, tongue darting out to lick the head. He groans the second you wrap your lips around him.

“Fuuuck, that mouth—”

You take him slow, letting your saliva coat him. One hand pumps what your mouth can’t reach. His vibranium hand finds the back of your head and presses—just enough pressure to hint at how easily he could use it.

You moan around him.

“You’re drooling, doll. Shit. Such a messy little thing.”

You gag when he pushes deeper. You don’t stop.

He groans, hips twitching, the hand on your head tensing. You glance up—tears in your eyes, mouth full—and he almost loses it right there.

“Fuck, I gotta be inside you.”

You blink, dazed. “Then do it.”

He bends you over the couch, rips your panties clean off—literally tears the seams with the vibranium fingers.

You gasp, turning to look at him.

He groans. “You’re soaked. Shit.”

You nod, face down, ass up. “Please, Bucky.”

He runs the head through your folds slowly, teasing. You’re so tiny compared to him, your slick already dripping.

“Gonna ruin you, doll,” he whispers.

And then he pushes in.

You scream into the cushion, overwhelmed. He’s thick. Stretching you wide. His hands—one warm and strong, the other cold and unyielding—grip your hips and thrust.

You take it like you were meant to.

“Fuck—you’re tight,” he pants. “So fuckin’ tight.”

“Keep going, please—Bucky, more—”

He slams into you harder, faster. The arm clamps around your waist, holding you flush to him, and you cry out. Every thrust punches a moan out of your throat. Your fingers clutch the couch for dear life.

“Gonna fill you up,” he growls. “Gonna pump you full of me. Make this pretty pussy mine.”

You shiver.

“Yes—Bucky—breed me—”

That snaps something in him.

He grips your neck, tilts your head. His mouth crashes to yours, sloppy and possessive.

“Say it again,” he demands.

“Want you to breed me. Want your cum in me. Wanna be full of it.”

He fucks you deeper. You’re trembling, the pressure curling in your belly, building to a blinding high.

“I’m gonna—fuck, Bucky—”

“Come for me. Now.”

You explode. Your walls clamp around him as you cry out, legs shaking.

He groans, teeth gritted, and follows a second later—filling you up so deep, so much, it leaks around his cock even as he stays inside.

He doesn’t pull out. He stays. Lets it settle inside you.

“Perfect fuckin’ fit,” he whispers, kissing your shoulder.

Later, when you’re curled in his arms, still impaled on his softening length, he brushes hair from your face.

“You always pick up assassins in cafés?” he teases.

“Only the ones with metal arms.”

He chuckles. “You’re trouble.”

You smile sheepishly.

“So fuckin’ glad I found you.”

⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹

📝 Author's Note:

A QUICK ONE BECAUSE IVE JUST BEEN BINGE WATCHING BUCKY IN ALL MARVEL MOVIES/SHOWS AAAAAAARHGHHHHH THAT MAN

[uhuhmaries]

Chapter 4 | SURRENDER*

Warnings: 18+, oral (f+m receiving), teasing

Series: Surrender (18+)

⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹

— Ludo's POV

There’s something strange about waking up next to a man who hasn’t fucked you.

It’s quiet. Too quiet.

No awkward pants half on. No cold silence or impatient looks. Just… stillness. Breath. The soft creak of bedsheets when he shifts slightly beside me.

Harry’s sitting up against the headboard, eyes closed, head tilted back. One hand resting on his stomach. Fully clothed. Always in control.

I blink, the morning light slicing through the tiny window above the bed.

I’m not hungover, surprisingly. My head’s clear enough. My limbs a little heavy. But my body?

Starving. And it’s his fault.

The way he looks right now—hair messy, veins sharp beneath pale skin, shirt rumpled and pulled up just slightly to show a little of his lower stomach. That spot just above his waistband. That strip of skin I want to taste with my whole mouth.

I watch him for a while. Then stretch like a cat beside him.

“Still here?” I murmur.

His eyes open slowly. That same unreadable expression.

“Didn’t want to leave.”

I slide closer. Rest my hand on his thigh. My fingers curl lightly around the inside, warm through the fabric of his pants.

“You’re dangerous,” I whisper.

“So are you.”

“Then let me.”

“Ludo—”

“Please.” My voice cracks. “Let me taste you.”

He looks down at me. His jaw flexes. I can see the battle behind his eyes, the moral compass spinning like it’s drunk.

My hand moves higher. Just slightly.

“I want to,” I say. “Not because I have to. Not for money. Not for control. I just... want to.”

He stares at me so hard I start to ache under it.

Then—finally—he nods once. Barely a movement.

"Okay."

I don’t waste a second.

I crawl over him, slow and hungry. My lips find the skin just above his waistband first. I press a kiss there, then another, sliding down to kneel between his legs.

He watches every movement, breathing deeper now, hands clenched into the sheets.

I undo his belt. Button. Zip.

He lifts his hips slightly to help me pull his pants and boxers down just far enough. His cock springs free—thick, flushed, already half-hard.

God. I take a moment just to look at him, and then I wrap my hand around the base, warm and steady, and lower my mouth.

He hisses the second my tongue touches him.

I go slow.

Not lazy. Deliberate.

This isn’t some rushed alleyway job. This is something else.

I drag my mouth over him, one inch at a time, tongue flat, moaning softly as he grows harder in my mouth.

“Fuck…” he mutters, one hand sliding into my hair. Not forcing. Just holding.

I swirl my tongue around the head and sink lower, letting him hit the back of my throat before I pull off, letting spit glisten along his length.

���You’re too good at this,” he says, breathless.

“Shut up,” I murmur. “Let me worship.”

And I do.

I bob my head slowly, lips stretched around him, tongue teasing, cheeks hollowing. I keep my eyes on his face the whole time. His jaw locked. Neck veins taut. That controlled, brooding front cracking.

He moans my name just once when he finishes. Hand tightening in my hair. I swallow, let him pulse on my tongue. Don’t look away.

When he’s done, I sit back on my heels, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. Smiling.

Harry’s breathing hard. Eyes wild.

Then, suddenly—he moves.

He grabs me by the waist and pulls me onto the bed, laying me down, tugging off my underwear in one fast motion. My legs fall open before I can stop them.

And he looks at me.

Not like a man who’s about to fuck. Like a man about to ruin me.

He sinks to his knees between my thighs.

“Spread them wider,” he commands.

I obey.

He leans in and licks—slow—from my entrance to my clit, tongue hot and heavy. I cry out.

“Oh—fuck—Harry—”

He groans into me. Licks again. Flicks. Sucks. Slide two fingers inside. Crooks them just right.

My back arches.

“Don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t stop—”

I break. Hard.

I come around his fingers, thighs shaking, gasping like I’m being split open.

But it’s not enough.

“I want you inside,” I beg, still breathless, pulling at his shirt, his belt, anything. “Please. I want to feel you. Please—”

“No.”

His voice is dark. Firm. Unmoving.

“I said no.”

I freeze.

“I’m not doing that,” he says. “Not yet. You’re not some fuck. You’re not another night.”

I bite my lip, body still twitching beneath him. “Then what am I?”

He swallows hard. His hands stroke down my thighs, tender. Slow.

“I don’t know yet,” he whispers. “But I’m not rushing it. Not with you.”

I lay there, still trembling.

Messed out and aching, but empty in all the places that matter. My skin's buzzing. My thighs are wet. But there’s a hole in my chest I can’t name.

Harry doesn’t touch me again. Not really. Just brushes his thumb gently across the inside of my knee like he’s grounding me.

And when I finally find the nerve to look at him—really look—I see that he’s not unaffected.

His jaw’s tight. His shirt is rumpled from where I pulled at it. His hands won’t stop twitching like they’re dying to do more.

So why didn’t he?

“Why won’t you fuck me?” I whisper, voice raw.

“I already told you,” he says softly, almost like he hates repeating it. “You’re not like the others.”

I exhale. Frustrated. “You don’t even know me.”

“I know enough.”

That stings more than it should.

I open my mouth to bite back—say something cruel, maybe. Something that’ll make him hurt the way I do when he touches me but won’t take me.

But just then his phone vibrates across the nightstand.

He glances at it. Doesn’t answer. It keeps buzzing.

Another call. Then a third.

I sit up slowly, wrapping the blanket around me. “You can get that, you know.”

He runs a hand through his hair, sighs, then finally picks up.

“Yeah,” he says, voice low. Then he stands and walks toward the window with the phone to his ear, back turned.

I can’t hear the words. Just the tone.

Urgent. Tense.

His hand curls into a fist at his side.

A pause.

Then he mutters, “I’ll be there in twenty,” and ends the call.

When he turns around, his face is unreadable again. The mask's back on.

“I have to go.”

I blink. “Now?”

“Yeah.”

I feel myself folding. Closing back up. “Of course.”

He walks over to the bed and crouches in front of me, brushing a strand of hair from my cheek.

“I’m not disappearing,” he says. “But there’s something I need to deal with.”

I nod, trying to keep my face still. “You don’t owe me anything.”

That makes his jaw tick.

“Don’t say shit like that.”

I shrug, fingers digging into the blanket. “It’s true.”

He sighs again. Stands. Starts grabbing his things.

Before he walks out, he pauses in the doorway.

“We’re playing again in two nights,” he says without looking at me. “Warehouse gig. Same side of town. You should come.”

I tilt my head. “What, you want me backstage like a groupie now?”

“No,” he says, turning around slowly. “I want you there. Sober. Present. Just… there.”

Something twists inside me.

I don’t say yes. But I don’t say no either.

He lingers for one more second, then leaves. Door clicks shut behind him. And just like that, the room feels colder.

Empty in the way only after him can be.

[uhuhmaries]

If You Could, Would You? | PART 8

Warnings: Physical assault, emotional trauma, breakup, police involvement, 18+

Full Series: If You Could, Would You?

⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹

Harry’s POV (Intro)

The tea goes cold on the kitchen table.

Alice sits across from him, robe loosely tied at the waist, one leg crossed tightly over the other. There’s no background noise. Just silence. The kind that feels like a string pulled too tight.

“I can’t do this anymore,” he finally says.

She blinks. “Do what?”

“This engagement. This life. Pretending I’m fine when I’m not.”

Alice narrows her eyes. “Is this about her?”

“No,” he lies. “It’s about me.”

She scoffs. “Bullshit.”

He sighs, hands clasped between his knees. “You took me in when I was a kid. You gave me stability. But it became a cage. I didn’t even realize it until recently. I haven’t been able to feel anything for years.”

“Until her.”

Harry doesn’t speak.

Alice leans forward. “Say it. Just say it.”

He swallows. “She made me realize how long I’ve been numb. And it’s not her fault. She didn’t try to fix me. She didn’t treat me like I was broken. She just saw me.”

Alice stands, pacing now, biting her fingernail hard. “You’re walking away from everything we built. Years of work. Years of loyalty.”

“It was never love,” he says, quietly.

And that’s what breaks her.

She doesn’t scream. She doesn’t cry. She grabs her keys. And leaves.

Your POV

It happens too fast.

One moment you're unlocking your apartment door. The next, you’re shoved back against it, wind knocked out of you.

Alice.

You don’t have time to speak before her fist connects with your cheek. Pain bursts white behind your eyes.

“You think you can ruin my life?” she yells, nails clawing for your arms, shoulders, anything she can grip.

You scream. Try to fight back. But she’s stronger. More furious.

It takes your neighbor kicking down the door and two officers to get her off you.

You barely register the sirens. The flashing lights. The cuffs on her wrists. Her screaming your name like a curse.

Then the pain kicks in.

— Hospital —

You wake up hours later, disoriented, lip swollen, IV in your arm. A nurse checks your vitals while muttering something about internal bruising and fractured ribs.

The door bursts open.

Reese. Disheveled. Pale. His eyes are bloodshot, like he hasn’t slept.

“Y/N—fuck.” He rushes to your bedside, hands trembling. “I didn’t know. I didn’t—I’m so sorry. I should’ve seen this coming.”

You blink through tears. “How’d you find out?”

“She was arrested. The band group chat blew up. I got here as fast as I could.”

You nod weakly. “Thank you for coming.”

He cups your hand gently. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Harry arrives an hour later.

Reese is sitting next to your bed, hand still holding yours. When Harry walks in, you feel the air shift.

He doesn’t speak at first. Just stares. Guilt written across his whole face.

Reese stands up slowly. “We should talk,” he says to Harry, stepping outside.

They talk just out of earshot.

You close your eyes. You don’t want to hear it. Not now.

When Harry comes back in, it’s with a softer gaze. He moves to your side, hands in his jacket pockets, unsure.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly.

You nod. “I know.”

“I ended it. She’s gone. She won’t hurt you again.”

Your throat tightens. “It’s not about that anymore.”

He tilts his head. “What do you mean?”

You shift slightly, grimacing at the pain. “I can’t be part of your healing, Harry. I want to be. But not like this. Not as the thing that pulls you out.”

He flinches.

“I’m staying with Reese,” you continue. “Not because I want to make you jealous. But because I need someone who doesn’t need saving. Who isn’t trying to find themselves through me.”

Silence.

“I’ll be here if you ever need me. But not in the way you want. Not like that.”

Harry nods. Once. Twice. Like he’s memorizing the ache behind your words.

“I get it,” he says. “I really do.”

He doesn’t kiss you goodbye. He just walks out. And this time, you let him.

You don’t see him for two weeks.

Not at the bar where his band plays. You avoid Tuesdays and Thursdays like the plague. Reese doesn’t ask why, but he knows.

You don’t run into him at the coffee shop that he once said he liked. You order your latte to go, just in case.

You don’t see him when you’re walking home, headphones on, hoodie up. Not when you pass the record store he dragged you into once just to show you the dusty corner with Radiohead vinyls. Not when you lie awake at night feeling hollow. Or horny. Or both. You try not to think about the weight of his body on yours. The way he begged. The way you begged back.

You text. Occasionally. Light things.

Harry: Hope your ribs are healing okay. You: They are. Got a scar, though. Harry: Bet it looks tough. You: I look like a hot street fighter.

There are other messages too. Shorter. Emptier.

You: Saw a fox on my way home. Thought of you. Harry: Reese still letting you play his records? You: Only the embarrassing ones.

Sometimes you draft things you don’t send.

I miss you. I wish it were different. Do you still think about that night?

But you don’t send them.

You say you’re healing. You act like it.

Reese is still around. Kind. Steady. Sex with him feels good, but distant. You tell yourself it’s okay. It’s better than chaos. It’s better than bleeding every time someone touches your skin.

He cooks you pasta. Holds you in his sleep. Kisses your forehead before shows.

And still. That ache in your ribs has nothing to do with the bruises anymore.

It’s Harley—your long-lost friend from a life you’ve been avoiding—who finally says it: Maybe you should talk to someone. You hadn’t reached out to anyone from home in months, maybe longer, but something about seeing her name light up your screen made you answer this time. And when you did, everything cracked open.

“You’re spiraling inward,” she says during a call. “It doesn’t look like it on Instagram, but I know you. You’re cracking.”

You stare at your ceiling for a long time that night before booking the appointment.

Her name is Claire. The therapist.

You like her instantly. She doesn’t talk too much. She doesn’t let you bullshit your way through silence.

You tell her about Alice. About London. About Harry.

She doesn’t flinch when you mention him. When you say words like “groomed,” “toxic,” “almost cheated,” “did cheat emotionally.”

You cried once. Just once. But it's the kind that shakes your body like it’s trying to expel something ancient.

It’s your fourth session when you’re walking out, hoodie zipped, hair down, face neutral—

And there he is.

Harry. Sitting in the corner of the waiting room. Elbows on knees. Thumb rubbing the inside of his palm like he’s trying to disappear into his own skin.

He looks up at the exact moment you freeze. The breath catches in your throat.

He says your name. Just a whisper. A hush in the air.

You nod. Unsure. “Hi.”

His smile is small. Not happy. Just… sad.

“You seeing Claire?” you ask, even though it’s obvious.

He nods. “Yeah. Just started last week.”

You stand there a moment longer than necessary. No jokes. No flirtation. Just mutual exhaustion in your expressions.

“She’s good,” you say.

“I know.”

Silence.

You bite your lip. “Well. I’ll… see you.”

And then you walk out the door. But somehow, you don’t feel like running away.

You just feel the weight of something finally starting to shift. Not healing. Not quite yet.

But cracking open.

⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹

📝 Author's Note:

EVERYONE SAY THANK YOU CLAIRE

[uhuhmaries]

Chapter 3 | SURRENDER

Series: Surrender (18+)

⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹

— Harry's POV

“Mate, you need to stop,” Louis says before I even finish lighting my cigarette. “I mean it.”

We’re out behind the studio. Niall and Liam are both leaning against the wall, arms crossed. There’s no one else around. Just smoke and streetlight.

“She’s not yours to save,” Louis continues.

“I didn’t say she was.”

“You didn’t have to.” Niall kicks at the ground. “We saw you, Harry. At the gig. Abandoning the set. Risking a whole drop. For her.”

“She was about to be assaulted.”

“She walked into it,” Liam says quietly. “And you know it.”

That one lands.

I take a long drag and exhale. “It’s not like that.”

“Then what is it?” Louis snaps. “You shagged her yet?”

“No.”

“Jesus.” Louis rubs his face. “So you’re playing knight for someone who doesn’t even want rescuing. That’s rich.”

I don’t answer.

Because maybe I don’t know what I’m doing either.

Niall clears his throat. “Listen. I heard something the other day… a guy at one of the places we run. He mentioned a girl. Said she’s been working privately—Tokyo street, Ueno side. Western girl. Unique look. Charges by the hour but doesn’t advertise.”

I lift my head.

“Didn’t say her name,” Niall says, watching me. “But something about it… felt close.”

Louis narrows his eyes at me. “Don’t chase that. Don’t you fucking dare.”

I nod like I agree.

But I don’t say a word.

— Ludo's POV

I disappear for a week.

No texts. No drinks. No songs.

Just hotel rooms and alleyways and unlocked apartments filled with older men who moan like I’m their last salvation. My phone fills with names I don’t remember, transfers I don’t check, and enough dirty praise to rot my ears.

I wear short skirts and heavy eyeliner and tell myself I’m powerful.

I’m in control. I’m not thinking about Harry Styles.

He made it too clean. Too quiet. Too easy to want better. And I don’t trust that. Not from someone who lives in a mansion and says nothing about where his money comes from.

So I go back to what I know.

Cash. Come. Leave. Rinse. Repeat.

Tonight, it’s a businessman who likes it dirty but quick. We don’t even make it to the hotel. His car’s too clean. His nerves too loud. So I pull him into the alley behind a club in Shinjuku. Red lights flicker above us like a warning.

His hands are cold. His breath smells like scotch. He whimpers when I sink to my knees.

I hear footsteps once. Slow. Heavy.

I don’t look up. But something in me knows.

Eyes. Watching. Burning.

Not the man in front of me. Not some stranger.

Him. Harry.

I don’t stop. I can’t. If I stop now, I’ll fall apart.

So I moan louder. I arch my back. I take everything the client gives.

And when we finish, I stand up, wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, and smooth my skirt.

I glance down the alley. Nothing. He’s already gone.

Of course he is. He didn’t come here to save me. He came here to see the truth.

— Harry's POV

She doesn’t see me. But I see everything.

The way her knees hit the concrete like she’s done this a thousand times. The way the man fumbles to keep quiet, grabbing her hair like it’s his. The way she looks up at him—not sweet, not coy—dead inside.

And then—she moans.

Loud. Performative. Addictive. Like she knows I’m watching.

I take two steps back into the shadow, then three more, until I’m out of sight.

I don’t say a fucking word. I don’t stop her. I just leave.

Because if I don’t, I’ll do something I can’t take back.

I light a cigarette the second I get in the car, hands trembling against the wheel.

She’s not just high. She’s lost. Deep.

And I don’t know why I give a shit. But I do.

Niall’s words echo in my head.

Ueno. Western girl. Private work. No name.

So I start looking.

Not officially. Quietly. Names. Transfers. Cameras. Club chatter. I call in a favor with one of our tech guys who owes me a cut.

He pulls up a few threads. A digital paper trail. Nothing exact—but enough to piece it together.

Private transfers from four different men—same dates, same window. One location repeated.

A hotel.

Business Hotel Misono. Ueno. Room 506.

Ludo’s hotel.

Fuck.

I drive there the next night. Don’t even tell the guys.

Don’t even know why I’m doing this. I just go.

I don’t knock at first. I stand outside the room for a full five minutes, jaw clenched, listening to nothing but the buzz of the hallway light and the ache in my chest.

Then I knock once. Hard. And wait.

Footsteps. A pause.

The door opens halfway.

Ludo appears in a black tank and underwear, hair messy, eyeliner smudged. She smells like whiskey and sweat and perfume that’s too expensive for a girl like her.

“Harry?” she says, eyes narrowing. “What the fuck—how did you…?”

“I need to talk to you.”

She leans against the doorframe. “Not exactly a good time.”

“Don’t care.”

She eyes me, then steps aside.

I walk in, slow. Careful. Like I’m stepping into a fucking minefield.

Her room’s a mess. Takeout boxes. Empty bottles. Clothes. Pills scattered on the nightstand like candy. The TV’s playing something no one’s watching.

“You stalking me now?” she mutters, flopping onto the bed, pulling a blanket over her thighs. “Didn’t peg you for the type.”

“You shouldn’t be here,” I say quietly.

“Where should I be then? Your mansion? Playing house in your dirty kingdom?”

My jaw twitches. “You don’t have to do what you’re doing.”

She laughs bitterly. “And what exactly am I doing, Harry?”

“You know what.”

She turns her head. “I didn’t ask you to follow me. You saw something? Congratulations. You know who I am now.”

“No,” I snap. “I know who you’re pretending to be.”

“Spare me the savior speech.”

“I’m not here to save you.”

She stands. Slowly. Eyes blazing. “Then why the fuck are you here?”

I don’t answer. I can’t.

Because I don’t even know anymore.

I should walk away. I should let her rot.

But I don't.

I walk over. Close enough to smell the danger on her. Close enough to see the crack in her mask.

“I saw you,” I say, voice low. “In the alley. I saw everything.”

She doesn’t move. Her breathing hitches once. But she stays still.

Then—smiles.

“You liked it, didn’t you?” she whispers. “Sick little fantasy. Your whore on her knees. You just couldn’t help yourself.”

I reach out and grab her wrist. Not hard. But enough.

“I didn’t like it,” I growl. “I hated it.”

Silence stretches.

Her eyes scan my face like she’s trying to find the lie.

But there isn’t one. Not tonight.

“I’m not doing this for you,” I say. “I'm doing this because I can't stop thinking about you. And it’s starting to piss me off.”

She tilts her head. “Why me?”

“I don’t know.”

She shrugs her wrist free. Sits back on the bed. Lights a cigarette with shaking hands.

“Then you better figure it out before I really ruin you.”

— Ludo's POV

Harry sits on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, head down like he’s thinking too hard. Like being here with me is already a mistake.

I ash my cigarette in a plastic coffee cup and glance over at him. “You’re a real mystery, you know that?”

He doesn’t answer.

I blow a slow stream of smoke toward the ceiling. “You’re rich. But your band’s barely famous. You’ve got a mansion, a clean car, hands that look like they play ballads but eyes that look like they’ve seen bodies.”

Still nothing.

“And you don’t fuck,” I add casually. “That’s the weirdest part.”

His head turns slightly.

“I’ve been all over you. You’ve seen me high, naked, moaning your name on your couch. You're with me here after seeing me with someone else’s dick in my mouth—and still…”

I lean forward, voice lowering.

“You haven’t touched me.”

He looks at me now.

Finally.

Green eyes sharp. Glinting. Dangerous.

But not in the way I’m used to.

“You want me to?” He asks.

The way he says it—not playful, not teasing. Serious. Like he really wants to know.

I bite my lip. Shrug. “I want to understand why you haven’t.”

He stands suddenly, pacing once like he needs the distance.

“I’ve had more one-night stands than I can count,” he says. “Groupies. Escorts. Fans who don’t care who I am as long as they can say they fucked someone in a band.”

I sit up straighter. Watching him. Listening.

“But none of them looked at me the way you do,” he says. “Like they already knew what kind of monster I am.”

That makes my chest tighten.

“You think I see a monster?” I whisper.

“I think you see what you want to see,” he mutters. “And I don’t want to become another thing you use to destroy yourself.”

I laugh, bitter and sudden. “Too late. You’re already in the pile.”

“No,” he says, walking back over. “Not yet.”

We sit in silence for a beat too long.

There’s something forming between us now—not lust, not love. Something worse. Something real. Like trauma recognizing itself in someone else’s skin.

I stare at his hands.

Strong. Beautiful.

Capable of breaking me in two and stitching me back together again.

“You think you’re better than them?” I ask softly.

“No,” he says. “I think I don’t want to be like them.”

That… lands.

Hard.

I stub out the cigarette. Pull my knees to my chest. Rest my chin on them and look at him like he’s a puzzle I might be willing to try and solve.

“So what now?” I ask.

He shrugs. “I don’t know. You tell me.”

“I’m tired,” I admit.

“Then sleep.”

“You’ll stay?”

A pause.

Then: “Yeah. I’ll stay.”

He lies back against the headboard, arms crossed, fully clothed. Eyes on the ceiling.

I shift closer—just enough for my thigh to touch his. Nothing else. No words. Just there.

And for the first time in… maybe years?

I fall asleep with someone near me who doesn’t want anything from me at all.

[uhuhmaries]

Chapter 2 | SURRENDER

Series: Surrender (18+)

⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹

— Ludo's POV

I take another sip of water, mostly to shut him up. He hasn’t said anything in five minutes, but his eyes are talking louder than anything he could ever say.

He’s still watching me. Sitting in that leather chair like it was made for him. Long legs spread, hands steepled in front of his mouth. Like he’s trying very hard to stay still. To stay good.

“You ever get tired of pretending you don’t want to fuck me?” I ask, soft.

His lips twitch. “Don’t do that.”

I slide further down the couch, letting my back hit the armrest, letting my legs dangle just a bit too wide. My fingers graze my inner thigh, slow, lazy, teasing. “Do what?”

He exhales through his nose. “You’re high. You don’t mean any of this.”

“Don’t I?” My hand slides under the waistband of my jeans.

Harry stands abruptly. “I’m gonna go take a shower.”

“Sure,” I say, smiling darkly. “I’ll be right here.”

He disappears down the hall, but I don’t stop. I want him to hear.

I slide two fingers beneath my panties, letting out a soft gasp as I touch myself. My legs fall wider open, body arching just enough for the leather to creak beneath me.

“Fuck,” I whisper, eyes half-lidded, head falling back. “Fuck, Harry…”

I imagine his hands. His mouth. The way he’d taste if he ever let himself lose control.

The hallway creaks.

The bathroom door doesn’t close all the way.

I keep going, knowing—hoping—he’s listening.

When I come, it’s not loud. It’s not even dramatic. It’s just real. The kind of release that makes my bones feel liquid and my chest ache. I come down slow. Calm. Dazed.

And then I clean myself up, button my jeans like nothing happened, and curl under one of his expensive throws like I live here.

⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹

When I wake, it’s morning. The light’s soft. Golden. He’s in the kitchen again, shirtless this time, making coffee like we’re old lovers.

“Morning,” I say, voice scratchy.

He turns. “There’s aspirin. And orange juice.”

“Fancy.”

He watches as I take both. Still shirtless. Still unreadable.

I should say something witty, maybe teasing, but instead I just stand. “Thanks. For last night.”

He nods once.

“I should go.”

He doesn't stop me.

No kiss. No awkward “see you later.” Just a glance. A nod. Like we both know this was never meant to be more.

Still, something lingers.

On my way back to Ueno, I duck into Family Mart and grab a bottled tea, some cigarettes, and a box of chocolate Pocky. The cashier doesn’t even look up. Tokyo keeps moving. No one here gives a shit who I am.

Maybe that’s why I like it.

— Harry’s POV

She’s gone by the time I finish making coffee. Left the throw blanket folded over the couch like she was never really here.

But I can still smell her perfume. That soft, sweet scent that doesn’t match the poison behind her eyes.

Ludovica.

That name shouldn’t stick the way it does. But it does.

I’ve had hundreds of girls pass through this place. Most of them don’t even make it past the bedroom. Some don’t get a name. Some don’t want one. And I don’t blame them. I stopped caring after the first few hundred nights of chasing skin and silence.

I used to love the game.

Now?

Now, it’s just business. The band. The money. Dirty money.

Crimson Revival isn’t what the world thinks. It’s a cover. The music’s real, but the lifestyle is deeper, filthier. We move things for people who don’t want to be found. We clean up their messes. Their cash. Their pasts.

And it pays well. Too well.

I live in a mansion bought with someone else’s sins.

I’ve got fake names in three countries. A passport drawer that could put me behind bars. Girls who'd sell their soul just to touch the hem of my jacket.

But none of them ever looked me in the eye the way she did.

None of them ever spread their legs for themselves. Not for me. Not for validation. Just because they wanted to.

She did.

And fuck if it didn’t get to me.

Not in the usual way. Not lust. Something else. A pull. A question.

Why the fuck is a girl like that so broken? And why the fuck do I want to be the one who breaks her more?

⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹

I don’t see her for four days.

And I try not to think about her. Try to forget the soft gasp she made when she came on my couch, the way her pupils stayed blown even in the morning light. Try to forget the way she left like it didn’t matter. Like I didn’t matter.

But it’s not working. She creeps in. In rehearsals, in smoke breaks, in the silence between chords.

We’ve got another show tonight—lowkey, cash door, private crowd in a warehouse we’ve used before. Easier to clean the money when half the people are already dirty.

Liam’s drumming out a beat while Louis double-checks the crate under the merch table. It's not shirts or CDs. It’s rolled cash. Bound tight. Marked. Niall’s tuning his guitar, throwing glances toward me like he knows I haven’t slept properly.

“You good, mate?” Niall asks, quiet.

“Yeah,” I lie.

He doesn’t believe me. No one does.

Mid-set, she appears.

I see her in the crowd before anyone else does—same boots, a short skirt, leather jacket way too thin for the cold. Her eyes are glassy, lips parted. Her pupils are huge again. She’s leaning into some guy—too close, too casual. He’s got his hand on her lower back and she’s laughing at something he says, but she’s not there. Not really.

My stomach knots. She’s fucked up. Not tipsy. Not fun-drunk. Not stoned.

Wasted. Ruined.

Liam notices her next. His sticks slow for a second. “Is that—?”

“Yeah,” I mutter into the mic before launching into the next song harder, angrier.

Louis’s already frowning from his end of the stage. He knows. We all know.

By the time the last chorus hits, the guy has his hand creeping beneath the hem of her skirt. She doesn’t stop him.

I drop my guitar mid-chord and jump off the stage.

The mic screams with feedback behind me.

I shove through the bodies like they’re nothing, like I’m possessed, and when I reach them, I don’t think—I just act.

“Off,” I growl at the guy, grabbing his shoulder and yanking him away. “Now.”

He turns to mouth off but freezes when he sees who I am. Smart boy.

“Don’t make me repeat myself,” I say, low.

The guy mutters a curse and slinks off into the crowd.

I turn to her.

Ludo’s swaying, eyes half-lidded. “Hey, rockstar,” she slurs. “Missed me?”

I clench my jaw. “What the fuck are you doing here like this?”

“I missed the music,” she shrugs, barely able to stand.

“Jesus, Ludo.”

I grip her waist to hold her steady. She melts into it.

“You're always this touchy when you’re mad?” she whispers against my ear. “Kinda hot.”

I tighten my grip. Not in lust. In panic. “You’re done for the night. Come on.”

As I lead her through the exit door, I catch Louis giving me a look. The kind that says this is going to be a fucking problem.

He’s right.

She’s barely standing as I drag her toward the back of the warehouse. Her legs keep giving out, her body slumping forward like dead weight. She clutches my forearm like it’s the only solid thing left in the world.

Outside, the air is freezing. Her teeth chatter, but she still has that stupid, dangerous smirk on her lips.

“I didn’t think you’d actually come down for me,” she slurs. “You abandoned your little fanclub.”

I unlock my car with shaking hands. “Get in.”

“Not even gonna yell at me first?”

“Not when you’re like this.”

She giggles—fucking giggles—and slides into the passenger seat, legs up on the dash, skirt riding too high. She leans her head against the glass.

“You always take girls home like this?” she murmurs.

“No,” I snap.

“Good,” she whispers, and then her eyes flutter closed.

The ride is silent. Just the hum of the tires and her breathing, shallow and uneven.

She reeks of vodka. Weed. Maybe something worse.

She’s not wearing a seatbelt.

I reach across the center console, gently clicking it into place around her.

She stirs slightly, mumbling something incoherent before slumping again. Her head tilts toward me like her body is remembering who saved her.

My grip on the wheel tightens.

Fuck.

I should drop her at a hospital. Or at least some all-night clinic. Not bring her home again. Not let her breathe in the quiet safety of my space like she belongs there.

But I do it anyway. Like a fucking idiot.

When we get to the house, I carry her inside. She's half-conscious, half not. Her arms hang limply around my neck as I lift her. Her body is too light. I feel every rib through her shirt.

I set her down gently on the couch, brush the hair from her face.

Her lips part, dry and chapped. “Harry…”

It’s barely audible. But it hits me like a brick.

I go to grab a glass of water, aspirin, something—anything—when I hear the sound of something fall.

Her purse.

Its contents spill across the floor—lipstick, lighter, cash, a tiny baggie of powder… and a capped needle.

I stare at it for a full five seconds. The world tilts.

No.

No, no, no.

“Ludo…” I whisper, crouching down and scooping everything up in a rush. I stuff it back in her bag and zip it shut like I’m erasing a crime scene.

She’s passed out cold. One arm dangling off the couch. The other curled protectively against her chest.

I sit down across from her and just… stare.

I’ve seen people spiral before. We’ve cleaned up after our fair share. But I never bring that home. Not here. Not into myspace.

And yet she’s here.

Taking up space. Taking up me. Ludovica Grey.

Twenty-one. High as a kite. Living on other people’s money, other people’s attention, other people’s mistakes.

And somehow, she’s got me hooked.

She moans softly in her sleep and shifts, murmuring something I can’t make out.

But one word comes clear again.

“Harry…”

Fuck.

I run a hand over my face and lean forward, elbows on knees.

This is bad. This is so fucking bad. And I can’t stop.

[uhuhmaries]

Chapter 1 | SURRENDER

Series: Surrender (18+)

⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹

— LUDO (1st POV)

Hey sexy... I'm free now." "I've sent $1,000 to your account... send me some pics." "Are you there?" "You're a goddess..." "Are you home yet?"

The buzz of my phone doesn't stop. Older men I met online—my "pigs," as I sometimes call them—cluttering my screen with the same empty promises and desperate cravings. They think I'm some kind of goddess because of the way I look, but I'm just a wreck drowning in a sea of my own mistakes and bad decisions. My looks? Yeah, I've got that unique thing going on—sharp cheekbones, wild hair, eyes that don't lie. But who cares? I haven't looked in the mirror with anything but disgust for months.

I'm not here to be anyone's trophy. Not anymore.

I swipe through the messages like I'm scrolling through my own decline. I'm on day four in Tokyo, on a tourist visa, spending my savings faster than I can keep track of. Two years grinding in some soulless corporate job was enough to kill whatever hope I had left. I quit last week. Now I'm just surviving.

I'm holed up in a tiny hotel near Ueno Station. Small room, peeling paint, too thin walls, and a view of a graffiti-smeared alley that looks like it's straight out of a bad movie.

I sigh and toss my phone on the bed. The glow of the screen is the only light in the room. Fuck. What's left to fight for?

I strip down to lingerie—the cheap lace stuff that's frayed at the edges—and snap a few photos. Not because I want to, but because I have to. I send the same pictures to every message thread. No words. No feelings. Just the transaction.

Some of these men are married, some are lonely, all of them are lost in their own ways. Just like me.

The cigarette pack on my nightstand calls to me. I slide open the window despite the "No Smoking" sign plastered beside it and step onto the narrow ledge. My boots scrape against the grimy bricks as I lean out and inhale the choking Tokyo night.

Prison doesn't scare me anymore. Maybe Japan's jail system isn't the worst place to rot. Probably better than the chaos back home.

I light a cigarette, the flame sputters in the cool night air. I smoke slowly, each drag burning a little less, until the pack is empty and my lungs feel raw.

Back in my room, I collapse onto the bed, my body still wrapped in the lace that feels too tight against my skin. I stare up at the ceiling—blank, cracked, and unmoving.

How the fuck did I get this fucked up?

Minutes tick by. The clock blinks 9:30 PM in red digits. Enough wallowing.

I throw on a black tank top, my worn skinny jeans, and lace up my battered wedged boots. Grab my purse. The streets of Tokyo call.

The train is packed, but I don't care. Lost in the noise and motion, I stare at my reflection in the window—a ghost of the girl I used to be.

Shinjuku hits me like a wave. Neon lights flicker, people shout and laugh, and the pulse of the city vibrates through my bones. I walk without direction, my legs taking me wherever they want, until exhaustion forces me to stop on the edge of a bustling street.

I almost bump into someone.

"Sorry, love! Are you okay?" The voice cuts through the noise—British, smooth, calm.

I look up.

He's tall. Messy wavy hair falls perfectly out of place, and his green eyes are sharp but kind. Somehow, he looks familiar. But I don't know from where, and frankly, I don't care enough to ask.

"Heels. Tired," I mumble, barely meeting his gaze.

He chuckles softly. "That's a damn good pair of boots."

"Got them at a vintage shop near Ueno," I reply, the corner of my mouth twitching into a faint smile.

He shifts closer, like he's sizing me up, then offers his hand. "I'm Harry. Harry Styles."

Something about the name—something heavy, like a secret I wasn't meant to hear—makes my heart skip a beat. Famous, they say. A rockstar.

"I play guitar and sing in a band," he continues, voice low. "We're doing a gig tonight, somewhere in Shibuya. If you're not busy... I'd like to see you there."

I don't know if it's his eyes or the way he says it, but against every better instinct, I nod.

"Good. It's a place called The Black Lotus. You can't miss it."

He smiles, that soft, disarming smile, and before I know it, he's walking away—leaving me standing there, boots scraping on the concrete, feeling like I'm already in too deep.

"Wait."

I don't even think before I say it. My voice cracks out louder than I expect. He turns around, half-smiling already, like he knew I'd follow.

"Can I just... come with you?"

His smile softens, then turns lopsided. "Thought you might say that."

I jog a little to catch up. He's tall—tall tall. Like, awkwardly so. The kind of tall that makes you wonder if the universe just wanted to show off when it made him. I'm not short, not with these boots on, but I still have to tilt my chin up when I glance at him.

He walks like someone who knows people watch him, but isn't bothered by it anymore.

We move through the crowd like we're already a pair. Like we're a unit, and maybe that's dangerous because I don't even know his fucking middle name.

"So what should I call you?" he asks, turning his head toward me. His voice is lower now, almost private, like this walk is just ours.

"Ludo."

"Ludo," he repeats, testing the sound in his mouth. "Short for something?"

"Ludovica," I say, watching his face.

He whistles. "Sexy."

I laugh under my breath. "You didn't even try to hide that one."

"Didn't feel like lying to a girl in lace."

My face must give something away because he raises a brow. "You're not exactly hiding it, sweetheart."

I glance down at the neckline of my tank and shrug. "Didn't have time to change."

He grins, hands in his jacket pockets. "So, Ludovica—how old are you?"

I roll my eyes dramatically. "Guess."

He hums like he's thinking too hard. "Twenty-five?"

"Close."

"Twenty-four."

I shake my head.

His eyebrows raise. "Don't tell me... Twenty-three?"

"One more."

"No fucking way. Twenty-one?"

"Bingo," I say with a mock salute.

He gives me a sideways glance. "You don't act twenty-one."

"I've had a shitty crash course in adulthood."

"And how old are you?" I throw back.

He hesitates for a second. "Thirty-five."

I blink. "That's a twelve-year gap, old man."

"You make it sound tragic."

I smirk. "It kind of is."

"But you're still walking next to me."

"Touche."

We arrive at The Black Lotus—dim red lights, heavy bass leaking from the walls, a line of girls already forming outside. The place is loud and smoky and smells like wet pavement and expensive cologne.

Inside, it's chaos.

The venue's small but packed, like a secret club that everyone somehow knows about. Lights strobe. A cheap bar sits in the corner, and people are already half-drunk. Girls with thigh-high boots and messy glitter makeup cling to any man holding an instrument case.

"Over there," Harry says, pointing toward the back. "We've got a spot before the set."

We squeeze through the crowd, the heat of bodies pressing in. Everyone seems to know him. Some nod. Some stare. A few girls outright grab his arm, and he just smiles politely, never stops walking. Never lets go of the invisible line tethering me to him.

He introduces me to the guys casually like this is all normal.

"This is Ludo," he says over the music. "She's new in town."

Niall is the blonde one—guitarist, cheeky smile, instantly charming. "Welcome to hell," he jokes, handing me a drink.

Liam's behind the drum kit doing a sound check, eyes narrowed in focus. He gives me a small nod.

And Louis—bass player, sharp jaw, narrowed eyes—sizes me up and just smirks.

"Of course he brought the prettiest one in," he mutters.

I pretend not to hear.

Harry leans close. "We're up in ten. Stay somewhere close. Please."

He doesn't say why, but I catch it in his eyes.

Possession. Curiosity. Maybe something deeper.

"Sure," I lie, already knowing I won't.

The second he climbs on stage, he's someone else.

They're called Crimson Revival. That's the band name—dark, dangerous, poetic. The kind of name that promises blood and rebirth and sex in the back of a bar. The crowd loves them. Girls scream. Guys cheer. Everyone moves like they're under a spell.

Harry's voice is rough velvet. Controlled chaos. His fingers glide over the guitar like he's seducing it. Every lyric feels like a confession, and I feel it all the way down in my gut.

I sit near the bar. Alone. Watching. Sipping something strong and cheap. Then stronger.

Halfway through their set, I pull a little baggie from my purse and slip into the restroom. A line. A drag. Eyes wide. I'm not proud. But I'm not trying to impress anyone, either.

By the time I'm back, everything feels lighter. Colors glow. My body buzzes. I float back into the crowd, hips swaying, neck loose, and laughter falling from my mouth like I actually belong.

A man slides behind me. Then another. Hands graze my waist, my hips. One whispers something in my ear, and I laugh because I don't give a shit anymore.

That's when I see him.

Harry. On stage. Singing, but watching.

His jaw tightens. He fumbles the next lyric.

And suddenly, I know. He sees me. He hates this.

He strums through the bridge of the song with extra force, and when they finish, he disappears off stage like he's on a mission.

Through the haze and flashing lights, I feel the storm building.

And this time, it's not just mine.

I feel the heat of the men's hands more than I feel the beat of the music. One guy's breath is on my neck, fingers slipping lower than they should. Another's laugh booms in my ear like he's already claimed me. I lean back into it—not because I want to, but because I don't know what else to do with myself anymore.

This body of mine? It's currency. I've learned to spend it without flinching.

Until he shows up.

"Oi—get the fuck off her."

The voice cuts sharp and low—Harry.

Before I even register what's happening, the guy behind me is shoved back. Not hard enough to draw blood, but enough to make him stumble. His drink spills. The other dude mutters something under his breath, but Harry's already glaring at both of them, chest heaving, fists clenched.

"You heard me," he growls. "Move."

They do. Mostly out of confusion, maybe fear. Maybe respect. Probably all three.

"Jesus," I mutter, wiping my lip where I think a trace of blood might've bloomed from my teeth biting down too hard. "Didn't know you were the jealous type."

"Don't," Harry snaps, grabbing my wrist. His fingers are warm, calloused, firm. Not enough to hurt, but enough to make a point. "Come on."

I try to tug away. "I'm fine."

"You're not."

"I'm always like this," I slur, smiling like I'm letting him in on a secret. "I function like this."

"Not around me, you don't."

He doesn't let go.

The cold air outside hits like a slap when he drags me out the back door. The street is quieter, empty, lit by the ugly yellow glow of a busted streetlamp.

"Where are we going?" I mumble, stumbling in my boots.

"My car."

"You're kidnapping me? I thought we were past the caveman phase of male evolution."

"Jesus Christ, Ludovica."

He says my name like it's been burning a hole in his throat all night.

He unlocks a black car parked beside the alley. It's sleek, expensive-looking. Definitely not your average band-member-van. When he opens the passenger door for me, I hesitate.

"This is too clean," I mutter, sliding in anyway. "You're either rich or a serial killer."

He shuts the door without answering.

Inside the car, I catch my reflection in the mirror���smeared lipstick, glazed eyes, collarbone bruised from something I didn't even feel. I hate her. I hate the girl staring back.

Harry gets in. Doesn't speak. Just drives.

"Where are we going?" I ask again, quieter.

"My place. You need water. Sleep. Anything but... this."

I lean back in the leather seat. "Why do you care?"

He exhales through his nose. "Because I've seen this before. And it doesn't end well."

I scoff. "A rockstar with morals. That's rich."

He glances at me briefly. "I'm not judging you."

"Sure you are."

Silence.

The drive is long enough for my buzz to dim just slightly. The neon fades. The thump in my skull turns dull. I keep watching him from the corner of my eye. His jaw is tight. His hands—ringed and veined—grip the steering wheel like it's the only thing keeping him sane.

We pull up to a house that shouldn't belong to someone like him.

It's on the edge of the city, tucked behind gates, with ivy on the stone walls and dim golden lights glowing from the inside. The kind of house that smells like old money. Classy. Secluded. Protected.

I blink. "This yours?"

He parks. Doesn't answer.

"I thought you were in a rock band. Not... I don't know. A hedge fund."

He cuts the engine. "You ask a lot of questions."

"Yeah, and you dodge most of them."

He looks at me then. Fully. Something dark flickers in his eyes—something careful and calculated.

"I can afford this because the music's just the surface."

I tilt my head. "You're gonna have to do better than that if you want me to not assume you're a drug lord."

He smirks slightly. "Don't flatter me. Come inside."

He helps me out of the car, and my knees are jelly. Not from the heels, not from the drugs—but from the shift I feel in him. The calm before the storm.

Inside, it's even more surreal. Vaulted ceilings, warm lights, framed black-and-white photos on the walls. Leather chairs, vinyl records, whiskey bottles. An ashtray with a still-burning joint. A house built for someone who lives at night.

"You live alone?" I ask.

He nods. "Housekeeper comes twice a week. I don't like people in my space."

"So why bring me here?"

"Because you looked like you were about to let someone do something you'd regret."

"You don't know me," I snap.

He shrugs. "Don't have to."

He disappears into the kitchen and comes back with water. I don't take it at first, so he sets it beside me and sinks into the armchair across from me, watching.

"Drink," he says.

I do.

It's silent for a beat too long.

Then I say, "You ever do anything bad, Harry?"

His eyes lock on mine. "All the time."

I smile slowly. "Good. I like that."

⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹

📝 Author's Note:

Next chapter is honestly going to be chaotic.....

[uhuhmaries]

Surrender | H.S. AU

cw: explicit content (18+), drug use, alcohol abuse, emotional manipulation, toxic relationships, money laundering, age gap, trauma themes, mental health struggles, morally grey characters. Proceed with caution is what I'm basically sayin'. I'm not going to put any warnings in the chapters because I'm just bad with it tbh, but I will put on a '*' symbol on chapters with heavy smut innit!!!

⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹

He's a sunshine in the spotlight. She's a storm in the shadows. He's 35, grounded by fame, power, and dirty money. She's 21, floating through life on pills, parties, and promises she never plans to keep. He's a global icon living in a mansion built on secrets. She's surviving off the affection of older men who never look her in the eye. He's Harry Styles—charming, dangerous, and laundering millions behind his smile. She's Ludovica Grey—a reckless beauty with a thousand demons and no place to call home. They have nothing in common—except the ruin that follows them everywhere.

He wants control. She wants chaos. They should've never crossed paths. But they did. And the moment they collide, it's the beginning of the end. For their lies. For their lives. For whatever's left of the people they once were. This isn't your usual type of love story. It's a goddamn slow-burn crash.

⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹

CHAPTERS:

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR*

FIVE

⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹

📝 Author's Note:

SORRY I'VE BEEN MIA KINDA. I'm still drafting more chapters for If You Could, Would You? and working on this one!!!! Both will honestly be devastating ngl but in a slightly different way. THIS IS ALSO MY FIRST TIME DOING AN OC SERIES THING I HOPE ITS GOOODDDDD!!!!!

Ps. OC/Ludovica Grey is portrayed by Alice Pagani!

[uhuhmaries]

Since 14

PURE FLUFFFFFFFF HAPPY ENDING FOR MY HARRIES

If you’re new here, HELLO!!!! Check out my masterlist to see the first four chapters!

⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹

You wake up tangled in hotel sheets that still smell faintly like Harry’s cologne and the shampoo from the night before. The room is quiet, bathed in soft morning light seeping through the curtains. He’s long gone.

You stretch slowly, every muscle sore in the most satisfying way, and stare up at the ceiling.

Today’s your last day in Tokyo.

You don’t cry, though the ache in your chest suggests you could. Instead, you move on autopilot—shower, pack, check out. You leave the hotel through a back exit, avoiding the lobby you walked into wearing the dress two nights ago. The same one he peeled off you like it was a gift.

The cab ride to the airport is quiet. You scroll through your photos, but there are none of him. Not one. Just blurry neon street signs, late-night ramen bowls, and a shot of your legs in that slit dress. It feels surreal. Like a fever dream you weren’t supposed to remember so vividly.

You don’t hear from him that day. Or the next.

But on the third day, your phone buzzes.

Harry Styles: Made it to Seoul. Wish you were here. The food is… not as good without you moaning over noodles.

You laugh.

You: Not moaning. Just impressed.

Harry: I still hear it in my head.

And just like that, you’re talking again.

The days pass like that—slow but sweet. Voice notes at 1 AM. Updates about shows. Random photos. He sends you a selfie with a fan’s handmade poster that says “MY MOM LOVES YOU MORE THAN I DO.” He replies, “Let her know I love her back.”

You send him shots of your dog. A video of your friend making fun of your post-Tokyo “glow.” A photo of your half-written resignation letter. He sends heart emojis.

Two weeks pass.

You’re at home, in the middle of a Sunday laundry fold, when there’s a knock at your door.

You open it.

And nearly drop the basket in your hands.

He’s standing there. Hoodie pulled low. Sunglasses, baseball cap. Casual as hell. Beautiful as ever. Holding a bouquet of flowers so wild and colorful, it looks like it was picked from some enchanted forest.

“Hi,” he says, like it’s nothing.

“Harry… what the fuck—”

“You weren’t answering your phone.”

“I was folding laundry!”

He grins. “Well. Surprise.”

You blink rapidly. “You’re in my country.”

“I’m in your driveway, actually.”

You pull him inside so fast, the door slams behind you.

After a round of frenzied kisses and shocked laughter, you finally sit him down.

“You’re insane,” you whisper, breathless, eyes still wide.

Harry leans forward, eyes locked on yours. “I’ve got seven more days of tour. Then I’m taking a break. And I don’t want to do any of it without you.”

Your heart skids.

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying quit your job. Pack a bag. Come with me.” He smiles softly. “Please.”

You sit back like he’s knocked the air out of you. “You’re serious?”

“I don’t want you to be a memory in Tokyo. Or a message on my phone. I want to wake up and see your legs tangled with mine again. I want you backstage and in the hotel lobbies and next to me on the plane. I don’t want… just pieces of you.”

You try to blink away the sting in your eyes. It’s all too much. Too fast. Too real.

“I… I just started feeling okay again,” you whisper. “I was trying to forget. To be realistic. I don’t live in your world.”

He reaches across the table, brushing your knuckles with his thumb. “Then let me bring you into it.”

You don’t mean to cry—but you do. Soft and overwhelmed.

He leans in and presses his forehead to yours.

“I’m not asking you to marry me,” he whispers. “Yet. Just to trust me. Just for a week. And if you hate it… I’ll let you go.”

You sniff. “You’ll let me go?”

He chuckles. “Alright, I’ll try.”

And even though you’re scared and unsure and not entirely ready… you say yes.

⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹

TOUR DAYS

Tour life with Harry is not what you expected.

Yes, it’s wild and loud and fast—crowds screaming his name, hotel lobbies swarmed with cameras, backstage passes that feel surreal—but it’s also soft. Intimate. Human.

Because when the lights dim and the doors close, it’s just him.

You.

And a little world the two of you build with every stolen moment.

He takes your hand in every city.

Backstage, he lets you sit on the floor of his dressing room, your legs over his lap while he scrolls through the setlist. He kisses your shoulder absentmindedly between notes with his team. When he gets nervous before going on, he leans down and rests his forehead against yours.

“I’ve done this a thousand times,” he says one night in Berlin, “but it’s never felt like this before.”

You nudge him. “What? With me around?”

He smiles. “With you watching. Like I want to be better.”

Onstage, he steals glances at you. Smiles. Winks, sometimes, if you’re in the wings.

You meet the band. The crew. Everyone knows who you are now—even the catering staff has your drink ready before soundcheck. Mitch slips you snacks between cities. Sarah hugs you like you’ve been friends for years.

Harry never shies away from having you close. He doesn’t hide you.

And when he has free nights, he books a tiny room for just the two of you—far from the arena chaos—where he reads you poems from the notes on his phone and holds you like you’re everything he’s ever written about.

After the last show in Prague, he comes offstage shirtless and glowing with sweat, glitter stuck to his skin.

He picks you up—literally—and spins you around.

“We did it,” he says breathlessly. “Now… it’s Italy time.”

The next day, you land at his home in Tuscany.

It’s everything you imagined and more: golden light, quiet hills, the faint scent of rosemary in the air. The stone house sits nestled between olive trees, windows wide open to let the breeze dance through.

He takes you on walks to the local market, where everyone greets him by name. You pick lemons. He picks flowers. You cook together at sunset, music low in the background—Fleetwood Mac, some old Italian records, a few of his unreleased tracks he plays off his phone.

One night, you find a dusty book in his living room filled with polaroids. He lets you flip through it.

There’s baby Harry. Teenage Harry. Tour Harry. Friends. Family. Bits of a life you’ve only seen from a distance until now.

“You’re in here now,” he says quietly.

You glance up. “Am I?”

He nods. “Front page.”

He takes a photo of you right then—barefoot in one of his shirts, smiling over a glass of wine—and tucks it into the first page.

The night he asks, it’s quiet.

You’re on the rooftop at dusk, lying on a lounge chair with a blanket across your legs. He comes out barefoot, curls still damp from the shower, and sits beside you.

You’re both watching the sun dip behind the hills when he turns to face you.

“I’ve never done this right,” he says suddenly. “Not publicly. Not for real.”

You look at him, confused. “What do you mean?”

“Relationships. I’ve had… moments. But this feels like more than a moment.”

Your heart skips.

“You don’t have to say that,” you whisper.

“But I want to.” He leans closer, brushing your hand with his. “I don’t want you to be ‘someone I met in Tokyo.’ I want you to be the one I write about. I want you to be my girlfriend.”

You blink. “Like… officially?”

“Officially. Fully. Wholeheartedly. No hiding. No maybe.”

You don’t speak for a beat. Then you smile.

“Then I officially say yes.”

He exhales like he’s been holding it in for days, pulling you into him, kissing you long and slow under the fading sky.

⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹

The next morning, you post a photo: a blurry shot of your intertwined legs, the sun hitting his tattoos as you both lounge in the grass.

You don’t tag him. But he reposts it.

And the internet explodes. You didn’t expect to go viral over a blurry leg photo, but… here you are.

Within hours, headlines sprout like wildfire. Fans speculate. Tabloids post side-by-sides. Old Tokyo paparazzi photos resurface, zooming in on your silhouette like it’s a national treasure.

But here’s the thing: Harry doesn’t run from it. He leans into it.

The next day, he posts a photo of you together. Full face. No hiding. You're sitting on the steps of his Italian home, both barefoot, wine glasses in hand. He’s kissing your cheek mid-laugh while you wear one of his shirts.

Caption: Found what I was looking for. Took me a while.

And just like that, the world knows.

The weeks that follow are a blur of joy, disbelief, and adjustment. He brings you to a few public events—lowkey ones at first. Then the big stuff.

The BRIT Awards, where you're seated next to him, hands clasped under the table. A red carpet appearance where he jokes, “Don’t look too good, or people will forget about me.”

And you learn something quickly: Everyone loves you.

Gemma hugs you like she’s known you for years. Anne cries when you bring flowers and insists you call her “Mum.” Jeff, Harry’s manager, jokes that you’re the only person who’s ever successfully distracted Harry from rehearsals.

“You’re the calm in his chaos,” he tells you quietly. “He needs that.”

And the fans? They were skeptical. But then you show up in his tour documentary—briefly, casually, but undeniably glowing. They soften. They make fan edits. They defend you online like you’re one of their own.

You still work—but differently. He helps you pivot, supports you launching your own creative projects, even collaborates with you on a little travel blog idea that features polaroids, playlists, and handwritten stories from cities you’ve visited together.

You make a name for yourself. But more than that— You build a life.

⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹

One summer, almost three years later, you return to Italy with him.

You’re in the garden, barefoot, sipping iced tea, reading under a lemon tree when you feel a tap on your shoulder.

You turn around, and there he is.

Harry. In linen. Hair longer now. Eyes softer. A little box in his hand.

Your breath stops.

He doesn’t kneel. He just stands there, heart in his eyes.

“I’ve loved you in hotel rooms, backstage halls, tiny cafés, and quiet mornings,” he says, voice steady but soft. “But more than anything, I want to love you as my home. Will you marry me?”

You don’t hesitate. A tear slides down your cheek as you smile.

“You might not know this…” Your voice cracks slightly as you take the ring. “But I’ve been your wife since I was 14.”

Harry’s eyes widen, his grin pulling into that signature dimpled softness, and a chuckle follows.

You nod. “Of course, Styles.”

⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹

The wedding is set in Holmes Chapel. Small. Intimate. Meaningful.

The church he used to pass on the way to school. Florals in soft green and white. Mitch plays acoustic during the vows. Gemma gives a speech that makes everyone sob.

Harry kisses you like there's no tomorrow.

You dance barefoot in the grass behind the reception tent. He spins you under fairy lights. Later that night, he carries you across the threshold of the little cottage he grew up in—just for fun.

“I never imagined it like this,” you whisper.

And he replies, “Me neither. But I wouldn’t change a second.”

Epilogue – One Year Later You're in bed in the Italian house—again. Your dog snoozes near your feet. A stack of books on one side. Your wedding photo framed on the other side.

He comes in from a morning walk, sweat-damp curls and coffee in hand.

“Morning, Mrs. Styles.”

You grin. “I’ll never get tired of hearing that.”

He climbs into bed beside you, coffee left forgotten as he buries his face in your neck.

And in the quiet, in the warmth, you know:

Tokyo was never just a fling. It was the beginning of a life.

The End. 🌿💍✨

⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹

📝 Author's Note:

IM FEELING SO SOFT TODAY HAHAHAHAHAHA HOPE THIS IS THE ENDING YALL EATINGGGGG

@triski73

[uhuhmaries]

PART 7 (A.A.) — Almost

Warnings: 18+

Series: Almost Acquaintances

⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹

It's finally the night before your flight back to your reality.

The knock comes just before sundown.

You’re in your living room, folding the last of your clothes, your suitcase half-zipped open on the floor. Your flight back home is tomorrow morning, and everything smells like endings—your lavender detergent, the hotel-sized shampoo bottles in your shower, the last coffee you made that morning.

So when you hear it—the knock—you already know.

You walk to the door and open it slowly. And there he is.

Harry.

Hair messy like he’s run his hands through it a thousand times, red-eyed and holding a half-creased folder of documents like they’re the only thing anchoring him to the ground.

“Hey,” he says, voice rough. A whisper that barely holds together.

You don’t move. You just look at him, tired and somehow still beautiful in the worst way. Like heartbreak in human form. Hair messy. Eyes red. Documents in hand. Shirt crumpled.

He swallows. "I—I was at a meeting. But I couldn’t focus. I got out, and I just... ended up here."

You step aside. Say nothing. He walks in like he’s done it a hundred times, though he’s only done it once before. He stops in the middle of the room, hands shaking slightly as he sets the documents on the counter.

"I know you’re leaving tomorrow," he says. "But I—I couldn’t let you go without saying this."

You fold your arms, heart pounding. "Then say it."

He turns, eyes glassy. "There’s something here. You know that. We both do. I know it’s been messy. I know I’ve handled things wrong. But I feel it. Don’t you?"

You inhale deeply. "Harry."

He steps closer. "I can’t stop thinking about you. The way you laugh. The way you look at me like I’m not a fucking brand. I don’t want to let this go. We could find a way. Make something work. What if—what if we don’t let this end tomorrow?"

Your heart aches. Because you want it. You want him. And he’s right—there was something electric about it, something real. But there’s more than want. There’s the truth.

You let out a slow, bitter breath. "We’re about to live in two different worlds, Harry. You’re going back to London. I’m going back to work. We couldn’t even manage LA and London. How do you think we’ll survive even farther apart?"

He opens his mouth, closes it. Like he doesn’t have the answer either.

"You’re busy," you continue. "Your world is interviews and travel and a million people pulling you in a million directions. And I—I want something simpler. And fair."

He steps back, wounded. "You think I didn’t try?"

"I think you’re trying now. Because it’s ending."

He looks down at the floor. His voice breaks. "I’m sorry."

You walk over to your suitcase and zip it the rest of the way shut. The click feels final.

"I’ll always love your music," you say softly. "And I’ll always be proud I got to see the version of you that wasn’t for the cameras. But I think we both know how this ends. I’ll see you from far away. Just like everyone else."

When you look up, his face is shattered. He opens his mouth again, but no words come out. He walks toward the door like it’s the hardest thing he’s ever done.

And you don’t stop him.

⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹

Three Years Later

You’re back in LA. Not for a trip. Not for a short escape.

For good.

The air is warm. Familiar. Something in the light hits just right as you cross the same intersection you once walked through with tears in your eyes.

You have a job now. A new place. A future you’re building on your own terms.

But your heart—your heart remembers.

That café.

It’s a Sunday morning when you walk into it again. Almost like your feet take you there on autopilot. You order your drink. Sit at the same corner table. The barista doesn’t recognize you, but the place still smells the same—espresso and sunlit wood and fate.

You don’t expect anything. But part of you... hopes.

And then. He walks in. Harry. Your Harry.

He hasn’t changed much. Still wears his sunglasses on the collar of his shirt. Still has that curl in his hair that he can’t quite tame. But something is different—calmer. Softer.

He doesn’t see you at first. You speak before you can stop yourself.

"Thought I might see you here."

His head snaps up. His eyes widen. And then he smiles. Real. Warm. Surprised in the best way.

He walks over, hands in his pockets. "You’re here."

You nod. "Moved back. For good."

He sits. Across from you. The distance feels shorter this time.

There’s silence, but not the uncomfortable kind. More like something waiting to settle.

"You look happy," he says.

"So do you."

A pause.

"Do you... have someone?" He asks, cautiously.

You shake your head, smile soft. "No. You?"

He mirrors the shake. "I think I was just waiting."

You both laugh a little. Nervous. Relieved.

He reaches across the table. His fingers graze yours.

"Can we try again?" He asks. "Not as whatever we had in the past. But as something real. My contract with Cathy finished a long time ago."

You nod. "I think we can."

⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹

That night, he walks you home. You don’t rush it. But when you reach your door, he pauses.

"Would you like to come in?" You ask.

His eyes darken slightly, but his smile is patient. "Only if you want me to."

You nod once.

And when he kisses you, it’s like something the universe had been holding onto finally lands.

Inside, clothes fall slowly. Like they know there’s time now.

He kisses every inch of skin like a prayer. His hands trace the curves of your body like he’s remembering. Like he’s claiming.

And when he finally presses into you, it’s not just lust—it’s history, and longing, and love.

"You feel like home," he murmurs against your neck.

You breathe, "Then stay."

He does. He stays. It's a weird feeling. But a good weird feeling.

And in the morning, when the sunlight floods through your windows, he’s still there.

You curl into him, tangled in sheets and soft smiles.

You press a kiss to his chest.

He whispers, "Not almost anymore."

And you close your eyes. Because you know it now. This is not the end. This is where it begins. Not as almost acquaintances.

But as everything.

⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹

📝 Author's Note:

SIKEEEEE OMG I'm so sorry for saying A and ended up with B because I figured after all that push and pull y'all deserve a good ending 🥲. This is officially FINISHEDDDDDDDD. I already have another concept in mind, but probably gonna be another angst and bittersweet mixed with smut.... love me some heartache.

[uhuhmaries]

PART 6 (A.A.) — Is This Goodbye?

No warnings. No smut. Just feelings and shit

Series: Almost Acquaintances

⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹

You wake to the sound of birds chirping in the palm trees outside your window, the LA sun spilling across rumpled sheets. Your body aches in the best way—slow and sore from last night, the kind of ache that reminds you exactly where he touched you, how he held you down, how he made you beg.

But when you blink, and reach for him, he's already gone.

The spot next to you is cold. No warm skin. No sleepy breath against your neck. No creak of the floorboards or sound of running water. Nothing. Just quiet. The kind that feels too heavy for morning.

You stare at the ceiling, trying to piece together the night. The way he growled in your ear. The way you called him “Daddy” once and he lost control. The way his hands gripped your hips so tight you’re still sore.

And yet... there’s no trace of him now. Just you, tangled in bedsheets that still smell like him—just faintly—and a heartbeat that won’t slow down.

Eventually, you sit up. Drag your legs out from under the covers. The hardwood is cool beneath your feet, grounding in a way that almost hurts.

You head to the bathroom, flick the light on. The mirror doesn’t lie. Your hair’s a mess. Lips swollen. Bruises bloom soft purple and red on your neck, and you raise your fingers to trace one. It still stings.

You splash cold water on your face, try to breathe. Last night feels surreal now. Like it happened in a dream you’re waking up from too fast.

You throw on yesterday’s jeans and a clean tee, don’t even bother with much else. You just need coffee. Something hot or cold—anything bitter enough to snap you back to reality.

Your sneakers slide on easy, keys in hand, and you’re out the door.

The hallway feels too quiet. You take the elevator down and walk through the lobby. Sunlight slants in through tall windows. Outside, the city is stretching awake—cars crawling down Sunset, joggers on sidewalks, café doors opening, baristas clinking metal.

You head toward your favorite little café two blocks away. You’ve been here enough that they know your order. That feels nice right now—being known, even in a small way.

You push open the café door. The smell hits first—coffee, warm and sharp. Muffins. Vanilla. Burnt espresso. The comfort of it makes your chest loosen just a little.

The barista smiles. “Hey, Y/N. The usual?”

“Please,” you say, exhaling.

You stand there while she makes it, watching the ice hit the cup, the dark swirl of strong black coffee tumbling down over it. Your eyes scan the space.

A man in a crisp suit types quickly on a laptop near the window. There’s an empty table near him with four chairs, untouched.

You take your drink when it’s ready. Wrap your fingers around the glass, still cold from the ice. You don’t sit yet.

You’re not really ready to.

Your head is still somewhere else.

Somewhere tangled in sheets, whispering his name. Somewhere replaying the moment you opened your eyes this morning and realized he’d left without a word.

You lift the cup to your lips. And try not to think about how empty that bed felt without him in it.

Your gaze drifts to the back of the café. A familiar silhouette sits alone at a small round table, legs crossed, scrolling on her phone. Cathy. You do a double-take. She’s perched as if waiting for someone—a glossy magazine draped over one arm of the chair, coffee half-finished, brow furrowed.

You freeze. Your mind backtracks: last night’s dinner, Harry’s tension, Cathy’s polite smile that didn’t reach her eyes. Your fingers tighten around your coffee cup. You can turn and leave, pretend you never saw her. You can laugh in relief that you’re not the only one rattled by last night.

But you don’t. Instead, you jog lightly to her table, heart in your throat but determination in your step.

She looks up, startled, for a moment— then recovers with a polite tilt of her chin. “Hey,” she says, voice even. “Fancy seeing you here.”

You nod, feeling the old guard go up. “Morning.” You sweep your hair out of your face, not quite meeting her eyes. “Mind if I sit?”

She gestures to the empty chair across from her. “Please.”

You slide into the seat opposite, setting your coffee down with a gentle clink. You can smell the remnants of her perfume, soft vanilla and something musky too. You clear your throat.

“How are you?” you ask, keeping your tone neutral. Casual. As if last night’s under-the-table glances and half-spoken apologies never happened.

She smiles, a little too tight. “I’m fine. Work brought me to LA for a few days. I’m staying at the Four Seasons down the street.” She taps the table. “I like this place, though.”

You nod, stirring your coffee. “It’s my go-to. Helps me wake the fuck up.”

She laughs, a small, brittle sound. “I remember. You drank liters of it when we met briefly at the party.”

Your grip tightens on the cup but you don’t spill a drop. “Right. That.”

A pause. You consider leaving— scooting your chair back, tossing down the last of your coffee, walking away. But you don’t. You lean forward, elbows on the table.

“So… how’s work?” you ask. You mean Harry. You know she understands.

Cathy tilts her head. “Good. Busy. We’re negotiating a brand partnership. He needed to see the market firsthand.” She touches the coffee mug, fingers brushing the lip. “What about you?”

“I’m… exploring.” You shrug. “Got a few days left in town. Trying not to think about work back home.”

She nods, and you both lapse into the kind of small talk that doesn’t mean much. You talk about the city’s new farmers’ market, the burrito place down the block, a show you both caught at The Roxy. But your attention keeps drifting to the café door, half-expecting him to walk in and shatter the façade.

And just when you’re about to call it, pack up, and leave Cathy to her solitude, the door swings open again.

Harry.

He steps in like he owns the place— black jeans, white tee, an unbuttoned denim jacket thrown over his shoulders. Hair still mussed from sleep. Collar unzipped. He scans the room until his eyes lock on you, flicker with recognition, then dart to Cathy, and back to you.

He hesitates. Then he weaves through the tables and approaches your spot, pulling Cathy’s gaze first, then yours.

“Hey,” Harry says, his voice low. He walks up and leans in to give Cathy a quick hug. Then he turns slightly, eyes flicking to you. “I—sorry if I’m interrupting.”

You clear your throat, standing from your chair. “No, you’re not. I was just leaving.” You offer him a small, tight smile, then glance at Cathy. “Nice seeing you.”

Harry nods once. Then turns back to you, eyes holding something unreadable.

You’re standing now, while he still is too. For a second, it feels like the whole café slows down. The barista behind the counter stops mid-pour. Cathy’s friends glance your way. Even the guy in the corner with a laptop looks up, like he knows something’s happening.

Harry steps closer and gently touches your arm. His hand is warm, steady, familiar.

“Can we talk?” he asks, his voice quieter now. Rougher.

You barely nod, unsure what to say.

Cathy watches the silent exchange between you and Harry, then lets out a soft shrug— like she’s seen enough. Without another word, she turns and continues to enjoy her beverage. You and Harry step outside together, the tension between you thick and quiet. Near the smoking area, you stop. You reach into your pocket, pull out a cigarette, and light it with steady hands.

Harry breathes in, as if bracing himself. “I’m… I wanted to explain.”

You lean against the cool glass of the café window, cigarette burning slowly between your fingers. The smoke curls up, hanging in the tense silence between you.

“Explain what?” You ask, not looking at him. “Why you vanished? Why you didn’t call? Treating me like I'm a booty call? Choosing her instead of me?”

His jaw clenches, but he stays quiet.

You let out a bitter laugh, eyes fixed on the street. “You know I’m leaving in three days. And somehow, instead of just being honest, you decided to make everything worse.”

“I didn’t mean to,” he says, voice low. “I—fuck, I don’t know how to do this. Cathy is… convenient. Familiar. And you—”

“Don’t,” you cut in, dragging one last inhale before tossing the cigarette onto the pavement and stepping on it. “Don’t act like I’m just a problem you couldn’t solve in time.”

Harry runs a hand through his hair. “You’re not. I swear you’re not. I just… I have issues, alright? I push people away. I ruin shit that’s good for me.”

You finally look at him, hard. “Then keep ruining it. Hopefully you don't ruin Cathy. She seems nice.”

Behind the glass, Cathy is still sitting at the table, idly scrolling her phone. Her polished calm is a stark contrast to the quiet storm outside.

Harry’s eyes flick to you, pleading. “Please don’t walk away like this.”

But you’re already taking a step back. “There’s nothing else to say.”

He reaches out slightly, as if to stop you. You dodge it with a breath, like it burns.

“I deserve to at least know what this meant to you,” he says.

You stare at him for a long moment. “And I deserved a goodbye, at the very least.”

With that, you turn your back, walking away from him with no further explanation, no closure. You don’t stop. Don’t look back.

Behind you, Harry stands motionless, hands stuffed in the pockets of his expensive jacket, Cathy still inside waiting like she doesn’t know her name was never really the one stuck on his tongue.

But that’s not your problem anymore. Not now. Not ever again.

⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹

📝 Author's Note:

Sorry I'm listening to Conan Gray's Sunset Season EP and I'm just AAARGHHH. I think two more chapters and we're done with this series!!!!! If you haven't noticed.... it will be a heartbreaking and shitty ending. Just so y'all be ready 😅

@dontforgtme

[uhuhmaries]

If You Could, Would You? | PART 7

Warnings: NSFW, light dub-con, emotional infidelity, guilt, codependency, emotional confusion, verbal tension, 18+

Full Series: If You Could, Would You?

⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹

You don’t sleep that night. Not after what happened. Not after what almost happened.

You lie in bed with your phone on your chest, eyes wide open in the dark, your brain a carousel of everything Harry said, did, touched, nearly did. You can still feel his fingers inside you. Still hear his voice in your ear. Still taste the apology he never gave.

The worst part is—you don’t know if you want it again, or if you want to erase it from your skin entirely.

Alice’s message still glows on your screen. “Hey. I hope you’re okay. If you ever need someone to talk to… I know things feel messy.”

You read it over and over until the words blur. You never reply.

You see Harry again four days later.

It’s at Reese’s flat. Movie night. Alice is there too. And so are you. You feel like a walking paradox. You’re quiet, trying not to look at Harry, but you can feel his eyes on you the whole time. Even as Reese laughs and wraps his arm around you. Even as Alice cuddles up to Harry, pressing a kiss to his cheek.

You catch Harry’s gaze once. And he doesn’t look away.

Later that night, you help Alice clean up in the kitchen. She’s soft. Gentle. “I’m glad we’re hanging out more,” she tells you. “I know I was cold when we first met. I just didn’t understand… how close you and Harry got so fast.”

You force a smile. “We just clicked, I guess.”

She nods, wiping the counter. “He’s been different lately. Thoughtful. I think you grounded him.”

You don’t know how to respond. You don’t think she’s wrong—but not in the way she thinks.

It’s after midnight when you walk into the living room to grab your coat.

You stop in your tracks.

Harry and Alice are in the hallway. They don’t see you.

“You told me you took the bins out and you didn’t!” Alice snaps. “Just like you said you’d fix the leaky sink. It’s always something!”

Harry’s jaw tightens. “It’s been a long week. I forgot.”

“You always forget! About me. About us.”

“I don’t forget about us,” he says, voice low.

Alice steps closer. “Then why do I feel like you’re not even here anymore?”

He doesn’t answer. And that’s when her hand shoves at his chest. Not playful. Not light.

You step back, quietly as possible. They don’t see you. But Harry’s eyes follow your retreat.

You leave early. The guilt chokes you before the morning even comes. So you do something reckless.

You text him.

You: I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to eavesdrop.

Harry: Come over.

You hesitate.

You: I don’t think we should.

Harry: I just need to talk.

That’s a lie. But you say yes anyway.

His place is dimly lit when you arrive. Smells like bergamot and stale tension.

Harry stands by the kitchen counter, a glass of whiskey in his hand. Alice has gone to bed.

You don’t sit. You stand there, across from him, heart beating fast.

“I’m sorry about what happened,” you start, but he cuts you off.

“You saw it.”

You nod. “I didn’t mean to. I was just—”

“It’s always like that,” he mutters. “She loves me. But she wants to fix me. I don’t think she knows how broken I already am.”

You cross your arms. “Then why are you still with her?”

He looks at you. Really looks at you.

“Because I’m used to it. I think I confused comfort with love.”

A beat passes.

“Do you love her?” You ask.

His throat bobs. “I don’t know.”

You move to sit down, but he’s already in front of you.

“I shouldn’t be here,” you whisper.

“I know.”

He leans in anyway.

His mouth crashes onto yours like a storm. You gasp as he grabs the back of your neck, dragging you into him, kissing you hard and desperate. You don’t push away. You pull him closer.

Your back hits the wall. His hands roam your waist, your hips, your ass—gripping, clutching, owning.

You whimper when he bites your lower lip, when his knee parts your legs and presses against your core.

“Fuck, I missed this,” he pants.

Your fingers dig into his shirt, tugging him between your thighs. He lifts you, walks you to the guest bedroom, lips never leaving yours.

You fall onto the mattress, breathless, legs wide. He strips you fast—shirt, bra, leggings. He hovers over you, shirt still on, belt unbuckled but pants intact.

He palms your pussy over your underwear.

“You’re soaked.”

“You got me soaked,” you bite back.

He groans. “Don’t say shit like that unless you want me to ruin you.”

You tug his pants down. He kicks them off, cock hard and heavy against his stomach. You reach to touch him, but he grabs your wrist and pins it down.

“Let me.”

Two fingers slide under your panties and find your entrance. He fucks you slow, fingers crooking just right.

You moan into his neck.

He whispers, “I dreamt about this. About you.”

Your eyes flutter. Your hips buck.

“More.”

He adds a third finger. You cry out, legs shaking, nails raking down his back.

He pulls your underwear down and tosses it. Then he lines himself up. No condom.

You blink, realizing what will happen if you don't snap out of it. “Harry—”

“I need to feel you.”

“No.”

He pauses.

Then your phone buzzes on the nightstand.

Reese.

You both see the name.

You freeze.

Harry does not.

“You’re not thinking about him right now, are you?”

You don’t respond.

He presses the tip in—just barely.

“Harry…”

He exhales hard, head dropping to your shoulder.

Then he pulls out.

You both lie there. Breathing. Alive. On fire. But not touching.

You’re both quiet now.

The room smells like heat, like sweat, like restraint. The mattress dips with your weight as you slowly sit up, your shirt hanging off one shoulder, skin damp and glowing from everything that nearly just happened.

Harry’s still kneeling between your legs, hand braced on the bed, head down.

You breathe out, slow. “We have to stop this.”

He flinches, like it hurts him.

You slide your legs off the bed and reach for your clothes silently, slipping them back on one by one. You don't move fast, but you don’t hesitate either.

He finally looks up. Eyes glazed. Lips parted.

“I know what you're going through,” you say softly. “I see it. I see how lost you are, Harry.”

He doesn’t speak. Just stares.

You tug your hoodie over your head. “But as much as I’ve messed up by letting it get this far… I’m not a mistress. I’m not a cheater. And I can’t ever be that person. Even for you.”

He swallows hard. “You’re not that person. I made you that person. I guided you. I unintentionally became Alice.”

“No.” You step toward him, kneeling just enough to meet his eyes. “You’re making yourself that person by dragging both of us through something you’re not ready to face.”

His breath catches. He leans his forehead against yours briefly. “I don’t want to lose you.”

“Then fix your life. Actually fix it.” You reach up, thumb brushing just under his eye. “Not with distractions. Not with wanting to fuck me when you feel broken. Do the real work.”

His body sags. He looks exhausted. Defeated. Like he knows you’re right but it hurts more than anything else.

“I’ll be there,” you whisper. “If you make the right choice. I’m not running from you. But I won’t stay here, either.”

You squeeze his hand. One last time. And then you let go.

The hallway is dark when you step out. You walk past the closed master bedroom door.

Alice is asleep.

You don’t knock. You don’t peek in. You don’t want to see her peaceful while your own insides are on fire.

You slip your shoes on quietly, grabbing your bag.

As you turn the knob and open the front door, the cool night air hits you like a reset button. A slap to your reality.

You glance back once. Harry is standing at the end of the hallway.

Still in the same clothes. Still bare-footed. Just… standing there.

“I’m sorry,” he says, voice cracking.

You nod. No anger. Just sadness.

“Goodnight, Harry.”

And then you leave.

Harry’s POV (brief interlude)

He lies in the guest bed now, staring up at the ceiling like it might cave in. It feels like it should.

The room is silent except for the ticking of the wall clock and the soft hum of the fridge downstairs. Alice is just two doors away. The woman who’s supposed to be his forever.

But it’s not about Alice anymore. It’s not even about you.

It’s about him.

Letting go. Letting go of the structure he’s spent years building—bricks made of routine, commitment, fear, and denial. Letting go of the story he tells himself every time someone asks, “How did you two meet?” and he recites it like a bedtime tale.

Letting go of being groomed into stability that never felt safe. But....

Why now? Why you?

Why does one night with you feel more like home than the past four years combined?

He shuts his eyes. But he's not asleep.

⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹

📝 Author's Note:

BABESSSSS HARRYS ABOUT TO BE HEALED!!!!!!! Slowly. But surely. And feel free to imagine how GREAT the sex will be once he's a free man. Just sayin 😏

[uhuhmaries]

You Don’t Even Like Football 🏈

Warnings: Alcohol consumption, jealousy/possessive behavior, explicit sexual content, dom!Louis, unprotected sex.

⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹

You’re not even sure why you agreed to come.

You don’t like football. You never get the concept of it. Men running around and kicking balls? Not your ideal Sunday noon. You only came because your friend Chloe insisted, practically dragged you into her car, promised you that Soccer Aid was “fun, fit, and full of drama.”

She wasn’t wrong.

You’re now standing in heels that are killing your feet, holding a drink you haven’t touched in ten minutes, and watching Louis Tomlinson lean back against a leather couch like he owns the entire fucking place.

Which, to be fair, he sort of does. The room vibrates around him. There’s an energy he brings — like he’s gravity and everyone else is just orbiting. Even now, post-match, sweat still faint on his brow and a fresh Guinness in hand, he looks smug. And exhausted. And painfully fit.

You shouldn’t be staring. You definitely shouldn’t be blushing when he catches you.

But Louis looks at you like he knows exactly what you’re thinking. His mouth curves. One brow lifts lazily. Then, he winks.

You roll your eyes and look away.

“Is he always like that?” you mutter to Chloe, sipping the drink that’s mostly ice by now.

Chloe follows your gaze. “Louis? Yeah. Cocky little shit. But he’s a sweetheart too. Once you get past the swagger.”

“Not interested,” you lie quickly.

Chloe snorts. “Sure.”

Twenty minutes later, he’s in front of you.

Not because you approached him. Not because you even moved. But because, apparently, Louis fucking Tomlinson doesn’t like being ignored.

“So you’re the one,” he says, sliding into the open spot beside you on the velvet booth. His knee knocks yours, deliberate. “The mystery girl Chloe’s been hiding from me. Y/N, right?”

You blink. “I’m not hidden. I’m just not loud.”

He tilts his head, eyes flicking down, then up again — slow. “Think that’s worse. Quiet ones are trouble.”

Your brows shoot up. “Oh? You’ve got a lot of experience with ‘quiet ones’ then?”

His grin widens. “Only the ones I like.”

You try to hide your smile behind your drink.

He catches it anyway.

You keep telling yourself you’re not flirting with Louis Tomlinson.

But it’s hard when he’s flirting so shamelessly. Every other word is a tease. Every glance a challenge.

He tells you you’ve got “the best frown he’s seen all night” when you wrinkle your nose at something his teammate says. He mocks your drink choice and then steals a sip just to prove it’s terrible. (“Fucking hell, is that elderflower? You posh or just pretending?”)

He asks how someone like you ended up dragged into a footballer’s afterparty, and when you say you’re just a friend of Chloe’s, he leans in like you’ve told him a secret.

“Chloe’s got good taste in mates,” he murmurs. “Real good taste.”

And when you roll your eyes and call him out for the line, he just laughs— boyish and breathless, like he’s already winning something.

You hate how charming he is. You hate more that it’s working.

All of so sudden, she walks in.

You see her before he does— tall, blonde, obviously confident. She’s dressed in the kind of effortless designer black that screams “I still have the shirt you left at my flat,” and every person at the bar turns to look.

She doesn’t even glance at Louis. You’re not sure if it’s on purpose.

But when he sees her… His jaw tightens.

“Oh,” you say, quietly.

He clocks your tone. “Don’t.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t have to.”

His fingers tighten slightly around his glass. You wonder how long ago it was. How long it still feels ago.

You don’t ask.

But Louis shifts closer to you.

You feel it in the heat off his thigh, the way his elbow brushes yours now instead of just his knee. There’s something new in his posture— tension, yes, but something else. Like he’s suddenly more focused.

On you.

You glance at him, skeptical. “Are you seriously trying to make your ex jealous?”

He snorts, lips twitching. “Nah.”

Then, after a beat:

“…Not unless it’s working.”

You let out a soft laugh, biting your lip.

And Louis sees it— clocks it instantly— and that’s the first time you see his eyes change. There’s a flicker of something low. Dangerous. Heated.

He doesn’t look away until you end up alone with him on the balcony.

It happens naturally. A lull in the chaos, Chloe pulled off by someone, the crowd shifting inside. You step out for air. He follows without asking.

The London night is cool and clean after the noise. The view below glitters with traffic and late-night citylight. You lean on the railing.

“You’re not really a football fan,” he says, joining you.

“Is it that obvious?”

“You didn’t cheer when I scored.”

You scoff. “I didn’t even see you score.”

Louis looks offended.

You laugh, and he smiles, but it’s… quieter now. Less of the usual swagger. There’s something calmer in the silence between you both.

“I’m not trying to make her jealous,” he says suddenly. “If I was, I’d be kissing you already.”

You blink. “That’s—bold.”

He shrugs. “I’m honest.”

“Cocky.”

“Charming.”

You turn to face him fully. He’s so close.

And you realize now— he’s been toeing this line all night. Flirty, yes. Teasing. But respectful. Controlled. Like he’s been waiting for permission. Like he wants to see if you’ll bite.

“I don’t do this often,” you say, quietly.

“Don’t do what?”

“This. Parties. Famous people. Flirting with…” You gesture vaguely. “Louis Tomlinson types.”

He tilts his head, amused. “What type is that, then?”

“Trouble.”

He steps in closer.

“I’m only trouble if you’re a good girl,” he murmurs.

Your breath catches. The words hit hard. Your body reacts before your brain does— a spark low in your belly.

And he sees it. He knows.

“Oh,” he whispers, eyes glinting. “You are.”

You don’t deny it. You can’t.

Not when he’s looking at you like that. Not when he moves a hand to the small of your back like it’s the most natural thing in the world— grounding you, guiding you. Testing the waters.

The touch is gentle, barely there.

But your body hums.

⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹

Back in the club, Louis doesn’t pull away from you once. Not when you’re talking to Chloe, not when his ex pretends to pass by “accidentally” for the third time, and definitely not when he drapes his arm casually behind you on the booth. Fingers playing with your hair. Knuckles ghosting the back of your neck.

He whispers things in your ear like he’s still flirting but lacing it with intent now. It’s different.

“So obedient all of a sudden,” he murmurs while someone across from you tries to start a conversation. “Keep still for me. Don’t make a sound.”

You’re sitting with your legs crossed, but his hand has dipped down under the table. Fingertips just barely stroking the inside of your thigh through your dress. You flinch, but he stills you with his palm.

You glance across the room.

She’s there. His ex.

Looking.

She sees it. She knows what’s happening even if she can’t prove it.

Your eyes flick to Louis.

He grins without shame. Still talking to someone else. Still teasing you silently.

“You like this?” he murmurs under the noise. “You like knowing she’s watching? Knowing she lost and I’ve got you dripping in my hand under the fucking table?”

You exhale a shaky breath.

He presses his fingers against your underwear. You’re soaked. You feel him smirk.

“Come with me.”

You nod. You follow. You have no idea what’s going on but you’re there. With him.

He leans in as you both are outside, brushing your lips with his but not kissing you.

“Good girl.”

⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹

He brings you to his car. He unlocks it and the doors slam once you’re both in the backseat. Windows fog immediately.

He doesn’t waste time. You straddle him in the dark and Louis grabs your jaw to make you look at him.

“Last chance,” he says, voice serious. “Say the word and we stop.”

You kiss him instead.

He groans into your mouth, one hand slipping between your legs again, pressing straight into the damp heat.

“So ready for me already? Such a good fucking girl.”

His fingers push aside the soaked fabric of your panties. He slides two fingers in without warning— slow and deliberate. You gasp, rocking into him, moaning against his mouth.

“Shhh,” he whispers. “Don’t wanna fog up the whole street.”

The car is moving now— not because he’s driving, but because your hips are. Bouncing. Rolling against his hand. His thumb finds your clit.

He sucks on your neck while his fingers work you open.

“Come for me like this,” he murmurs. “Before I even fuck you.”

You let out a moan that make him groan, and you do.

You fall apart in his hand, legs shaking, mouth open against his throat.

He watches. Then wipes his fingers on your inner thigh, eyes locked on yours.

“You’re gonna ride me now,” he says, voice dark and commanding. “And you’re gonna keep your eyes on mine the whole time. Yeah?”

You nod frantically, dizzy with need.

“Words, Y/N.”

“Yes, Louis. Yes.”

He frees himself from his jeans— thick, hard, already leaking. Your mouth parts slightly at the sight.

“Don’t you think we need cond—”

Before you can finish the word, Louis snaps his hips upward, burying himself to the hilt inside you in one brutal, perfect stroke.

You gasp, eyes wide, fingers flying to tangle in his hair. The rush of it— the danger, the fullness, the stretch—makes your head spin. You’re soaking around him instantly.

“Fuck me…” he groans, voice low and wrecked. His hands grip your ass, guiding you down, inch by inch. “Just like that. Knew you’d love feelin’ my cock bare inside you.”

One of his palms slides over your stomach and presses down.

“Feel that?” he murmurs. “That’s me. Deep inside your pretty little cunt.”

You moan, half in disbelief. You swear you can feel the weight of him inside your belly, his hand pressing right over the bulge he’s making. It’s filthy. It’s overwhelming. It makes you forget your own name.

You move—grinding, rolling your hips—riding him in the backseat until your thighs tremble and burn. Louis keeps his eyes locked on yours, his lips parted, sweat beading at his temple.

“I’m not pulling out, love,” he pants, fingers digging into your waist. “Not when you’re fuckin’ milking me like this—”

The windows are fogged, nearly opaque. But just then, a silhouette flickers outside.

You keep bouncing on him, gasping and moaning, the slick slap of skin-on-skin echoing in the car. Louis grits his teeth, swears under his breath.

You come first—loud and intense—clenching around him so hard you see stars as he covers your mouth with his hand. Louis follows seconds after, hips bucking upward as he spills inside you, hot and thick and endless.

You can feel it filling you.

He chuckles breathlessly, one hand brushing your spine.

“So much for a quiet one, huh?”

You turn your head toward the window, still panting.

There. Across the lot.

Her.

His ex.

Your breath catches, body still trembling. Louis notices where you’re looking.

“She sees,” you whisper, lips barely moving.

“Let her,” he mutters, no shame in his voice.

You collapse onto his chest, legs still shaking, the mess of you both sticky between your thighs. He tucks a piece of hair behind your ear, soft in contrast to everything that just happened.

“Still not into football?” He murmurs, voice hoarse and teasing.

You laugh, weak but breathless. “Still think you’re trouble.”

He grins. “Sure. But now I’m your trouble.”

Your eyes flutter shut for a moment, heart pounding against his.

Then you ease off his lap with a whimper, his cock slipping out of you slowly, followed by a hot trickle of his release. You feel it slide down your thighs, obscene and wet. You smooth your dress down, cheeks flushed, while Louis tucks himself away and zips up.

The moment your feet hit the pavement and you step out of the backseat, the cool night air hits you—and so does the reality of what just happened.

Louis climbs out after you, slamming the door behind him with a lazy stretch.

“Alright then,” he says, looking over at you with a smug little smile. “How about a proper date next time?”

You blink at him, stunned for a second. “You’re asking me out now?”

He shrugs. “Could’ve asked before, but I figured you needed some convincing first.”

You shake your head, laughing. “You’re insane.”

“And you’re not sayin’ no.”

He’s right.

You’re not.

“Get my number from Chloe,” you say, walking ahead of him just a little, tossing a glance over your shoulder. “I’ll send you my address if you actually text me.”

He smirks, watching you like he already knows he will.

“Oh, I will,” he calls after you, voice low and cocky. “Bet your pretty little ass I will.”

You didn’t come to this party for him. Didn’t expect anything but noise, drinks, and fake smiles.

Maybe football’s not so bad after all.

⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹

📝 Author’s Note:

HES JUST SO YUMMY IN THE PIC AAAAAARGHHHHHHHHHHH