Your duties as maid of honour were fairly simple: maximise alcohol and minimise stress, keep an eye on the bride-to-be, and above all else, have things under control. You’ve promised yourself to keep this wedding a fuckup-free zone, anticipating smooth sailing from the moment you land in Antigua. When danger emerges on the horizon in the form of a denim-clad devil dressed in Gucci and gold, things take a turn—nothing in the MOH handbook has prepared you for what to do in the event that you unwittingly sleep with the best man.
The rest of the world might be utter shit at the moment, but at least we have Harry Styles prancing around in fancy bajilion dollar suits screaming to make people hug each other and supporting the LGBTQ+ community and using “Treat People With Kindness” as the theme of his tour
When you have the opportunity to not be a ugly basement goon at the masquerade and put some moves on THAT soprano, but you forgot to disable the theme song every time you enter the room so you gotta roast everyone to save face
ok but harry hearing you moan his name would literally be the most angelic thing to him, like heaven to hear because the places his touching you is sending him to hell. he would just want to make you come over and over again to hear your sweet whimpering, soft cries of pleasure that leave your lips as he thrusts in and out, circling his thumb over your clit. his lips would be wrapped around your nipple as he makes you come for the fourth time. you bring his face up to yours, devouring his pouted lips as his pace slows and you feel hot ribbons pulse into you. he kisses down your neck, through the valley of your breasts, stopping at your core to lap his tongue around you. his eyes close at your sweetness, deciding nothing tastes better than you.