Smut Dialogue: “Is that a thong?” with Ari Levinson but it's like an edible one and Ari is more amused while the Reader is trying to seduce him 😂👀🤣
OMG you’re a fucking genius!!
Smut below the cut, eighteen plus only please!!!!
You were so excited to see Ari, it was making it hard for you to concentrate. The man made you absolutely feral and it had been almost 6 months since one of his assignments had last brought him to your city.
Missed the first two lists? → Find them here and here!
1. Groans, “Fuck me,” when he sees you naked for the first time.
2. Holds his breath when he pushes into you.
3. Bites his lower lip and furrows his brow when he wants to moan, but can’t.
4. Gets so distracted by watching you, he forgets to actually do his part. “Sorry, sorry. So fuckin’ gorgeous, is all.”
5. Hisses when you try to take him all the way down your throat.
6. Encourages you like he’s your number one fan. “Doin’ so well for me, pet. Takin’ me all the way? Such a good girl.”
7. Rubs his morning wood against the swell of your ass to wake you up.
8. Puts his hair in a bun while he’s taking you from behind, nearly falling over onto you in surprise when you push back against him as he pauses momentarily to keep his hair out of his face.
9. Closes his eyes when you’re on top of him, silently whispering to himself, urging his body to not let go too quickly.
10. Puts a steady hand on your stomach to anchor you against the mattress while he fingers you, assaulting your g-spot with the same pressure over and over again.
i can’t help but imagine the first time you call harry “daddy”. it was probably on the couch of your shared apartment when you wanted to go out with him to get dinner, but he had to stay home to watch the packers play.
“love, we can go out to dinner every other night but please let me watch this game.” he pleaded with you.
“but i don’t wanna go to dinner tomorrow or the next day, i wanna go out with you tonight!” you whined, wrapping your legs around him, straddling his waist.
“(y/n), i’m gonna watch the game bub.” he said, assuming that would be the final statement, expecting you to pout and rest your head against his neck.
“please daddy?”
harry cocked his head to the side, giving you a surprised look.
“you are so naughty.”
and then it just became routine, every time you wanted him, he just snapped and became under your spell.
They always say that humans are creatures of habit, but you think that’s bullshit.
When you get back to London, you change everything. You take the giant mattress from the master bedroom and squeeze it into a smaller guest bedroom down the hall. It’s tight enough that the door swings right into the bed, but it’s a new view, and new energy, and you can actually sleep at night. All Harry’s clothes, and music stuff, and weird health fads get placed unceremoniously into the master bedroom walk-in. That door stays tightly shut - out of sight, out of mind. Plus, you adopt a dog.
By the week’s end, you’ve done everything necessary to completely move on.
Then, one day, as you’re putting Max’s lead on in the kitchen, Harry calls you. It’s been two weeks since you left because it was easier than staying. Two weeks you spent re-learning the habits of your life without Harry in them. Two weeks telling yourself you didn’t care that he didn’t call because you weren’t calling either.
[Part One]
After the fight, it’s weird. You’re both hurt, unsure, and scared of what lays ahead. So, instead of acknowledging any of those feelings radiating off you two in thick, suffocating waves, you just pretend it never happened. Besides, if you had known what to say to make things right, then you would’ve said them by now. But you don’t and neither does Harry apparently because you’ve both agreed to a soft-spoken, careful-stepped dance around each other for the last three days.
It’s like this: When you wake up in the morning he’s already left the room, and at soundcheck his lips thoughtlessly brush softly against the top of your head as you flee upon his entry, and when he wanders in a night, when it’s late, and you’ve already sniffled your way to tired, and you squeeze your eyes tightly shut to feign sleep and to soothe their itchy redness, he pretends he doesn’t know.
He whispers, “Babe? You up, babe?” and you ignore him, which feels like the worst thing you’ve done yet, but he lets you do it. He doesn’t try harder or fight you to turn toward him or whisper a little louder. Instead, he sighs heavily, pulls his shirt off, and climbs into his side of the bed. His hands never comb through your hair, nor does he pull you closer, wrapping his body around your smaller one to press his lips to the arch of your neck.
None of that happens.
So, you spend the rest of your time together without really being together. Going through the motions and knowing the whole time that it’s not right. It’s off. It’s all completely, heartbreakingly, devastatingly wrong and neither of you are strong enough to pull the trigger. So, you don’t. Instead, you talk without saying anything at all, and share the same bed without sleeping together, and do exactly what you did last week without feeling any of it all.
Then the gears finally click into place.
And just like that, you can’t do this anymore.
So, while Harry’s spending his morning off playing tennis with Jeff, you rush to throw your clothes haphazardly into your suitcase, and stuff your toiletries into little plastic bags, and swipe your passport from underneath Harry’s leftover bowl of cereal on the table and flee from the hotel and into your cab before you have much time to process anything at all.
You’re both terrible at goodbyes and you, in particular, are really great at running away. Even if that means ripping fresh wounds open even deeper until they’re split just wide enough that they’ll never heal. Never look quite the same. Never go back to the way they were before.
And all the way you tell yourself it’s better this way.
The terminal isn’t crowded. It’s half ten now, you think. You don’t have a great view of a clock, and you turned off your mobile hours ago after Harry kept texting and calling.
“Flight 438 to London will now begin boarding,” a woman announces over the speaker and you thank god because somehow you’ve held it together this long. It’s like a dull ache has washed over you and it will take the 1,000km trip, and welcome of your bed and duvet before you can allow yourself to feel anything at all.
And in the morning you’ll call Harry. You can apoligise then, tell him it was never going to work out anyway and that it’s better this way - for you both. You’ll both make a promise to meet up and talk the next time he’s back in London, and your intentions will be true, but you’ll break that promise too. He will have a last minute wardrobe check, or your mother will have an emergency back home, or the traffic will be dreadful.
It will end in a series of unsaid words and that’s fine. It’s easier that way, truthfully.
“Again, passengers on Flight 438 to London can begin boarding now.”
You snap up your luggage handle, shove your headphones into your ears, and pull out your boarding pass before you stumble to the queue, ready to begin the end.
[part 3]
The words slip past quicker than you can stop them. They’re compelled by something stronger than your own willpower - hurt and anger.
It’s dangerous, you know. You’re bound to say something hurtful, mean, even hateful. And you won’t mean it and it won’t matter because it will hurl past your lips, fall to the floor, and sit like a sharp, shiny knife on the floor in front of you.
“What did you expect?” Harry snaps, combing a hand back through his hair and resting it on his hip to match the other. “That’d it be easy?”
You roll your eyes, a huff of disbelief parting your lips.
“I expected you to carve out time for me! To make time for dinner! And to chat! And to go do things with me!” You can feel your heart pulsating furiously somewhere behind your eyes. “Instead you go out with the band, or your mates who fly in, or people from the label.” He opens his mouth to protest and you holler before he can start. “And that’s fine, whatever, but what about me? When are you making time for me? For us?”
He laughs. A dry and humorless chuckle that sucks the breath out of your chest and makes your heart lurch in irritation.
“That’s what this is about then? Us? Because it doesn’t sound like it!” Your face flushes angrily, flushing your cheeks a soft red colour. “This is about you. You’re -”
His accusing finger invades the air in front of you.
“Don’t put this on me,” you seethe. “For one second just take yourself out of your own self-centered ego. It’s not just your world, Harry. We live here too. Us un-famous folk. We have feelings and needs too, you prick.”
His fist comes down hard on the table beside him, rattling the untouched meal you had prepared. The agreement was to eat at eight, you started cooking an hour before that, Harry rolled in at half nine with take-away and a simple explanation that the meeting ran late.
“Christ,” he huffs. “What do you want me to do? Quit? Stop playing? Just cancel the rest of the tour- ”
“I’ve never asked you to -”
“You didn’t have to!” He drags the dining chair out from under the table, scraping it loudly on the floor, and plopping himself down roughly on the wooden seat. His face is tight, taut with tension and frustration. His mouths a hard line, his brows are furrowed together with a deep indent bunched between them, and his eyes are empty of their usual warmth and spark.
It’s not the Harry you started this tour with. The one bubbling with anticipation, and nerves, and the giddiness of the possibilities of nights in France, and lunches in Germany, and early mornings in Japan with you. He’s more worn down, tired, and stressed. Its twisted you both into something you thought you could beat. Turns out Harry’s strongest enough for this tour, but your relationships not. Probably never stood a chance. Not really.
Harry takes a deep breath, his big hand swiping down his face wearily. He pauses, thinking for a second, reaching for something that he believes is middle ground, but missing entirely. “It’s just that I thought you could handle it.”
His words churn somewhere in the back of your chest, sharp and fiery, but they quickly harden, lodging themselves away to be inspected later, but boiling bitterly until then.
Its your turn to laugh. To roll your eyes, blink away the feeling of hot tears beginning to well in their ducts, and shake your head in disbelief.
“Harry, who could handle this?” Your voice breaks somewhere near the end. “I’ve tried telling you! Over and over, but it’s just - you don’t hear it. Don’t want to hear it. I feel like I’m all alone here! And I don’t - I don’t blame you, not really, but I can’t keep doing this. I can’t keep waiting for the hour after a show to fight for your time, or the half-days on the weekends, or the few minutes in the morning when you’re too exhausted for -”
“Babe, I won’t stop doing this! This is what I love!” His voice booms around the lofty ceilings of the Berlin hotel room you’re calling home for the night. Last night it was Amsterdam. You’re not sure where you’re at tomorrow. Not sure if you’ll even be around to find out. “And you know that. You’ve always known that and now you’re asking me to choose between -”
“Between what?” you holler, cutting him off, your chest heaving furiously.
The chair protests slightly as Harry sits back, crossing his arms, and sealing his lips into a stubborn line.
“Say it,” you demand. “What am I making you choose between? Harry?”
He glances away, the silence sits heavily in the air. Growing more unbearable when neither of you speaks.
You wipe away a tear burning embarrassingly down your cheek, but the rest of them just fall off your chin, bursting on the floor below you. You’re not sure when you started crying.
“Harry, I’m not asking you to choose. I would never because I know - I know-”
You can’t bring yourself to utter the words. You know it’s too much to ask. Completely unfair. He would be unhappy and it would never work out between you two if his music wasn’t there. Burning that passion behind his eyes, and swelling his chest in pride, and lighting his face with that gleaming smile. Harry is his music and you love him for it. And suddenly, quickly, before either of you had a chance to slow down its course, it’s also the thing ripping open the chasm between you two. You’re not sure where you fit into this life anymore. Into Harry’s life.
You watch as his eyelashes flutter heavily, his eyes watering as he watches you struggle around the truth. Watches the sentence die on your lips but still flare painfully behind your eyes.
I know you wouldn’t choose me.
He nods, slowly, sadly admitting what neither one of you wants to speak into existence.
You drop your head, reach out for the chair in front of you for support, the anger draining from your body and leaving you absolutely exhausted. It’s then that your lungs collapse, too, with everything else. Fall apart right inside your chest. You draw in on yourself, the air knocked from your body, the realisation that something has just happened coursing through your veins like poison.
“I’m sorry,” Harry mutters, and you’ve never heard two words so painful in your life.
You shake your head, tears still blurring your vision, and when you look up you find Harry is reaching out towards you. Stood from his chair, hovering in front of you, unsure about things he knew yesterday. This morning. Hell, two hours ago.
Do things really change that fast?
When his fingertips brush your shoulder you stumble back, avoiding his touch.
His arm falls, dropping through the space between you two, resting forlornly at his side.
“Please,” you whisper quietly, moving around him. “Don’t touch me.”
And there they are. Those hurtful words you don’t really mean and will definitely regret by tomorrow. After food, and sleep, and time.
They sound like a slamming door.
You suppose they are.
[part 1]
That private place Harry has in mind is a closet.
“Harry,” you whine as he slams the door behind you and twists the lock. “This is absolutely ridiculous. We are not doing this - Hmph.”
His big hand suddenly presses up against your mouth, muffling your voice, and effectively silencing you quiet. He pulls you tight against his body, the hard muscles of his stomach pressing into you, and your cheek pressing up tightly to the space in between his pecs. It’s familiar, and comforting, and you use both arms to push away as hard as you can.
“Quiet,” he whispers gruffly, holding you even tighter. “He’s looking for you. Listen.”
The sound of heavy, Gucci footsteps echo down the corridor and then right outside the door. After a brief pause, a loud curse, and something hard slamming against a nearby wall, you hear your boyfriend tell someone that he suspects you left with Harry.
When Harry finally lets you go, it’s with hesitancy; he’s not sure if he’ll get to hold you again and it scares him.
You, on the other hand, sit down in a huff on a pile of boxes after pressing out your dress and tugging your bag out from wherever it had gotten stuck in the shuffle.
“Is this why you came here? To this event? Just to pull me in a closet to talk?”
Harry leans back against the door, running a hand down his already exhausted face.
“Thought I hadn’t forgotten how stubborn y’were. Yet, here I am - amazed.”
You roll your eyes.
“So,” he starts, looking away from you for a second. “You love him, then? The prat?”
You stand up abruptly, taking a big step toward the door, and only stopping when his big frame blocks the path out.
“M’joking! I’m joking,” he sits you back down with two firm hands on your rolled shoulders. “I just want to talk to you. Really.”
“Go ahead,” you hiss through your teeth. You hope your glare looks as vicious as you feel. You want him to feel some of the hurt you’ve been harboring over the last three months while he was jet-setting around the globe. While he was lulled to sleep by the soothing roar of a jet plane you shoved a fist in your mouth to muffle your cries from a man that shared your bed but couldn’t touch your heart.
Harry stares at you bitterly, all traces of humour gone from his eyes. Maybe he realises the hurt in your eyes and the pain in your voice, or maybe feeling undeserved of the contempt all together, or maybe just masking the sad understanding that if he was just a normal business man like your boyfriend then it could all work out.
You feel a lump beginning to build in your throat.
“I thought we wanted the same thing,” he begins, pulling a box from behind him and sitting down gruffly. Your knees are just barely bumping against his. “I thought when we started that we were on the same page and I thought - Well, whatever I thought, I was way off.”
You study his face for a long moment, speculating. The bitterness is still there - you wonder if it will ever completely leave his eyes again.
Your jaw tightens as you speak. “I thought we would be equals. That you would occasionally pick up your life and be there for me just like I always was for you. Love sided love isn’t love. I can’t love someone that loves me because I will cancel that meeting, or not visit those friends, or skip my plans because suddenly there is a longer layover in Chicago or an added night in Paris.”
He drops his head. His fringe falling to cover his eyes, so you can’t gauge his expression.
“We can’t be together if we’re only together during the in-betweens. In between a performance, or a show, or a city.”
When he raises his head, his features are hard and flat.
“Performing is my job,” he mutters angrily. “You always knew that. I thought it’s one of the thing you loved about me -”
“Of course it is!”
“- So, then what changed?” He’s suddenly standing and his faces shifted from anger to agony in a second. One barely shaking hand rakes through his hair. “Because you loved me and now - now you don’t.”
You look away, the feeling of hot, burning tears welling in your eyes. You loved Harry for his passion, and his charm, and the way he’s always so light and easy to love. It was easy to drop your life for him, and then it wasn’t.
“I love you, Harry. I’ve always loved you…” you struggle with what to add, your voice breaking as you fight to control your emotions. You hear it in Harry’s voice, too. There’s resentment, and confusion, and the sad understanding that you’ve both lost something you’ve been desperately, desperately trying to hold on to. “But I can’t do what we were doing before. I need my life, too.”
There was no reaction that you could read on Harry’s face. No flutter of his eyelids, or quiver of his lips, or movement of his eyes. There was just a vacant face, staring at you.
Your mobile suddenly buzzes, and you send the call to voicemail as you read the name on the screen. Your boyfriend can wait a minute longer, you’re too busy creating new nightmares to cry asleep to.
“I should go,” you say in a weak voice. You try to take a step forward, to wrap your hand around the door handle just around Harry’s back, but you are stuck.
“What do you want?” Harry demands suddenly, his hand wrapping around your slightly outstretched wrist, and his expression hardening into something determined. “Right now, what do you want?”
You look up at him, the violent desire of his gaze catching you off guard and knocking the words out of your chest. If you told him the truth it would only hurt you both - again. It was useless to grasp at wishes and dreams when in reality it would only result in more unhappiness and hurt.
“Say it!” Harry yells, startling you back into the moment.
“I want to leave,” you lie. “I want to find my boyfriend, and I want to leave.”
Stupid tears of betrayal escape the corner of your eyes as you say it, and the way you never pull away from Harry’s hold tells him the truth instantly.
He raises one eyebrow in disbelief, but he releases your wrist from his grip.
You reach around him, using everything in your power to turn the lock and open the door. It isn’t any easier with your back to him, it just felt more poetic than anything.
“I’m sorry, Harry,” you mutter brokenly as tears roll down your cheek. “I wish it could be different.”
You don’t hear what he says next because you open the door and are roughly pulled through the entryway by a strong pair of hands. The vice-like grip of your boyfriend’s hand wraps around your upper arm in the type of possessiveness that marks itself with bruises.
It isn’t until a breath later, when Harry’s frame blocks the yellow light spilling into the hall, and your boyfriend’s toes are inches away from Harry’s that those parting words finally find clarity in your ears.
“I wish it could be different” you had muttered hopelessly, abandoning those dreams that either of you could be happy any other way.
Harry watched your back, saw the tears streaking black down your face, and heard the hurt in your words before promising, “It will be.”
You’re too scared to hope he’s right.
It ended badly between you and Harry. Now, you’re dating Mr. Responsible, Mr. Posh, and Mr. Stability rolled up into one tidy, public school boyfriend. And maybe you had been too abrupt. And maybe you had left some things unsaid. And maybe you thought back to what could’ve been.
And maybe there’s no way in hell that Harry’s letting you go.
In other words, you’re at the club with your new posh boyfriend. Harry shows up and causes problems - in all the ways you maybe wanted.
“I don’t even like rum.” You stir the drink with the dainty, pointless straw it came with and watch your boyfriend from the bar. He’s the type that knows everyone, whether he knows them or not. From what you can tell, that’s how the posh boys are. Always chummy, opening pathways for future networking opportunities, you assume, until their bravado gets stepped on. Then they are all biting compliments, grumbles followed by snickers, and name-dropping of schools, or estates, or connections.
Every once in a while he remembers you. Happens to look over some stranger’s shoulder to make eye contact with you at the bar and will bring the rando over to see you. It makes you feel like a decoration. He will say something like “Isn’t she lovely?” or “Give a twirl, babe,” and you do and it makes you feel like an utter tit.
“Okay! My turn!” you decide abruptly and flip over in bed so that he has access to the back of your head. You wiggle lower, so his hands have an easier angle to your hair.
You smile softly when you feel his long fingers start working through your hair.
“Don’t know that I got a full ten minutes,” he grumbles good-naturedly.
“You did,” you assure him, nodding your head.
This is your Sunday habit - lounging under the puffy white comforter, basking in the warm sun falling across your bodies, and combing through each other’s hair with your fingers.
“Stop being bossy,” you muttered petulantly, twisting yourself out of Harry’s hold.
His hand quickly wrapped around your wrist and snapped you back into his chest.
“M’not bein’ bossy,” he argued shortly, turning you so your back was tucked into his stomach, and his arms could pin yours close against your chest. “M’tryin to take care of you and you’re bein a bit stubborn, love.” He transferred both your wrists into one giant hand, and used his other to sweep the hair off your neck, and tug gently until his teeth could nibble at the sensitive skin underneath your ear. “Isn’t that right, doll?”
You shook your head, unwilling to let him win. “It was just a walk, Harry.”
He laughed softly, the dry kind, without any humour behind it. “S’that right? Just a walk? At night? By yourself?”
He pulled you in tighter when you shook your head in disagreement. “Can fend for myself.” You squirmed and wiggled until you were finally released from his hold, a bit out of breath, and red-faced, but effectively free from his iron grip.
You stared at each other. Your breath heaving lightly and his a little ragged with the effort of containing his irritation. His dark eyes were locked on yours dangerously, but you refused to back down.
He sighed deeply and his face hardened with the effort of his restraint.
“I said no,” he bit through his locked teeth. “Now, are you goin’ to listen or not?”
You knew Harry was giving you an ultimatum. Either listen or face the consequences. Something similar had happened last week, when you came back too late, too drunk, and too tired to do more than curl up in front of the front door and pass out. The next morning you had woke up showered, dressed in pajamas, and warm in your bed. However, by the time you went to bed that night, your sore bottom, neglected lips, and bruised ego had made you sorry.
When Harry glanced momentarily at his buzzing mobile on the counter beside him, you turned quickly to the door and made a break for it. His hands locked around your waist before you had a chance to unlock the door.
“Harry!” you squealed, kicking into the air as he picked you up off the floor.
“I warned ya, love.” He carried you through the kitchen, and the living room, and to your bedroom where he threw you unceremoniously onto the bed. “Really never learn do you? Bet your bums still red from last week.”
There was a warmness to his voice, an energy and hunger that flooded over into his eyes.
You whined, throwing a pillow at him, and then another one when he easily caught them and sat both to the side.
“You’re being unfair -”
“There are rules.”
“But I hate them-”
“Good girls follow rules for their daddy. Don’t they, love?”
You froze from where you had another pillow positioned over your head.
You could feel a blush warm your cheeks and your eyelashes flutter at his words. The angry heat coursing through your veins was still there, but it was no longer related to your irritation. Suddenly, a tingle of nerves staticked at your fingertips, and the back of your neck, and the pit of your stomach.
“That’s not fair,” you whimpered quietly, setting the pillow back gently on the bed.
Harry’s stern mouth softened at the instant effect his words had over you. He took a few steps towards you, crawling up onto the bed, and straddling your waist slowly.
“What’s not fair?” he teased, brushing your hair away and running a long finger the length of your jaw. “Tell me, baby.”
You shuddered, reddening even more, and sinking further into the mattress. You could feel your heart beating wildly somewhere in your throat.
“Where’s all that stubbornness, now? Goin’ to be a good girl fo’ me?” He took each of your hands from where they were playing with the collar of his shirt and pinned them slowly to either side of your head. He leaned over until his nose could skim yours and his hungry eyes were staring at your closed ones. “Going to listen to daddy?”
“Where d’you think y’goin?”
She zips up the very top of her over-the-knee boots, barely bothering to glance up at his looming figure.
“I’m going out, babes. I told you earlier.”
It’s clear she hasn’t picked up on the vibe. Hasn’t looked up yet to see how Harry’s leaning with faux-ease against the door jam, his arms crossed over his slightly puffed chest and the tense line of his jaw. His eyes are darker, more brooding than usual and his nostrils are flared slightly in irritation.
“I meant…,” he rubs at his jaw and tries to not let his displeasure coat his voice, “Where’d y’think y’goin dressed like that?”
His eyes don’t leave her as she stands up from the bed - boots high, skirt short, chest covered by a bandeau and mesh top. Her bright red nails pop as she smooths out the all black fabric of her outfit. Now, he can tell, she’s purposefully ignoring him.
“Babes…” Harry prompts, enough thickness in his voice to work as a warning.
She turns toward the mirror, standing in the corner of the room, only looking up to meet his glare when she can find his eyes over her shoulder in the mirror.
“Harry, I like this outfit,” she says it dismissively, “Don’t be a prat about it.”
He watches her throat bob as he walks up behind her. His sock-clad feet softly padding along the wooden floor.
“You’re not changing my mind,” she warns him as his hand’s wrap around her stomach and his chest presses into her back. “So don’t even try to -”
“Don’t change - y’look amazin’. M’just sorry s’girls’ night only.”
He swoops aside some of her hair and plants his lips on the sensitive spot behind her ear. She leans back into his touch, her bum pressing into his subtle hardness hidden underneath his trousers. She knows she’s playing dirty when she subtly wiggles her bum against him.
His fingers dip underneath the waist of her skirt.
“No,” he doesn’t budge his fingers where they brush over her sex. “My cab will be here in five.”
“S’plenty of time, pet.”
A visible shudder runs down her spine at the use of her pet name. Her head rolls back against his shoulder and the hand not running temptingly over her sex, runs up her chest and wraps around her neck. His lips continue to leave wet pecks behind her ear, trail down her neck, and kiss along the line of her shoulder.
The aborted moan that leaves her lips is what startles her back to reality.
She turns in his hold, taking both his hands and trapping them in front of her, pushing them into his stomach.
“No,” her voice is firm, but her eyes still flicker between his warm, green orbs and his swollen, pink lips. “I don’t have time to -”
“Fuck?”
The smirk on his face is dangerous, the mischievous glint in his eyes even more so. He knows what his dirty talk does to her. He leans over his hands that she has pressed into his belly to kiss her but she steps back.
“No.”
She raises her eyebrows in warning, trying to hide the smile threatening to ruin her demand. He rolls his eyes, not bothering to wipe the satisfied look off his face.
“Will y’jus’ cancel already? Just stay with m’and we can take our time to -” he pauses to bite his lip filthily. “fuck.”
She let’s go of his hands so she can lightly slap his bicep. The sound of a car honking outside alerts her to the cab and she grabs her bag off the bed.
“You just don’t want me to go out dressed like this.”
“Obviously, I don’t.” He rakes his eyes over her with unfiltered irritation and thirst. “I want y’to stay here and get starkers with me.”
She wiggles her bum at him cheekily. “I will be back tonight, love.”
A small scream escapes her throats as his hand snaps out to swat at her.
“Don’t tease me, pet.”
“Don’t be so needy, Harry.”
She laughs as he suddenly leans down to swoop her into his arms, wrapping her legs around his waist and planting his hands underneath her bum. He reluctantly starts walking her to the door.
“Y’look too fit t’be goin’ out without me - behave t’night.”
She wraps her arms around his neck, leaning down to kiss him.
“Are you jealous, babe?”
“Course I am,” he squeezes his forefinger and thumb to pinch a bit of her bum.
She buries her head into the crook of his neck, sticking the tip of her tongue out to lick kitten stripes along his neck. “I’m going to think of you all night.”
He sets her down by the front door. She keeps her hands wrapped around him, body pressed close up his, her lips still attached to his neck.
“Maybe I should cancel,” she moans hotly into his neck and groans wantonly when he palms her bum.
“Wet for me, pet?”
She can’t stop the whine that slips past her lips.
“I bet y’ready fo’ me right now? Can jus’ throw y’on the mattress, rip off tha’ skirt and push aside y’panties to fuck ya real quick. Would y’like that, pet?”
She nods needily.
“Or righ’ here - how about? Jus’ lean y’over the sofa and fuck y’from behind. Y’want that, pet?”
He takes a step back so he can cup her jaw and tilt her face up to his. Her eyes look glazed over and a faint flush paints her cheeks.
“Y’like that, pet? Huh?”
A breathy “yes” parts her lips.
Harry chuckles lowly, leaning down to kiss her but stopping short, his lips just barely brushing against hers.
“Later, then -”
Without ever leaning down to kiss her fully, he steps back, planting his hands on her shoulders to twist her around. Swatting her bum with a snap, he opens the door for her and she stumbles out in a daze.
“What - But now I’m,” she squeezes her legs to quell her suddenly aching thighs.
Harry stands smugly in the doorway, leaning against the frame with a very satisfied smile on his face as he watches her slowly process her sudden arousal.
“Hurry back, pet.”
It takes twelve dirty texts, two martinis, one sexy picture, and two feverish phone calls before she gets back into her cab, rips off her top before the front door closes behind her, and buries herself in Harry’s arms.
He throws you on the bed and because you’re feeling cheeky you try to scramble away. It forces him to straddle you, his legs thrown over your hips and a hand wrapped around each one of your wrists and holding them flat against the bed.
He leans down low until his forehead is up against yours and you can see the intensity and hardness in his eyes.
“I know y’only bein’ naughty cause y’desperate, pet.” He shifts so he can hold both your wrists in one hand and use the other to grab harshly at your jaw. You rut up against him as he squeezes your cheeks to push out your lips and latch his mouth dirtily against yours. When he leans back he slaps your cheek lightly, “But y’gettin’ y’self into dangerous waters, pet. Bitten off mo’ than y’can chew.”
You ignore the buzzing of your mobile that has been abandoned in the passenger’s seat.
As soon as the studio door had closed behind you, you had swept up your bag, told the producer to tell Harry you were going home, grabbed the keys out of his coat pocket and walked out the door. Within minutes, Harry’s name had flashed on your screen and you had laughed pleasantly, happy at his quick response. Since then, he’s phoned you four times - two that you sent straight to voicemail. If anything, every ignored call only makes your already wet panties become a little damper at the thought of how irate Harry must be. He hates when you don’t listen to him, he hates when you ignore him, and he hates when you’re naughty - and you’ve just done all three.
You shift in your seat to ignore the ache between your thighs, turn up your music to drown out the vibrations of your mobile, and press down the accelerator.
Your heart sinks a little when you drive up to an empty lawn. When Harry’s mad, he typically fumes on the pavement outside your house, eager to get to you the second you step out of the car.
You had stopped off at Tesco’s to force yourself to kill time by buying groceries - plus, batteries and lube - and even stopped to get petrol before returning home. You had figured that was plenty of time for Harry to angrily return home, angrily realise you were not home, and work himself into a proper fit that would result in a nice, hard, quick fuck for you.
Now, he’s gone and ruined it. At least you can solace yourself with your fresh batteries and reliable vibrator.
You slam the car door loudly and do the same for the front door. You’re mumbling unpleasantries under your breath as you kick your shoes off and shrug your coat to let it petulantly drop to the floor of the doorway. With your hands occupied by the bags, you flip the light with your elbow to illuminate the room.
“Not just going to leave your coat there. Are you, pet?”
You startle as you see Harry standing in the doorframe - one leg easily crossed over the other and his hands over his chest as he leans casually against the wall. His stance reads as casual but you can hear the hard edge in his voice and the slight flare of his nostrils that tells you he is angry.
“Harry!,” you gasp, trying to hide your surprise. “When did you get back? Your car -”
“My car that you stole? That one?”
You watch the anger flash in his eyes at the satisfied smile that turns your lips.
The shock of his appearance subsides and you try to bask in having the more calm and collected upper hand while he stews in his irritation.
“I didn’t think you’d mind,” you shrug your shoulders nonchalantly and brush by him to the kitchen. You make a show of trying to be as uninterested in him as possible, focusing on putting away the groceries. You can feel his hard glare on you. “Besides, I knew I couldn’t be good and you were occupied. So…” You trail off and wash a few apples before stuffing them in the crisper.
“Pet?”
You shut the refrigerator door with your hip and use a towel to wipe up the water on the counter.
“M’talkin’ to you, pet” Harry’s voice is gruff. “S’very naughty when you -”
“Ignore you?” you interrupt, continuing to occupy yourself with the cupboards and shelves. “Funny, innit? I don’t like it much either.”
“I was workin’.”
You ignore him to grab the final bag off the counter - the most important one.
“Doesn’t matter anyway,” you say, moving to walk past him but he pushes off the wall to block your path, either hand shoving against the wall as a blockade. It forces you to acknowledge the strong line of muscle atop his back and the bulk of his shoulder. You also, for the first time, notice the hard jut of his jaw and the tense line drawn between his eyebrows. Perhaps, he’s angrier than you had first assumed.
“Doesn’t matter?” he clips, reaching down to cup your jaw but you quickly duck under one of his arms. “Don’t y’dare move another -”
“Don’t need you anymore,” you tell him over your shoulder as you walk away. You can hear his hands slide off the wall and you’re sure he’s only a few paces behind you but you don’t bother to look back. “I’ve got lube, batteries, and a vibrator,” you hold up the bag for him to see. “What do I need you for?”
Before you can take another step, one of his arms is wrapped tight around your waist, stopping you, and holding you roughly against his body. The other is locked in your hair. You can feel his bulge pressed into your bum and the heaving of his angry breath down your neck as he forces your head to the side.
“Want to try that again, pet?” he taunts coarsely and you know you’re truly testing his patience and it’s exactly what you want. His teeth come down harshly against the sensitive skin beneath your ear and the hand across your waist travels down so his fingers can dig into the wet fabric of your panties.
“I said,” you moan, leaning back into his body, “what do I need you for?”
He laughs dryly and you let out a soft grunt as he easily throws you over his shoulder and slaps your bum mercilessly.
“Just goin’ to have to show you how wrong you are, pet.”
You know you’re asking for it. Really, you do.
But you’re in that sweet spot of peak horniness right before you start your period. The time when you’re just wet - all the time. You had to resist jumping Harry’s bones the other night at his business dinner when he had uncorked the celebratory wine bottle. You could see his biceps bulging, and his chest muscles flex, and the veins along his forearm tensed enough to just pop out from his skin. Just as the cork had exploded from the neck his eyes had flicked toward yours in a look that was probably nearly innocent and good-natured, but that your brain, drowning in its own hormones, had read as need, desire, and want - and Christ. You had had to excuse yourself to the toilets to wet a towel and hold it against your suddenly sweating neck.
It’s like he thinks you’re just going to jump his bones because he is standing there like some long-haired Adonis.
He doesn’t even look that good. His hair is all messy and piecey and it clings to his sweaty forehead. Bits of his satin top are wet with beaded sweat and it sticks to his body to reveal the bulk of his shoulder, chest, and outline of his abs. His cheeks are all red, too. A ruddy red that matches the slightly swollen looking puff of his lips.
He’s not that great.
You don’t know what compels you to do it. Boredom, curiosity, maybe the pang of devious desire that’s been aching in your core since last night. You’re not sure, but before you’ve had time to really process it, you’re wedged in between Harry’s thighs, bum resting on your knees underneath his desk in your bedroom, with your mouth just covering the bulge hidden underneath his grey joggers.
It’s dirty, and demeaning, and makes your heart race. The fabric dries out your mouth and when you pull away, a trail of saliva hanging from your lips, a dark patch from your mouth is left there. It makes a shudder run through your spine and warm your chest.
Harry, for his part, is infuriatingly unphased by the game.
You throw the last of the tangerines at him.
“I was in the middle of the fruit aisle,” you seethe.
He only perks his eyebrows further up and broadens the smile already stretching across his face. He’s fucking smug and you can still feel the warm redness burning the top of your ears.
“People heard it, Harry,” you hear the bag of crisps crumble as you roughly push them into the cupboard. “They heard your - your noises.”
It’s easy around Harry. You slip into a routine that feels more like home than wherever his tour bus stops for the night. London, Chicago, or LA, it’s all the same. His arms wrap around your chest, pull you back into the familiar comfort of his hold, and his lips dip until he can kiss the side of your cheek whether you’re in Seoul or Paris.
“Harry,” you yell from the back of the tour bus. His pants, a pair of trousers, and four tops are thrown across your untidy bed. You pluck one of the offending items up disgustingly and hold it between your pinched fingers.
“What is it, babe?” he asks, meandering lazily towards you, scratching his bare chest with one hand, and biting into a peanut butter sandwich with the other.
“You’re an absolute slob.” He snatches the top from your hand as you wave it accusingly before his nose. “The loo, the kitchen, our bed,” you wave your hand over the mess.
He smirks, stuffs the rest of the sandwich in his mouth, crosses his arms across his chest, and garbles, “You love it.”
“What are you so miffed about?” You’re sat in the passenger’s seat, arms crossed over your chest, and looking out the window huffily. “It’s not like I meant to do it and it’s not like you’ve never broken yours.”
Harry’s driving, angrily at that. The skin over his knuckles is drawn tight from his grip on the steering wheel. He continues to glance over at you heatedly, growing more irritated as you very pointedly ignore him in favor of looking out the window.
“Once,” he clips and his voice is all gruff and on edge, “I’ve broken my mobile - once. How many times have y’broken yours?”
It really is a small miracle that you manage to keep yourself together until you hear the door click shut behind you. But then you’re a mess. Like proper on the floor, head bobbing on your chest, tears running down your face kind of mess. The kind of tear stained face that only rears its ugly head after a truly horrible day.
And that’s how Harry finds you. Trench coat fanned out around you, bits of hair matted to your wet face, and cheeks all red from the sobs that only recently stopped.
“Babes,” he coos, gently shutting the door behind him.
