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cheshirebitch · 2 months

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Alastor x Reader

ℂ𝕠𝕞𝕖 𝕗𝕚𝕟𝕕 𝕞𝕖 (oneshot)

I brushed the flour off my hands and onto my apron when the bell rang. Dark brown eyes met mine as I gazed at who my newest customer could be. I was merely in my 20s and had my own business going on here. I recognized the male quickly as one of my best friends from town.

“Alastor! What brings you in here today?” My smile matched his. I swear he is always smiling unless it was just us in private sometimes. I walked around the counter and ditched my apron there. He had his hands behind his back as I approached him.

“Hello, dear! Just stopping by for a quick meal before my show!” The clock above the door read to be 5:30PM. Wow, time really flies by nowadays. My smile broadened as I clasped my hands together.

“Always a pleasure to have you stop by! I have your favorite already almost done! I was planning on bringing it over when I closed up.” He smiled wider and gracefully ditched his coat on the rack, turning my open sign off, and locking the door for me. My footsteps quietly echoed down the basement steps as I entered the room dedicated to Alastor. Carefully putting on my rain boots, bloody apron, and my rubber gloves. My hair was already pulled out of my face messily.

Alastor’s jazzy music started playing upstairs as he started helping finish my closing duties, our weekly ritual turning almost daily nowadays. As I finished making his meal, I thought of how close Alastor and I have become after I found out his secret. It was truly so romantic how it happened even though he was worried I wouldn’t understand his… hobby and diet.

I was locking up my just opened bakery, excited that it was very successful so far. There was a strange man across the street watching me. I brushed it off slightly, just noting to hussle home faster. Alastor’s radio station was down the street from me along with Mimzy’s place a couple more blocks further. Maybe he wouldn’t mind if I hurried in to wait for this creepy man to leave. But, along the walk, I heard his footsteps get heavier and closer. I grabbed my heel and whipped around, talking loud since I was outside of the radio station now.

“Leave me be or face my wrath!” I held the heel, ready to bash his face in if need be. The man started laughing, towering over me. My heart was pounding and my hands shaking. I loved the thrill but not like this.

“A pretty gal like you shouldn’t walk home alone then, yeah?” He wasn’t leaving room for an option here. My back pressed against the wall. I knew I would lose ultimately, even if I played dirty.

“Good thing she wasn’t.” Before I could peer around the creep, I saw blood dripping from his mouth as he fell over. I watched his body collapse onto the ground with a heavy thud, then the stab wound on his back became clear. My eyes flashed to who my savor, or maybe new threat, stood before me.

“Are you alright, dear?” My eyes looked into familiar brown eyes. Alastor, who I knew but wasn’t awfully close to, stood in front of me. He was carefully cleaning his knife but watching me. I wasn’t scared of him at all, if anything, his presence made me relax. I breathed out, not realizing I was holding it this whole time.

“Oh, Alastor. Thank you!” My eyes looked back down and back up at him, then it clicked. He was the unknown killer that started as of late.

“What a disgusting fellow. I am truly sorry for this mess, (Y/n). You were never supposed to become involved at all. Please do forgive me, dear.”

“What ever for? He had it coming, yes? How bout I help you out.” I smiled up at Alastor, pointing towards my shop. He seemed confused and uncertain before leaning against the wall, pinning me between him and the cold brick against my back. He leaned down as his arm rested above my head and the other beside my head. He had a crazed look in his eyes, alongside a crazed smile. Oh good heavens did it cause my heart to beat fast, I could feel my eyes glazing over how attractive this was. My hand absentmindedly wiped the blood off his cheek as he spoke.

“I take a smart lady, such as yourself, has put it together by now. I can’t have a witness or it’ll ruin this whole thing I have going on here.” He stopped, registering my hand wiping the blood from his face, his eyes moved to watch my hand, unmoving. Those dark brown eyes slowly drifted back over to look at my face before slyly whispering.

“You’re just as disturbed as me, aren’t you my dear?”

I shut the door to the basement, locking it. All the dishes were done in the kitchen, everything put away. Along with the dishes, the floors were swept and the counters tidy. What a lovely man to have around. I was truly a lucky gal for having such a gentleman make sure I always got home safe and help me out here. I cannot lie, I was falling deeper and deeper with his charm. I pushed the door open to the dining area, placing Alastor’s special jambalaya in front of him. A set of dark eyes following my every move with such a beautiful smile on his face. Our eyes meet and stare as I take my seat across from him. Crossing my legs, I took a bite of some of the jambalaya as he took a bite of his own. It was a peaceful meal we would share. Though, it didn’t slip my mind how he has started stopping in more often lately. Not that I minded at all, but I was worried I would fall deeper with his charm.

“Alastor?” He swallowed his bite, looking up at me.

“Before you begin, I just wanted to thank you for this delicious meal my dear!” I smiled bashfully, loving his compliments. It took time to learn what went best with human meat and what Alastor likes best.

“Why, thank you!” He placed his elbows on the table and leaned towards me, interest dancing in his eyes.

“Your question, sweetheart?”

“Oh, yes! What has brought you around more often? Not that I mind your company, quite the opposite really.” The words slipped out before I could stop them. My fingers covering my lips as I process what exactly I just said. Alastor’s smile widened before his hands moved to hold my own.

“Oh, doll. I just enjoy your company so much, I can’t help but catch myself wandering into your fine establishment!” He kissed the back of my hand, maintaining eye contact with me. My smile widened with the red across my face. He really was quite charming.

“Oh, Alastor. You are always quite the charmer.” We held each other’s hands gently, staring into each other’s eyes. I felt myself leaning over the table, one of his hands moving to hold my face softly. He was leaning in too, closing his eyes as he was mere inches away from my face. My hands held onto his hand as I pulled the rest of the way in, connecting our lips gracefully. The kiss was more blissful than anything I have ever imagined, but was sadly cut short when there was banging on the shop’s doors. We both jumped away from our kiss, looking at the door. Through the window curtains, I caught a glimpse of policemen.

“You have to leave, my love.” Pushing him towards the secret exit in the back. He looked at me with a strained smile. The banging got more aggressive as the policemen began their threats to enter. Alastor whispered, “Come with me, please.”

“I wish I could, my love. We both know they will catch us if we can’t have a distraction.” I held his hands before placing a quick kiss, pushing him gently.

“Go, now.” The policemen started breaking the door down as Alastor quickly scampered out back. He turned around only to see the policemen aim their weapons at myself. I was pushing the policemen back and fighting them, trying to stab them. I was only successful in my murder attempts on the lead detective before Alastor watched myself be shot . He waited for the other two officers to be distracted before he took my butcher knife and sliced both their throats efficiently. For good measures I saw him hack at their throats till their heads were chopped off.

There was pain in my stomach from where I was shot, I was holding over the gunshot wound. Blood trickled out and pooled below my body, but I was able to watch Alastor chop them ruthlessly. He had lost his smile momentarily and had tears running from his eyes as he rushed to my side, covered in blood. He gently held my face, wiping my own tears off my face desperately. I coughed blood before quickly ordering what he needs to save himself.

“You need to burn this whole place down, Al. Leave our bodies in it and run away.” His eyes flickered between my own before he brushed the hair out of my face. I knew he wasn’t going to leave my side. My bloody and shaky hands held his cheek before I whispered, “I love you, Alastor. But, you need to do as I say if you wish to stay a free man. Please.”

“I will find you, my dear. In every lifetime, I will find you. I love you, (Y/n).” As he said those words, the world around me started to melt around me. I felt my soul fall from my body and plummet downwards, falling. It looked like I was falling through the Earth’s ground, colliding with another ground that was surrounded by dark colors. I was in what I assumed to be Hell.

(As always, charcters belong to the respective owners and the story belongs to me! I hope you enjoy this tiny dabble I got inspired by Insane by Black Gryph0n , Baasik. Hope you enjoy it :)!)

#fanfic #fanfiction #hazbin hotel #x reader #alastor #alastor x reader #hazbin alastor #radio demon #hazbin hotel alastor #xreader #oneshot

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cherryjuiceblues · 3 months

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𝐌𝐔𝐓𝐔𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐘 𝐁𝐄𝐍𝐄𝐅𝐈𝐂𝐈𝐀𝐋 | 𝟓.𝟐

➯ HARRY LETS HIS FRUSTRATION GET THE BETTER OF HIM AND SOME TIME AWAY FROM Y/N HAS HIM TURNING UP AT HER DOOR TO FINALLY TELL HER HOW HE FEELS. ✰ dom!harry resolved angst. shouting. sexual content. BDSM influenced punishment. dominant and submissive dynamics. slight anal play. minors dni. 𝑤𝑐 10.7k ッ mutually beneficial masterlist

The house doesn’t smell like curry.

And that’s the first thing he notices when he steps inside after a long day. Harry always makes a point to relish in the view of his home before he enters its threshold; warm and bathed in light—the clear signs of life pouring out of the windows and across the driveway. Y/N cradles his heart in more ways than she shall ever know but simply remembering that she is here, in his home, keeping it safe whilst he’s gone… It does irrevocable things to him.

But today, fretful from the stresses of the night before, perhaps he’ll admit that it does less to soothe his weary head as it does most days. When the only thing getting him through the workday was the promise of a beloved meal, prepared with love, steaming—waiting for him when he got home—and the scent doesn’t immediately hit him in the face… he worries. He worries for his sanity and for Y/N’s wellbeing. He worries for the words he might say on an impatient, empty stomach.

The tension between Harry’s brows radiates throughout his entire skull as he rolls out his shoulders and prepares himself for the conversation he’s going to have to have in approximately ten seconds. He can hear Y/N tottering around in the kitchen—and that almost makes it worse—that she’s in there and yet he can smell… he can smell something sweet. Something—

His feet lead him to the scent, hoping his nose is mistaken, forehead tightening at the sight he is greeted with.

“What’s this?” His cadence is concerning—unclad with his usual charming lilt—swathed in this new, murky tone of impatience. “Where’s m’dinner, sweetheart?”

Y/N twists around from her place at the sink, lips turned downwards unlike her usual welcome of a happy, relieved smile. And her reaction, Harry will later accept, is a valid one considering his complete lack of greeting—when he is usually so full of soft lilts and gentle caresses.

“Oh—hello to you too,” she scoffs, words tumbling out uncharacteristically, “‘m I your housewife, now?” And—regardless of whether Y/N had already been labelled as such by Harry’s own employees, she has a feeling his eyes would’ve darkened all the same. His immediate, deathly silence does more to terrorise her than any garish attempt at horror (although that successfully scares her too).

She’s wondered what it would take for him to have his moment. Harry’s patience has always been such a relief—the most gentle person in Y/N’s life—a trait previously severely lacking and one she now cherishes every day.

And she knows his reaction isn’t unjust. She should have made him dinner, ready to eat as soon as he stepped foot inside—just like she had promised earlier in the day. With a smile on her face. She can’t quite explain why she made a cake instead. She’d had every intention to do as she’d said, was on her way to the kitchen to get started, in fact. But then she’d opened her phone, scrolled through Pinterest for just long enough to become distracted, to forget her initial quest, and to become enamoured by a heart-shaped sponge cake instead.

Y/N understands Harry’s anger. But it’s still upsetting. She feels as though she has committed something worthy of jail time. Her stomach churns, previously dancing butterflies dispersing with a single brandishing glance over her way. They’re replaced by heavy, heavy bricks—weighing her down, immobilising her completely as she watches Harry inspect the kitchen with beady eyes.

“You made a cake?” He asks, already knowing of the answer; the evidence stares him straight in the face—accompanied by the debris—a crime scene of flour and icing sugar, bowls upon bowls filled with remnants of batter. She opens her mouth, abandoned by sound, swiftly closed when Harry continues on his own; unneeding of Y/N to have a conversation.

“Does it taste like fucking Korma, darlin’?” And she doesn’t like it—the way he weaponises the word she associates so closely to her own identity—the one he uses more than her own name. He’s upset. And it’s her fault.

“It—”

“—Don’t. Just—” he sighs, swiping his heavy palm over his forehead, “—be quiet.”

It slaps her across the face—his unwavering displeasure. She feels the heat rising, uncomfortable in her face, the stinging of her eyes uncontrollable. Harry walks around the island, sighing at the sight of his sink. She was going to clean it, she was. But that doesn’t matter now.

Y/N stands awkwardly near the doorway, stuck in place. He’s muttering, hands busying automatically, clattering indelicately—every bang and crash deafening in Y/N’s nervous state. “Cake,” he laughs flatly, “she makes fucking cake.”

She’d made it with good intentions, she swears. Everything she does is for Harry one way or another. But even Y/N can admit her timing had been astronomically off with this one. A tear trembles its way over her waterline, Harry chiding her; talking about her as if she isn’t there at all, wounding in a way that makes her feel small unlike every other time before. She swipes it away quickly but the evidence remains—a sad, salty trail.

“Leaves her mess—” a spoon is dropped unceremoniously, “everywhere,” throwing utensils into the top rack of the dishwasher with a lack of finesse. “Promises me dinner and then has the… the cheek to play the feminism card. Like it’s some… sort of punishment that I dole out.”

And then he spins around, wielding a whisk in a way that usually should diminish someone’s threat but only emphasises his anger. His eyes harden at the sight of her wet face, and he softens his words none. “You know I don’t think of you as some— some tool, some object for my own desires,” he puts the whisk into the dishwasher, before addressing her again, “but when you promise someone something, you fucking deliver, do you understand me?”

Y/N nods jerkily, more tears brimming. “I’m sorry,” she all but wails. The guilt fills her ears with a thickness—one that throws her off balance.

“Yes, I’m sure you are.” She’s rendered him resigned; her dominant usually so bright and uplifting, now expelling sigh upon sigh at the mere existence of her.

“I don’t want to look at your sad little face, turn around.” Y/N lags, feet glitching over the tiles. “Face the wall—yep,” he nods at her stunned expression, indicating that he is indeed serious, “go on.”

But surely not. “Let me—” her arms reach out in front of her, asking to help. Begging to help—to clean up her own mess and let Harry sit down.

Harry shuts her down, shaking his head tersely, coming forward to turn her himself. “—In the corner…just do something good. Wipe your face—” She lets herself be manhandled, shoulders quivering silently. He nudges her knees with his own, positioning her just right—in the corner like a naughty child. “—Don’t need to see you crying.”

He’s right; he doesn’t. She fucked up, Harry deserves to be the upset one. But instead Y/N’s weeping like some sort of inadvertent guilt trip.

Without her vision, everything he does is that much louder—his mutterings now comparable to full-blown rantings. “Who needs—three fucking bowls? This isn’t masterchef, darling. You don’t need three bowls to make a cake, you don’t.” Every sound makes her body tighten up.

Y/N sniffles, “I’m sorry,” forehead drooping to rest weakly against the wall.

Harry doesn’t seem to hear her sad whimper, grumbling away to himself. But as he turns and starts wiping the island counter, he scolds her again. “Stand up straight, we’re not relaxing,” as she forces her head back up sadly, twisting her neck to apologise once more. He’s moved back to the sink, knocking the tap with his knuckle to start soaking a large, ceramic bowl. “—And quit lookin’ at me over your shoulder.”

She slinks back around, shame heating her cheeks. Her posture wilts like a sorry flower. But she can’t help but worry as he’s soaking the bowls—a remembrance of the frosting she’d made, ready to spread on her heart-shaped creation after it had cooled. She checks back over her shoulder just as he’s standing on the pedal of the bin, lid swinging up.

“No!” she cries, scrambling over to rescue the bowl from Harry’s evil clutches. He sighs, eyes roving over her doleful, wet face, but he lets her hold it.

“Why—are you crying?” He asks with such indignation. “Do you need a reason, hm? Because we can find you one,” he swipes under her eyes carelessly, murmuring something about how he ought to never make her come again. “Ridiculous,” muttering to himself as Y/N stands woefully before him—frame so much smaller than it should be. “Go upstairs. Take your—” he turns her by her shoulders, “—bowl and go upstairs. Be useful and cry elsewhere… whilst I make us dinner.”

Y/N wonders, as she sadly shuffles her feet along the floor and up the stairs, if this is the Harry his previous partners were privy to. If this is how his dominance presented—cold, harsh, and unforgiving. She can’t deny the curiosity; that if the circumstances were different that she wouldn’t be aroused at the expense of her fear. Not that she’s scared of him—she’s not. He’s not that kind of angry. But this is unexpected, and it’s unsettling. She can’t decipher the true intentions behind his words; if they’re fuelled by frustration, hunger, exhaustion… or if they’re disguised by such factors in order to portray his true feelings. Was he… irreversibly upset with her? Was he disgusted by her? Repulsed? Turned off?

She sits on the edge of his bed—the bowl is cold against her palms, heavy and sorrowful, and surely much saltier than she’d originally intended—tears dripping off her chin and into the frosting below.

She cries because she’s embarrassed, she cries because she’s failed; she’s a disappointment and a right headache. It’s why she just sits there, doing as he’d told her—to cry elsewhere. Whether or not she’s waiting for Harry, Y/N doesn’t know. Her brain sits in thick sludge inside of her skull.

Time evades her in moments like these. Her eyes gloss over, focused on one blurring point, her thoughts form with immense struggle—like someone wading through mud, picking up one foot with force, weighed down by the imprisoning filth, allowed freedom for a fraction of a second before it is submerged once more.

She sits and she stares at nothing in particular, blinking only to displace the tears that obscure her already fuzzy vision. And when Harry appears in the doorframe, it takes a lagging second or two before recognition, before her face twists slightly and a wet garbling sound dribbles its way out of her downturned mouth.

He sighs, anger replaced with exhaustion now… or simply pushed aside until another time. Harry walks towards her, movements slow; cautious like that of a person desperate to keep a placated baby sweet.

“Don’t cry, come on,” he thumbs a tear from her dewy cheek, “don’t need to cry.” His voice is softer now, Y/N is grateful. Although his caressing cadence is enough to make her emotional on most days. So it does little to cease the rapid beating of her heart or the little diamond droplets in her waterline.

“Sorry, I’m sorry,” she sniffles, pushing her face into the pressure of Harry’s thumb despite feeling unworthy of it.

“Okay.” It’s a murmur, removed of emotion, as he’s smoothing his fingers around to the back of her neck, holding firmly—keeping her upright to allow her heavy head some respite—whilst he stands tall at the foot of the bed, gargantuan in size compared to Y/N’s sad form.

“Listen to me,” the digits curl slightly, angling her head up, up. She’s forced to ruminate over the tension in Harry’s brows and the evidence of his hands running through his hair with irritation, strands coiling wildly. But she nods against the strain, trying so hard to be better.

“You have two options.” He doesn’t sound angry anymore. Y/N almost wishes he did. The complete lack of inflection leaves her with nothing to lean on. “You can be a good girl for the rest of the night, just like I know you’re so capable of—” he pauses to let the words settle, and maybe to hear the echo of the slight spite in his accusation.

Y/N doesn’t think she needs to hear option two, and when Harry does say it, it makes her sad all over again.

“—or you can go to the spare room.”

Her lip twitches; she clenches her eyes shut to force the tears back down and shakes her head in silence.

Harry strokes his thumb against the back of her scalp. “We will talk about this. Tomorrow, we will. But for now, I want easy, okay? Will you be good?”

I am good! Is what she wants to say. She wants to say that she never meant to be bad, she never meant to upset him. She wants to take the last few hours of her life back completely and do it all over again.

The weight of the bowl in her hands is a reminder. She puts it down on the mattress beside her, curling her knees underneath her bum to push her height up. To reach Harry’s chest and clench her fingers into the material of his shirt, jacket long since removed in the heat of his frustration.

“I’llbegood,” Harry feels the vibration of her words and hears the muffled promise as Y/N smears sad kisses over his cotton covered heart. He lets her—eyes losing the fight against his lids as they fall shut, sighing as he worries about taking this all too far.

But the wheels are in motion, and the emotions are high. If Y/N can’t follow through on a promise, then Harry must follow through with a punishment. Or a scolding. Or whatever it is that they’re doing right now—which seems to be neither. He just wants to sleep, and hold her warm body, and forget about his day.

He brings his hand up to smooth over the top of her head, closed eyes allowing him one last moment of reprieve. Y/N’s tears soak through his shirt, wetting his skin underneath. No doubt he’ll find dampened patches littered across the material, soon to dry but the memory will never fade. Of having his love kiss through her tears, to beg in her sadness for forgiveness by applying her own homemade bandaids.

Harry needs a distraction.

His gaze lands on the forgotten bowl when he opens his eyes, gently pushing Y/N back onto her bum when he decides what to do.

“You didn’t eat your frosting, baby?”

And now he’s confusing her… because now he sounds almost playful—and Y/N doesn’t know the correct answer to give—the right words in the right order to be rewarded with the right reaction.

“I didn’t—know if you wanted me to, Sir,” she swallows around some of the words, snotty nose all stuffy and suffocating her vocal chords.

“I’d like you to now.” Harry sees his hands on her face as he says it, white frosting painting her like something else they’re familiar with—his fingers spanning the entirety of her features, smearing the mess around like she’s his own personal canvas.

He leans down, just enough to dip his fingers inside the bowl, coating his digits, and then he stretches back out to his full height with purpose, sinewy forearm veiny as it is pulled towards Y/N’s mouth by an eager hand.

She sits still—statuesque—with her eyes roving up Harry’s rolled sleeve and all the way to the straight line of his mouth. Y/N can’t help but wish she could know exactly what he was thinking as he daubs the pads of his middle and ring finger against the seal of her mouth, displacing the substance from his fingers to her lips, before teasing his way inside to hook her bottom teeth down and unlatch her jaw.

He just… stares for a moment, holding her mouth open and watching as saliva pools beneath her tongue and kisses his fingertips. And then he pats her cheek with his other hand, a soft tap as Y/N’s lashes barely flutter from the weight of his palm. She drools a little when Harry drops her jaw, shame lingering somewhere but not quite reaching the forefront of her mind. It occurs to her to close her mouth, but it seems her dominant isn’t quite finished—bringing a newly dipped hand back up to her face. He’s all but dipped it entirely into the bowl, cold against Y/N’s face when he smudges his handprint over the left side of her face with a quirk of his lips.

“Sweet and salty, huh?” his eyes darken, the pad of his thumb smearing the frosting so indelicately adorning her face. The sugary paste intersects with a drying tear trail streaking down her cheek and Harry can’t help the way his saliva pools under his tongue, blocky front teeth pushing two lines into his bottom lip.

She looks so pretty.

Y/N watches the way the flesh holds a slight indentation when her dominant closes his mouth once again. The quickstep of her heart dances with exhilaration now—body frozen in anticipation as Harry’s looming stature shrinks her. Her eyes are wide, and the only things she dares to move, flitting around Harry’s face as he manhandles hers.

He squeezes her cheeks together, shaking her head from side to side before dipping his thumb into her open mouth and spreading it across her tongue. Vanilla blossoms on her taste buds, and a quiet hum rumbles at the back of Y/N’s throat.

“S’that nice?” Harry all but coos. “All your hard work? Does it taste good?” He’s teasing, she knows—but that’s never mattered with Harry. Y/N will always answer him sincerely.

She hums around his thumb, “Mhm,” tongue flicking against his soft pad. If Y/N could eat everything off of Harry’s fingers, she would. Hand fed for life, lips cushioning his long digits as they stroke her tongue and caress the insides of her cheeks.

“Let me see,” Harry murmurs, keeping her head still as he bends down, tongue unfolding from behind his lips as he licks a stripe from the corner of her mouth to her cheekbone. Y/N makes a startled noise around his thumb, goosebumps littering her skin. Warmth and wet from his thick muscle as it lingers unnecessarily; he hums lewdly, over exaggerating the pleasure just to amplify Y/N’s—to watch her squeeze her thighs out of the corner of his eye as he leans back and swallows.

“Beautiful,” he concludes—about her frosting or about her, Y/N doesn’t know. Her eyes are wide and crystal clear, every emotion glittering over the surface of her corneas. And she just sits there, white smudges over her cheek, her lips, staring up at Harry as though he created the world in the palm of his hand—as though she sleeps soundly curled up in the nest of his dimple or the crevice of his navel.

Harry knuckles the rest of the mess off of her skin, suckling the joint into his mouth and gathering it all onto his tongue. She doesn’t expect the grip of his fingers on her jaw and for her automatic response being to present her own tongue, doesn’t realise that she registers the slight purse of his lips as he crowds her space and shamelessly lets the sweetness drip heavily into her mouth.

He doesn’t have to tell her to swallow as her throat bobs, eyes never wavering from Harry’s despite the electricity that jolts up her spine from the casual debauchery. So unwavering, his gaze, as if concentrating on the most important thing to ever happen in his life. Refusing to blink to avoid risking missing a single millisecond.

And then… then he steps back, the moment suddenly gone. Y/N misses the way his eyes droop regretfully.

Silent footfalls pad over to the en-suite, collecting cleanser and lotion, serum and soft wipes. Harry dabs at her face with such precision that Y/N wonders if it’s soothing for him—to take more care than necessary at cleaning her skin. She doesn’t quite understand the intent. Was he not going to continue what Y/N confidently assumes he had in mind?

He doesn’t as he changes out of his suit, he doesn’t as he passes his work shirt to Y/N, he doesn’t as she undresses—which would be the perfect time to do such a thing—he doesn’t as he pulls back the covers and settles in, patting the spot in front of him.

Y/N complies with a similar silence. No words shared but nonverbal communication can be just as effective. The wrap of Harry’s heavy forearm around her waist, pulling her in tight, so tight—almost too tight. That’s soothing enough to her, feeling his hard chest, his hard arms, his hard—

“Mm, Harry,” a whispered moan and a shift of her bum. She can feel him begging to nestle between her.

“No, baby, no,” he tickles her neck inadvertently, burrowing his nose into the delicate flesh. She yearns to crane her head back against his shoulder.

“Want you to feel good, sir. Just stay warm inside me, please?”

“I don’t deserve it, pet. Sleep now. We’ll eat in an hour.”

She can’t argue, not when her eyelids are so heavy. But the sleepiness of her brain and the tingling between her legs has her head all foggy, movements not her own as she guides Harry’s hand up to her mouth and coaxes his middle two fingers past her lips. He sighs into her neck, a gentle huff, but doesn’t resist—his other arm simply snakes under her body to wrap back around her waist and infuse her into his front.

Y/N has never slept so easily after an argument before.

When more of your possessions reside in your dominant’s house than your own, it’s probably time to reevaluate the situation. Y/N doesn’t do that as she juggles cans and bottles before dumping them into her suitcase—Harry’s suitcase because hers was old and battered—doesn’t even ponder it, which is something novel for her.

Harry passes a makeup bag silently from beside her. His case sits open on top of his mattress, slowly filling with clothes and toiletries. She’s not going for long, not even three full days, but Y/N has always been more at ease when she overpacks—instead of underpacking and feeling that swirling dread when she realises she’s forgotten something.

They’d travelled to her house to grab some things and then back to Harry’s—where he neatly folds whilst she fretfully panics—too manic to be overly helpful.

“Do you think I’ll need my sunglasses?” She gestures with them, spinning them around her finger before proceeding to juggle midair to stop them falling to the floor.

Harry smiles, humming whilst he picks a loose bit of fluff from the jeans he’s folding, “I’d take them, just in case.”

“Won’t you tell me where we’re going?” She tries to round her eyes but Harry sees right through her. “Please?”

“No, darlin’, sorry.” He’s not sorry.

“I can’t believe you’ve known the whole time— when did he tell you? Why won’t you tell me? This is ridiculous…” she scoffs, “trying to send me somewhere when I have no bloody clue where it is I’m going—!”

“Oh, watch out everybody, she’s gearing up.”

“—Yes, I am! Stay clear of me unless you want a…” she hesitates , “a…”

“A knuckle sandwich?” Harry offers.

“A knuckle sandwich, yeah!” holding two small fists out in front of her with misguided intent. “Watch out, mate,” hopping about him like a crazy person.

He lets her, hoping she’ll tire herself out with all the bouncing around. “Okay, pal. I’m not telling you! I’m not sending you off to war, don’t worry, okay?”

She almost snorts. Don’t worry… what a ridiculous notion. “When pigs fly, Harry,” she grumbles.

They’re in better spirits today, evidently—although the morning had been tense. When Y/N had peeled her eyes open and relished in the feeling of Harry wrapping her up, she’d melted even further into the mattress. But that was before consciousness had really hit her, before her brain woke up and went fuck.

Harry had gone through the same thing about three seconds later, the jolt of Y/N’s remembrance disturbing his slumber. He’d groaned out, rolling onto his back and slinging a forearm over his eyes. Y/N peeked behind her at his bare chest rising and falling slowly. His grumbling voice had made the hairs on her arms stand up.

“Want a coffee?”

“Oh—I’ll do it, Harry.”

“No you won’t, stay there,” slinging his legs over the side of the bed and stretching his arms above his head.

She still couldn’t help but admire the broadness of his back and the way it rippled despite the suspense in the air. “Could I have a tea, please? Actually, can I just come with you?”

He’d looked back at her, dimple carving its place with a small smile. “Alright, fusspot, come on then.”

“Here you go,” Harry passed her a mug, presenting her with the handled side as if he wasn’t casually holding scalding ceramic in his hand.

It toppled out, really, nearly undecipherable as she rushed, “Thankshandsome.”

Harry brought his mug up to his lips, not quite registering what she’s said, and then he paused, “What did you just say?”

Shit, nothing, nothing. “I said thanks, Harry."

“No you didn’t, did you just call me—?”

“—It sounded weird,” a sad frown pulled at her mouth. “I want to be sweet but it sounded so stupid.”

He shook his head, tongue running along his bottom lip to stop himself cheesing. “Say it again.”

She’s flustered. “I—” Harry raised his eyebrows. “...Thank you, handsome.”

“And again?” tongue poking the inside of his cheek.

Clammy hands dragged over her eyes to try and feel invisible. “Thanks, handsome.”

A broad grin stretched out across his face, and Y/N swore she saw the hint of a blush teasing the surface of his cheeks. “I like it,” he said. “You’re welcome, darlin’.” Y/N’s face burned, a nervous roll of her lip between her teeth before Harry reached out to kiss her cheek.

“I’m sorry about yesterday, baby. Really sorry.”

“Wh—?” She grabbed his hand that had found her face, thumb stroking her chin. “Why? It was my fault, I’m sorry. I promised you. I hate that I broke it.”

“You did promise me, yeah. But I didn’t even say hello to you, sweetheart. What kind of arsehole does that? Made you feel like shit. Can’t deny it, I made you cry.”

“But I just felt bad. Because— Because I promised, and you must’ve been so hungry.”

“It was just a curry, pet. No harm done. You made a very gorgeous cake instead. And yeah, I was hungry but no one died. I don’t hate you because you made a mistake. People make mistakes—I made one hundred mistakes last night.”

“Only a few,” she smiled coyly.

“I’m sorry. I was hungry, and I was tired, and I did all the wrong things. I upset you and it upset me and… I never w’na speak to you like that again. Will you forgive me?”

“I already had,” her voice wobbled, relief flooding her system. Harry wrapped his arms around her shoulders and buried his nose into her hair without a moment of hesitation. “I’m sorry too.”

He hummed. “You know I don’t expect you to cook and clean for me, don’t you? Don’t expect any of that.” She nodded against his chest, forehead rubbing against his bare skin. “Could roll around on the floor all day or pick pretty flowers, as long as you were happy.”

“Stop, you’re making me cry,” a wet sniffle rumbling into his chest.

“You really think I’m handsome?”

She barked out a laugh, pulling back to look into his smiling eyes. “No! I think you’re wretched!”

Now, they pratt about like two high teenagers—giggling about things that could only be funny in these very specific circumstances. Harry insists on pretending to grind on Y/N like he’s been cast in some sort of early two thousands music video, relishing in each fit of shrieky laughter he wins from her, nibbling into her neck and pulling her body into his.

“Harry! You’re supposed to be helping me pack!”

“I am helping.”

“No you’re not!” she laughs.

“Let’s finish it later,” he mumbles into the side of her face, arms squeezing around her middle promisingly. “I’m supposed to be working, you know?” Harry hasn’t set foot in his home office all day.

“You’re the boss,” she argues validly.

“Yeah, I am…” he agrees, keen to keep their bubble from popping. “Will you let me decorate your cake with you?”

Y/N spins around in his arms, face bright as she exclaims, “Yes! Oh my god, yes!”

Harry laughs. “G’na need to make some more frosting, most likely,” smiling like a menace when Y/N’s eyes widen and he can almost feel the heat rising up her face. She glances over to the bowl that is still sat on top of the dresser where Harry moved it the night before. If not for the fact that half of it was used like foundation, then it is most definitely not fresh anymore from its lack of cover.

“Come on, then,” she bites her lip, finding his hand and intertwining their fingers in a bold move of enthusiasm as she coaxes him out of the bedroom and down the stairs.

A beautifully heart shaped cake sits undisturbed on a vintage glass stand, the patterned dome warping the image underneath it. And despite the trouble that said cake caused, Y/N still bounds over to it all smiley, proud like she’s just received a first class distinction for a dissertation she’s slogged over for months.

Harry watches her fondly, noting the way her lips form around silent words as she lists off all the things she needs to get out of the cupboards. It’s a privilege to get to see someone so comfortably in their element; to pick up on things they don’t even notice about themselves.

She ushers him over, presenting a wooden spoon for him to take. “You can stir, muscle man,” the cheeky quip settling on Harry’s skin with a buzz as Y/N slowly pours each ingredient into a bowl. Harry does as he’s told, stirring and beating the mixture until the boss deems it good enough.

She wields the palette knife like it’s an extension of her hand, smoothing the frosting over the cake whilst Harry ‘helps’. Y/N did ask if he wanted to do it, but he couldn’t possibly do a subpar job of her favourite process. So he watches from beside her—not too close (“You make me nervous”) but close enough for moral support (“Not that far away!”)—making an effort to hold his breath in case it were to disturb her.

Cakes were never Harry’s dessert of choice but… but. Y/N’s unwavering glee is enough to make him want to request a change in the law that demands cake be granted to all. “Do you like it?” She grins, looking up at Harry to gauge his reaction. And he hardly has to over exaggerate; it is gorgeous.

“Too good to eat, that’s for sure,” he hums, holding her gaze with a twinkle in his eye.

“Wait! It’s not finished,” her face drops as she remembers, frantically hurrying to the fridge to retrieve a punnet of strawberries.

Harry should’ve known. “Nothing is ever finished without strawberries.” It’s a gentle tease, followed by a huff of laughter, shaking his head gently as she cuts them in half to place around the border of the heart, in between soft peaks of piping.

It’s simple, and it’s sweet, and it’s lovely. Much like Y/N as she habitually holds up a fruit to Harry’s mouth, shrieking and pulling back when he purposefully nips her fingertips. He grins through a chew, fresh, sweet juice shining on his lips.

Then he turns to get some water, presenting Y/N with a perfect opportunity. As he’s filling a glass, letting his mind wander to dinner plans, “Do you fancy spag—” he turns into Y/N’s attack as she strikes. Vanilla buttercream. Vanilla buttercream splattered across his cheek and kissing his eyelashes.

Y/N gasps, hands coming up to cover her mouth and hide her smile, so bad at pretending to be innocent. Harry says nothing, and then he trails his eyes from the floor to her face… “You little minx,” and he pounces.

The submissive yelps, reaching behind her for the counter—frantic for stabilisation as Harry’s body collides into hers. She’s drowning in giggles, out of breath from the incessance. The bottom of her spine digs into marble, hips swivelling as she desperately tries to reach the bowl. Harry’s laughing, pushing forward to rub his sugary face against hers whilst Y/N wiggles—and when he realises her intent, drops his hands to her hips and tugs her behind brutishly into his front—reaches over her back and elongates a sinewy arm to grasp what she can’t.

A clumsy hand bashes against the ceramic, his free arm wrapping around both of Y/N’s the best he can to incapacitate her as his fingers find frosting. He pulls them back, frenzied in his movements as he carelessly sullies her face, her big puffs of laughter tickling his palm. “Ah!” She squeals, head thrown back against his shoulder to try and escape Harry’s menacing paw. “Ha—ha—Harry! Sto-ho-op!”

“You love it,” he grumbles into her temple, far from irritated but his voice can’t help but dip into that velvety cadence with her body pressed so tight against his. He smushes his palm over her mouth, perfectly riled up when Y/N opens her mouth and slathers her tongue against the sticky skin.

She giggles something unattractive—though it makes Harry’s cock twitch in his sweats. “Fuckin’ love struggling like this, don’t you, doll?” And suddenly the mood shifts, Y/N’s laugh catches in her throat and she garbles out a whine instead, body relaxing in Harry’s hold.

He nudges her forward, encourages the stretch of her body over the countertop and the way her knuckles knock against the ceramic. An unconscious hum rumbles past his lips, tongue poking out to taste the sweetness Y/N left behind.

Deft fingertips tug impatiently at the denim hem of her jeans, forcing the button undone and then the zipper, shifting them down to stretch across her thighs. Y/N pants when she realises that’s all the wiggle room Harry is going to grant her.

He pauses, “What’s your colour,” uncharacteristically out of breath, hardly poised as a question.

“Green,” Y/N whines in return, trying to wiggle her hips but Harry wraps his fingers through the back of her underwear and pulls. The fabric cuts into the crease of Y/N’s thighs and a shiver wracks through her as the force of it bounces her ass against him—against his bulge.

His breath hits the shell of her ear as he leans over, taunting and teasing. “Gonna let me fuck you?”

“Yes,” Y/N nods, turning her cheek into the marble to feel the cold spread out across the searing flesh. Her hands form fists, nails digging into her palms—desperate to tug on something but her skin is the only option.

It’s rushed, and it’s frenetic—it’s not the way things usually go and it multiplies Y/N’s excitement tenfold. Her knees wobble without prompt and she’s not sure she’ll be able to hold this position for very long but she doesn’t think she’ll have to. Not when Harry pulls himself out of his sweatpants and slips himself under her panties and through her lips. He’s so hard already, Y/N feels herself wetten from the slightest touch; his weight and his grunt as their bodies meet completely and utterly.

But he’s teasing her, he’s… he’s—

“Harry,” it comes out all whiny and impatient—two things Y/N has never claimed not to be—but with every slant of his hips, every stroke through her arousal and bump of her clit, with her wretched knickers still on, it makes her angry. “Stop—stop teasing me!”

He jerks, unused to such commands toppling from her mouth. “Shh, be good, be quiet,” but complying regardless as he slips her panties down her thighs to stretch just like her jeans. Y/N can’t spread her legs very wide, but that doesn’t stop Harry from pushing at pulling as he pleases—one hand pressing down on her lower back, the other cupping her cunt and smearing her arousal like an artist with a paintbrush.

Neither of them can stand the idea of foreplay right now; Y/N can feel her sad, empty hole pulsing and clenching around nothing—Harry throbs just the same, slicking her wetness up and around his dick, twisting and tugging at the tip enough to make him leak down his knuckles.

They’re wet enough, shining under the harsh kitchen lights, and yet Harry still pulls at Y/N’s ass, spreading her wide to dribble a thick line of spit onto her puckered hole. She jolts, hips grinding unceremoniously against the counter as she feels his saliva drool down to her glistening cunt and Harry’s thumb chase it. He coos and hisses at the bang, smoothing over her hip with his other hand as he starts to rub circles over her.

“Oh—!” It’s impossible not to writhe under the foreign feeling, exposed and wet, trapped by her own jeans. Her forehead falls down, clashing against the marble but Y/N hardly feels it. All she can feel is the pad of Harry’s thumb and the heat it burns into her body—the seeping between her thighs the longer he plays, and the teasing bumps and brushes of his cock against her rounded flesh.

“Shh, that’s it. Good girl.”

And she withers. She disintegrates right in front of Harry’s eyes.

“Pretty girl with a pretty ass, hm? ‘s that feel good, darlin’?”

“Mm, please I—”

“I know, shh—shh,” thudding himself against her firmly, guiding the tip up and down her slick, pushing in to watch her stretch and swallow before leaning back again. Pushing in—pulling out. His thumb applies the slightest of pressure, not enough to send panic clattering up Y/N’s spine but enough to mollify her very being. The sensation—the teasing—of intrusion without the worry of it. The taboo nature of experiencing such pleasure in such places.

When Harry pushes in all the way, Y/N nearly collapses, whimpering into the counter. She can feel him in her fucking throat, she’s sure of it. Every ridge, every vein, the nudge of his head, his slit kissing her walls. And Harry spews all that he can without saying the words themselves.

“Love your fucking cunt, love this—fucking gorgeous body.” His voice thins out to a gravelly whisper, “Were you made just for me, sweetheart?” hips slapping against rippling flesh, palm smoothing up her back to weave into tendrils of hair as his thumb remains encircling. Y/N tries to reply; all that procures are pitiful cries of exertion, air punched out of her lungs with every thrust. “Waiting patiently for me to find you.”

It’s such a romantic sentiment that she finds herself welling up—perhaps easily understood by the overstimulation of her entire vessel but it feels deeper than that. It feels intimate irregardless of their current position. A limp hand flops against her lower back, tired elbow joints aching, searching for its partner—searching for its missing puzzle piece. And when Harry’s fingers slot into place… it forms the whole, pretty picture.

“Love, need you to—” a pause as though he’s forgotten the words as he says them. “Need you to relax. Gripping me so tight—not g’na last.”

But Harry’s sentiment calms her none, she clenches around him even tighter—suddenly tunnel visioned for one thing and one thing only. It’s an amalgamation of wet noises attempting to form syllables, “Pleasecome, pleasecome, please—” Inside, she wants it inside.

“God, baby, you’re so wet,” Harry’s hips stutter, digits squeezing hers even tighter, thumb slipping away to slink around her front and frame two fingers on either side of her cunt, pinching her clit ever so slightly. It makes her shudder, mouth far too numb to feel the drool that strings down onto the counter.

“Mhm, mhm,” pushing back with all the strength she can muster, bum lifting to meet Harry’s pelvis. “Daddy.”

“Okay, darlin’, it’s okay. Need you to come f’me,” framing fingers coming together to form the perfect swipes over her clit—the extra stimulation she needs to just push her over the edge and send her toppling. He feels the way she starts to throb, feels the way the muscles in her legs lock, keeps rubbing to carry her through as her weak whimpers trail into wet sobs.

Y/N practically loses consciousness as her orgasm hits her; squeezes Harry’s hand so tight he hisses for reasons other than his strangled cock. Her knees buckle and her limbs lose competence. Harry moves both hands to her waist, hauling her up and onto her toes as he quickens his pace, lewd slicking and the thud of their bodies the only sounds to ever exist.

And she keeps squeezing, the aftershocks strong enough to pull Harry with her, to force him to slip out frantically before painting stripe after stripe onto her ass, her back. She shakes her head against the hard countertop—never before has she felt such a jarring loss, such a painful transition. Inside, she wanted it inside.

Harry stands behind her, slowly tugging, squeezing out every last drop onto her skin. His legs don’t quite shake like Y/N’s but the exertion, the overwhelming orgasm has his head spinning a bit. But not when he registers his submissive’s wet face, drenched in sweat and tears alike, unable to be peeled from where it lays heavily on the counter. He wisens up entirely, cooing soft, easily digestible words as he cleans her skin with a soft tissue. Swipes in between her legs slowly, careful to avoid unwanted pressure, and straightens her back as thought he might have broken it.

Her eyes are glossy, not fully present but it doesn’t bother him. She looks tired, pupils tracking his face with a lag. But tired means he’s done his job well, tired means all other thoughts fail to penetrate.

They could do with a shower, a sleep, a good meal… but Harry can’t deny the desire to just sit with her for a moment. To untuck a less than comfortable stool and hold her on his lap, chin nestled against her neck. To kiss mindlessly along the slope of her shoulder and massage his fingers into her scalp, to have her doze off on top of him, completely void of tension.

And when she wakes up, he’ll let her eat cake for lunch.

Harry hopes he doesn’t appear too grumpy on the drive to Niall’s. He’s just… well he is grumpy, because he’s going to miss Y/N. And it dawns on him on that journey, just how much he’s going to fucking miss her.

It shouldn’t be so hard to tell her—not when he feels it so fervently. Maybe it makes Harry selfish for wanting her to say it first but he tells himself that’s why he’s waiting. Not because he’s worried but because he wants Y/N to be brave.

And it weighs on him, every goodbye being void of those three little words. It weighs on him but it still doesn’t mean he says it any sooner.

Y/N buzzes beside him, practically vibrating in her seat. She turns her seat warmer on, adjusts the aircon, switches the radio station, turns her seat warmer off, rummages around in Harry’s glove box for nothing in particular.

She’s nervous. She’s excited but she’s nervous—and even a blind man would be able to tell. Harry lovingly wishes he maybe could be blind, or better deaf, as she prattles on; terminally diagnosed with verbal diarrhoea as he ums and ahs to appease her. He stopped listening when she started rattling off facts about pigeons (pigeons, for Christ’s sake), focusing intently on the road alongside his own internal battles.

Harry doesn’t mean to suggest he doesn’t enjoy her borderline insanity—he does—he’s head over heels in love with her insanity. She entertains him thoroughly without even trying to and he thinks he could only list on one hand the times he hasn’t been completely endeared with her.

But he can forgive himself for zoning about when it comes to pigeon facts, no matter how interesting it may be that the species were entirely domesticated, and then abandoned by humans.

“I need a wee,” she complains, shifting her seat belt so it stops pressing into her bladder.

“‘s alright, only five minutes away.”

“I know,” she whinges, starting to tug at the hem of her sleeve. Harry sees her incessant fiddling out of the corner of his eye, placing his upturned hand on her thigh as a silent ask for her own. Y/N takes the bait, and a calm settles over them.

When they pull up outside Niall’s place, he’s leaning against the hood of his car, squinting at his phone. At the sound of tires over gravel he looks up and grins, elation taking over his face. And however desperate Y/N might have been to go to the bathroom, and no matter how excited her friend is, she doesn’t dare to rush getting out of the car.

She slings her arms around Harry’s neck, bidding farewell as if she’s going abroad and not just an hour away. But Harry doesn’t laugh, he hugs her back just as tight, inhaling the freshness of her skin—desperate to keep her scent with him until she gets back. He presses kisses into the side of her head, warm palm rubbing her lower back—usually he might be reassuring her with gentle words but right now he can’t find it within himself to do so.

He doesn’t want her to go.

And he’s a grown, adult man—not some lovesick teenager. She’s going for three days. THREE. But Harry still hasn’t said I love you and each departure feels more and more dangerous.

“You’re gonna have such a lovely time,” he pulls back to kiss her cheek and her lashes flutter like little butterfly wings. A knuckle down the bridge of her nose and teasingly flicking underneath to make her giggle. “Text me when you arrive, okay?”

“Yeah,” she hums, less than subtly leaning in, hoping he’ll kiss her like they do in the movies. An incapacitating kind of kiss. And Harry delivers like it’s his profession, devouring hands overwhelming in their cradle of her head, directing her movements as he teases the corner of her mouth with a gentle press of his lips. He wishes he could take more time. He wishes Niall weren’t right outside the fucking window probably simpering at the sight. He wishes he could give her more than just a chaste sponging of their mouths, followed by a flurry of departing pecks.

He wishes he could just say the fucking words.

A knock sounds from behind Harry’s head—knuckles on glass—and the muffled sound of Niall’s teasing, “Get a move on, you two! We’ve got to leave today,” and Harry meets Y/N’s gaze, rolling his eyes obnoxiously whilst she laughs. Their bubble has been popped, and she’s opening the car door, bounding over to her friend all foolishly as she playfully berates him. Harry’s mouth curls up into a small smile, sliding out of the car and silently getting Y/N’s suitcase whilst amusedly shaking his head.

He even gets a coy, “Thanks, handsome,” a twinkle in Y/N’s eye as she embarrasses herself in front of Niall to make Harry’s heart jump. The two men hug and pat one another on the back, exchanging pleasantries and agreeing that it’s been too long. But it’s unnecessary to hang around, and Niall makes some comment about how he needs to take care of something he’d nearly forgotten, so Harry pulls himself away and tries not to watch Y/N in the rearview mirror as he pulls back out onto the road.

It follows him around for the rest of the day, his lack of courage, of flexibility. The fact that a more than capable CEO—a dominant—couldn’t say I love you to his partner. He’s not embarrassed, no it runs deeper than insecurity, but he’s frustrated. And Harry has never been irrational but perhaps Y/N has been rubbing off on him because he finds himself starting to panic.

What if there’s an accident? There’s an accident and Harry never gets to tell her… He has to stop those thoughts before he finds himself calling her up to demand her life status, and then again thirty minutes later, and another thirty minutes. But it’s not so irrational, he can’t help but believe. Accidents happen all the time—and Harry can’t stand going any longer without telling her how bleak his life would be without her.

It doesn’t help to scroll through social media. A fucking philosophy. Not when life starts showing you godforsaken signs. A friend getting married here, a newborn baby there. Everyone coupled up and happy—basking in love without boundaries. Love without hesitation and fear. Harry wants to give that to Y/N. He has that love for Y/N, and he’s positive she has it for him too.

So he exits out of Instagram and starts to look through his own personal social media—his camera roll. Harry has more photos on his phone of Y/N than he does his parents, his sister, his friends. The folder he’s titled simply with her name holds a number of images that might indicate he harbours strong feelings for the girl.

In their short but staggering relationship, thus far, Harry has taken seventy two photographs of Y/N. More if he were to count the ones he deleted after a panicked spam to capture the moment before it passed. He swipes through them slowly—one of Y/N asleep in his bed, naked back pretty in the morning light. One of her sitting across from him at their favourite café, caught off guard in an authentic smile that he can never get out of her when he asks her to pose. He treasures that one. A photo of her laying on lucious grass, arms and legs spread out like she is trying to make some sort of snow angel without the snow. A photo of her wet from the pool, droplets littering her skin as she sunbathes unaware—and then a subsequent photo of when she spotted Harry with his phone directed at her, and scrunched her nose up in disgust. He’d looked at that one for ages.

He wonders what she’s doing now. Knows they arrived not long ago, from her bubbly text message adorned in exclamation marks and emojis. Wishes he could’ve seen her reaction when they pulled up outside the place—a luxury health spa. The perfect place for a neurotic who has an affinity for smelling and feeling nice. She had sent him screenshots; the reaction she’d had over text when Niall admitted to her how he’d booked their visit.

Y/N this room is incredible omg how did you get us in here with such short notice?

Niall right??? don’t need a spa just need this bedroom I BOOKED IT IN HARRY’S NAME LOL no I’m kidding, I’m kidding… okay, I’m not kidding but I phoned him straight afterwards I knew he’d be fine with it I paid him for my room and stuff don’t worry desperate times called for desperate measures and I knew his name would get us a stay

Y/N NIALL YOU ARE INSANE YOU CAN’T DO THAT how did you have his card details what the hell??? actually don’t tell me i don’t want to be liable by association when you get arrested or whatever

Niall aiding and abetting? is what it’s called, I think ANYWAY YOU WORRY TOO MUCH HARRY IS FINE WITH IT now HURRY UP!!!!! I want to go the in hot tub 😋 in the*

She’d followed the photos up with thank you, harry. wish you were here to enjoy it too x—and it had only made him miss her more.

Y/N and Niall's luxurious long weekend goes by too quickly. And despite her words being true—that she wished Harry could be with them—Niall, unsurprisingly keeps Y/N wonderfully distracted. It’s a relief that she hasn’t become insufferable since dating someone. That she hasn’t turned into one of those people who bring up their partner in every. single. conversation. That she’s not just moping around waiting to go home and ruining Niall’s enjoyment. Y/N actually finds herself to be… content.

Yes, she misses Harry. She misses sleeping in his bed, in his arms. She misses walking into a room and seeing him just existing. But it doesn’t stop her from lounging in the hot tub with Niall and giggling over gossip. It doesn’t stop her from going to a pilates class and instantly regretting it. It doesn’t stop her from getting a massage so good she nearly falls asleep—although she may admit to pretending the woman administering the massage is in fact her dominant, with suddenly much smaller hands—but that’s neither here nor there.

And when Monday morning rolls around, she’s loose-limbed and fresh-faced—and very much excited about seeing Harry again. What she doesn’t know is that he’s been excited about seeing her again since he dropped her off… and is having the closest thing to a mental breakdown over their lack of communication.

He wakes up disgruntled; a night of tossing and turning and bags slowly procuring under his eyes. He wakes up and showers. He eats and he glances over his emails. He’ll be ‘working’ from home today, without a doubt.

It feels as though the only thing that can capture his attention is the clock—each hand ticking slower than the last. Y/N won’t be home until midday at least, but Harry can’t find himself able to concentrate on anything else.

It seems the universe has it out for him, when he switches the television on and Y/N’s favourite rom com blares through the speakers. During her favourite scene, of course. He wants to switch it off—not through distaste but through yearing—through painful reminder. But he can’t; not only because he adores the movie too but because the scene in which Y/N loves so much is just that. The climax of the film, the moment everybody has been waiting for—the love confession.

“For fuck’s sake,” he curses to the empty room. Because it’s typical, isn’t it? That coincidence would strike at this moment in time. That out of all the channels and all the TV shows, the films that could’ve been on at eleven thirty on a Monday morning, it’s this one. He doesn’t really watch it. He’s seen it enough times to know what happens. But it helps him decide something. It helps him ignore any and all previous stances on the matter—fuck making her say it first.

Harry knows she loves him and he gets in his car to tell her so, leaving the television murmuring quietly—two besotted characters lost in an embrace to the sound of his front door clicking shut.

Niall drops Y/N home at approximately the same time Harry leaves his. Of course, Y/N doesn’t know this, and she would’ve appreciated a warning—maybe the chance to have a cup of tea and unpack her case first. But she’s feeling vibrantly recuperated—thoroughly pampered and sucked into the blissful dreamworld of a weekend at a spa, and it hardly crosses her mind to question why Harry turns up so chaotically.

Why he knocks on her door instead of just coming straight in, why he tugs her into him as though she’s just been rescued, why he pulls back just to ask a less than sensical question. "Why won't you say it to me?"

Perplexed silence. Y/N's fingertips linger on the door handle as she tumbles back from his embrace, her gait once relaxed and happy—now stiff and unsure. Somewhere in the back of her mind she thinks Harry’s just wasted all of his money paying for that long weekend.

"Harry?" It hasn't clicked yet, what he's talking about, but it still sits heavy in her gut—heavy and unanswered.

"Why won't you say it, darling?" He looks desperate... it doesn't compliment him well; it makes Y/N nervous. Harry is a suit without creases, shining shoes, perfect hair kind of man, but right now he vibrates on her doorstep in two day old sweats and hand combed locks. In fact, he can't seem to keep his fingers out of those runnels—creating new ones with each breath Y/N's voice fails to break the silence.

"Say what?" She practically begs it. Say what? Please, please, please. Tell me, let it be okay, let it be simple. "I'll say anything you want, Harry," it doesn't evade her that perhaps she should hear him out first. But it's as she whispers the commitment that she realises it. That she would say anything he wanted to hear… for Harry, Y/N would perform absurdities.

Usually shimmering jade now refuses to glisten in the light, green from a marsh or a bog. Y/N misses the viridescence. Harry releases a breath, lashes swatting heavily against his under eye. "You know, you— I need you to know."

And then… suddenly, she does. Suddenly, she’s kidding herself if she pretends she doesn’t know. It clicks—it clicks and Y/N’s heart stutters. This is cruel of Harry, so cruel. He sent her away to relax and now he’s setting up something fanciful just to make a mockery of her.

“That’s not fair,” she wobbles, in word and posture. Her knees start to feel weak, her chest tightens, the image of Harry before her—still hovering outside—starts to thicken. Y/N takes a step back, and Harry one forward. He shuts the door behind him, free from the chill of the wind, now trapped inside.

“Not fair? What do you mean?”

This—this isn’t how Harry talks, this exasperation, this urgency. He takes care of her, he tells her what she means when she speaks. Y/N doesn’t figure that out on her own. Harry always… he always knows. Why doesn’t he know?

Y/N turns her back on him when the corners of her eyes start to burn. A pathetic breakdown of emotion, she thinks. “You must know I’ve just been waiting… waiting for the day. Been so patient, my love. Please talk to me.”

“I can’t,” her words swallow one another, throat thick and wet.

Harry rushes round to see her, his eyebrows uncomfortably pulled towards the centre of his face. There’s a migraine brewing behind his eyes. “Yes, you can. You can, darling,” chilled palms hold her head up. Y/N wants to shake them off but the temptation is smothered the mere second it arrives. “What are you so afraid of? S’just me.”

“Can’t—can’t… can’t,” scalding tears tip over her waterline, streaming down and over the knuckles of Harry’s thumbs as they brush over her quivering cheeks. She inhales a shaky, shallow breath. “Need you. Need to keep it—this—safe.”

“Why wouldn’t it be safe, Y/N?”

“I’ll ruin it, I’ll—I’m not—” she closes her eyes, “You can’t possibly—”

“—Love you?”

The mere suggestion of it punches the air from her lungs. Despite the fact he’s not saying it to her, it might as well have the same effect. She shakes her head, dislodging a tear.

“I love you, Y/N.” She shakes her head harder. “I love you so much.”

“No,” it’s a thick, ugly cry. “You can’t, I’m— I’m no good, I’m annoying.”

And Harry… Harry does something borderline offensive. Harry laughs in her face. He laughs loudly and he laughs boldly, carving out a crease in between Y/N’s eyebrows.

“I love you,” he says again. And he feels so, so miraculously light, after fretting over it for so long. After hearing her only excuse be that she doesn’t feel deserving of it… well. Harry doesn’t think that’s so hard to help her with, after all. “I love you.”

“Stop,” she weeps, face begging to hide but Harry’s hands hold it up. He’s just a blur before her.

“Hey, hey,” the pads of his thumbs are soaked but that doesn’t stop him from trying to wipe her face. “Look at me—come on, pretty girl, that’s it.” Y/N can feel her bottom lip wobbling. “Do you remember… a few weeks ago, when you were upset—”

Y/N snorts—she can’t help herself—the self-loathe overrules.

“—Oi. Yes, I know, don’t say it. You were upset and you accidentally dropped that plate, yeah? You remember? And I bought you flowers and you felt bad the next day because you didn’t notice?”

Yes. Yes, she remembers that. She’d felt so bad. So embarrassed when she’d asked him where they’d come from, and he’d admitted he wanted to give them to her yesterday when he got home. Too wrapped up in her own despair to realise—too selfish, and dramatic, and ridiculous—

“Hey—don’t think about it, I’m not— I mean,” he stops and sighs, rakes his hand through the back of her hair. “I buy you flowers with meaning, yeah? Yellow tulips, white gardenias…” Y/N nods slowly, confused but fond of the memory of those yellow tulips indefinitely. “Those flowers I bought a few weeks ago… they were red roses, baby. They symbolise love—they mean I love you. And I was going to tell you if you’d asked but… well, it didn’t happen—And I’m not blaming you, I’m not, but I can’t not say it anymore. And I need you to want to say it back to me darling.”

Y/N starts crying again—she never exactly stopped but the tears had paused momentarily to allow Harry his room to speak. But now? Now they’re under no semblance of control. She paws at his t-shirt, words garbled but he knows what she’s saying, “I love you, Harry. I love you s-so much,” and it’s never sounded more beautiful. It’s a mess, and it’s far from romantic—snot and tears coalescing into one big disaster—but Harry still kisses her.

He kisses her and he smiles, laughing when she laughs through her sobs—saying it over, and over, and over again. “I love you,” he whispers, and she echoes it back through waves of emotion. “You’re it for me, you know that?” And Y/N can’t bear to hear it. She’ll still struggle to believe him, for many months to come, they’re both sure.

“But—” she pulls back, swipes furiously at her face with no impact, “—the roses— they died, Harry. Does that mean your love died with them?” It’s a ridiculous notion; of course Harry laughs. “Shut up!”

“I didn’t say anything!” He’s grinning, and Y/N can’t help but mirror his expression. How could she stop her lips from twitching upwards at such a sight? Harry tugs her to his chest, squeezes her so tight she might just get stuck there, and holds her for as long as it takes for their heartbeats to return to normal.

And when they do, he tucks his lips against the top of her head and asks, “Does this mean you’ll quit your job now?”

Y/N takes a moment to ponder her reply… and then he… he feels her smile into his chest before she leans back and looks up with the prettiest, cheekiest, little grin, “Maybe,” ducking out of his embrace and starting to slowly waddle backwards, “if you can catch me.”

Harry doesn’t even do her the courtesy of a head start.

#harry styles #harry styles x reader #harry styles smut #harry styles one shots #harry styles blurbs #harry styles angst #harry styles fluff #harry styles fanfiction #domrry #writing #mutually beneficial #dom!harry

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cambion-companion · 1 year

Note

“Just let me finish this and I swear ill go down on you until you cum at least three times.” (144) lets get down to bussines

Part 2 of "Spray of Blood"

Word count: 2724

reader gets lost trying to run back to King's Landing and Aemond, still splattered in blood, has to find her and bring her back to safety.

haha this is a joint effort it seems! Also I have wanted to write reader sitting on Aemond's face so thank you for #86

28. i’m just getting comfy

74. “Do you want me to stay?”

86. “don’t be shy now, sit on my face.”

98. “if we weren’t in public right now i’d have my head between your legs”

Aemond x wife!reader | smutty ending | 18+ only | fluff and a sprinkle of angst | Aemond isn't super happy lmao

You were lost.

Cursing, you stopped in the middle of the empty street, turning on the spot, surveying your unfamiliar surroundings.

"Fuck me sideways." You muttered, taking a moment to rub your aching temples.

You had indulged in too much spiced wine at the festival, muddling your already questionable orienteering skills.

"If the lady insists." A hissing voice accompanied a slender man emerging from the shadows of a stone building.

He held no weapon, seeming to think you easy prey as he strode forward, already unbuckling his trousers.

You still held the stone you had picked up when Aemond had confronted the men in the market, and so you collected your frayed nerves, taking careful aim as Aemond had taught you.

You threw the shard of brick, it struck true with a dull thud to the man's head. He went down like a sack of flour, hitting the damp cobblestones with a dull thud.

Shaking, you hurried on your way, in the direction you hoped the Red Keep was in. At least you were still walking uphill, that seemed to be a good sign.

After a few minutes of meandering, warm yellow light fell upon your face, a tavern in front of you that appeared cozy and welcoming. As you entered, you noticed a few other patrons, but the dining area and counter was mostly empty. A squat looking man was stacking dishware behind the bar counter as you took a seat.

He gave you a cursory glance with a raised eyebrow, you shifted to hide the fine fabric of your dress beneath the cloak you still wore. You pulled back your hood, wanting to be recognizable if Aemond passed the window searching for you.

"What can I get you?" The bartender asked in a gruff baritone, seeming not to care what brought you to his establishment so long as you had gold.

"Do you have hot tea? Or something non-alcoholic?" You asked. "I just came from the fire festival and had a bit too much to drink there."

"Ah I see!" The man smiled, his ruddy cheeks reflecting the candlelight. "Yes, I can get you some green tea brewed up. Does wonders for a hangover."

"Thank you."

Minutes passed, turning to hours as you sat at the uncomfortable wooden table. You drank several mugs of steaming earthy tea, enjoying the way it warmed your body from the inside out.

"Are ye waiting for someone?" The bartender looked at you quizzically, clearly wondering why you were remaining for so long. All the other patrons had left for their homes by now.

"Yes, my husband."

"You're lost?"

You shifted uneasily in your seat, casting him a wary glance.

He raised his hands, a towel draped over his shoulder. "I mean you no harm miss, but if you'd like directions, I can give them." He glanced outside at the dark streets. "Though perhaps it best if you wait here, it's not safe for anyone to be wandering about right now."

"Where am I?"

He chuckled looked at you with a fatherly smile. "Outskirts of Flea Bottom."

You groaned.

"Not where you intended to be I expect. Not wearing a dress like that."

You shifted your cloak to cover yourself better.

"You have nothing to fear from me." The keeper reiterated. "I'll not cast you out till your husband comes to fetch you."

"Thank you." You lay your head upon your hands, staring glassy eyed out the window, praying to all the gods Aemond would find you.

You had fallen into a doze, jolted awake by the sound of the inn door slamming open and the exclamation of the barkeep still behind his counter.

Aemond, glorious with his shining hair and piercing violet eye, strode into the tavern, his gaze locked onto you.

"My-my prince! What an unexpected..." The tavern keeper trailed off as he watched Aemond walking purposefully toward you.

You rose from your seat, throwing your arms around Aemond's neck as he pulled you against him, his hands at your back, stroking soothingly as he kissed your ear.

You tried your best not to sob. "Aemond, I got lost."

"You're the wife of Aemond Targaryen?"

The two of you broke apart to turn to the front of the room, where the keeper was bowing low.

"He helped keep me safe." You interlocked your fingers with Aemond's.

Your husband stepped up to the rough wood counter, depositing a bag of clinking coins onto its surface. "You have my gratitude."

The man continued to bow, averting his gaze. Aemond made a soft "hmm" in the back of his throat, guiding you out of the warm room into the cool night air.

You didn't get far before he pulled you to a stop, his taut face illuminated silver in the moonlight. "I've been searching for you for hours, Y/N."

"I-"

He held up a hand to stop you from speaking. "You were not in our rooms. So, I returned to the square as quickly as I could, asking anyone still outside if they had seen you."

You looked down at your feet guiltily as Aemond continued.

"Imagine my surprise when I find a man collapsed upon the ground, a stone beside him and a lump on his forehead."

"He...had ill intentions." You whispered, still studying your shoes.

"Hmm. A shame I left him alive then." Aemond's fingers hooked under your chin, pulling your face to look up at him. "However, that is how I found you sitting in that tavern."

You slowly moved forward, tentatively wrapping your arms around Aemond's waist. You could tell how worn and anxious he was, specks of blood still upon his tunic from the men he'd dispatched earlier that evening.

"Aemond, I'm sorry for getting lost. I...was panicking and a little drunk." You smiled weakly as his face softened, his lilac eye roving your features as you rubbed small circles to the small of his back.

"I had intended this to be a relaxing evening of fun." Aemond said, giving a short laugh of derision. He cupped your face in his hands. You noticed they shook slightly. "I was beside myself with worry, Y/N." He brushed his soft lips to yours gently. "This is not a place for a woman to wander alone."

"You have me safe now, Aemond."

"And safe is where I will keep you."

He kissed you firmly, slanting his mouth over yours, his fingers tangling in your hair as you made a soft noise against him. In the tension of his body against your own you felt how worked up he was from the events of the night, the intensity with which he kissed you promised bruised lips in the morning.

“If we weren’t in public right now I'd have my head between your legs."

"Aemond." You whispered, shocked, as you checked over your shoulder for anyone listening. The streets were luckily empty, though several windows were wide open.

"Come." The prince grasped your hand firmly in his and began leading you in the correct direction of the Red Keep.

You breathed a sigh of relief at the welcome sight of your chambers, lit with the orange glow of a blazing fire in the hearth that you immediately crossed to stand before, warming your hands.

Your large, clawed bathtub sat full of steaming water in the middle of the room.

Aemond came up behind you, wrapping his arms around your middle, his chin resting on your shoulder.

"I had the servants draw a bath for your return, we are fortunate it seems to still be hot."

You felt him beginning to loosen the ties of your dress. "Do you want me to stay?" He asked, nuzzling into your neck. "I'd understand if you need to be alone. It has been a...difficult evening."

"Please stay, Aemond. I need you with me, especially right now."

He kissed your neck and resumed undoing your dress. You smiled to yourself at his evident eagerness to see you laid bare before him.

The fabric of your dress and undergarments pooled around your feet, you leaned into Aemond's warm touch as he fondled the curves of your ass and hips with one hand, his other reaching around to stroke at your breasts.

You turned to him, allowing his gaze to roam your firelit body. "You are still covered in blood, my lord husband." Your wandering fingers began undoing the clasps of his own clothing, shedding each garment with tender care until he was as naked as you, his thick member already standing at attention.

You smiled coyly at him, allowing him to support your balance as you stepped into the hot water of the bath. You sank down into the silken water, scooting forward enough for Aemond to take his place behind you.

You pressed your back against him, your hands running along his legs as they caged your body, his arms wrapping around your torso.

"I'm just getting comfy." You murmured, leaning back so that your head rested against Aemond's chest, looking up at his adoring gaze.

He had removed his eyepatch, the sapphire gemstone glittering dazzlingly by the reflection of firelight against the water that now lapped against the edges of the wooden tub.

The two of you rested like this together, rubbing each other down with soap and wash cloths. You took your time cleansing Aemond's skin, feeling the knots in his tense muscles and kneading them loose, his eye fluttered shut at your loving attentions.

Only when the water had cooled and the two of you began to shiver, did you exit the bath, helping each other towel down until you were relatively dry. Aemond grabbed your waist, pulling you in for another scorching kiss, one of many he'd bestowed upon you that night.

"Lay on the bed for me."

You obeyed, perhaps misinterpreting his meaning as you wrapped yourself in your nightrobe before getting comfortable in bed. You watched Aemond from your cocoon of blankets as he busied himself trying to get the stains out of his tunic and undershirt.

"Aemond..." You called quietly, trying to entice him over with the lilt of your voice.

"The blood has set into the fabric long enough, Y/N. Give me a moment to try and lift it."

"Aemond." You wiggled beneath the covers, seeking to draw his gaze.

“Just let me finish this and I swear I'll go down on you until you cum at least three times.”

"If you don't come over here now, I'm going to start touching myself."

You knew just what to threaten.

With a growl, Aemond threw down his ruined shirt upon the sofa, striding to the bed and throwing the blankets off your body. "Take that off." His dilated eye took in your tantalizing curves wrapped up in your fluffy nightrobe.

"I'm cold."

"Do not tease me anymore this eve." Aemond crawled over your prone form, dragging his teeth along your bottom lip. "You heard me. Take. It. Off."

You undid the tie around your waist, shifting the fabric off, exposing yourself once more to your husband's eager touch. His fingers rolled your pebbling nipples, tugging at your flesh, eliciting a gasp of pleasure from your lips as you arched into him.

"Already so wet for me." Aemond murmured against your lips, his hand cupping your sex, feeling between your slick folds.

You gasped at the feeling of him exploring you. In a fluid motion, you rolled your entwined bodies over, shifting to sit on his torso, looking down at Aemond's face, his curved lips parted in surprise.

"I want to be on top." You could barely speak, so entranced you were at the sight of him laid beneath you, his silver hair spread out atop the pillows. "Let me do this, please."

You rocked your hips, feeling his hard arousal beneath you as you stroked your vulva along Aemond's shaft. His eyelid fluttered at the sensation, his hands rising to grip your hips as you lost yourself in the feeling of him.

"Don’t be shy now, sit on my face.”

Your mouth parted, Aemond tugged you a little forward by his grip on your hips. "Are-are you sure I won't suffocate you?"

Aemond laughed. "If you do, I couldn't think of a better way to go."

Heat pooled in your belly as you scooted forward, bracing your hands against the bedframe as you hovered on your knees over Aemond's face. "You're sure?"

"Y/N."

Aemond rose just enough to tease your entrance with his nose, nuzzling against your swollen clit. You gasped, lowered yourself rather gracelessly onto his angular face.

You quivered, feeling Aemond's tongue working against you as you rocked gently against him. His chin, his nose all pressed against your most sensitive parts. The wet sound of him lapping up your essence filled the darkened room.

"Oh Aemond." You gripped the bedframe tighter, making sure to not actually suffocate your husband with your cunt no matter how he tried to pull you more against his searching mouth, his fingers pressing deep against the flesh of your thighs.

He grunted, the vibration of his voice causing you to clench around the tip of his tongue as he fucked it into you. His nose continued pressing and rubbing against your clit, Aemond moving his whole face with your movements as you began to grind down on him, losing your self control.

His name spilled from your panting mouth, your climax rushing over you like waves upon the sea cliffs. Aemond drank you down eagerly, his tongue lapping you up as though you tasted of the finest wine. You rode out your orgasm on his face, your legs shaking as you lifted yourself off him, collapsing to the mattress as your husband rolled over you once more. His hair was a mess, his lips and chin soaked from your juices. You bit your bottom lip at the lewd sight, his eye tracking the movement.

Aemond kissed you, more gently than you had anticipated, his tongue searching your mouth, allowing you to taste your own release as he lined his cock to your entrance. You gripped the back of his head, gasping against him as he sunk slowly into you. Aemond's breath filled your lungs as his cock stretched you out deliciously, filling you until he was fully seated within your still quivering walls.

Aemond broke your kiss, pulling away enough to watch your face as he began rutting into you. His gentleness gave way to a rougher, more desperate pace, his cock brushing your cervix with every punishing stroke. You clung to him, your legs rising instinctively to allow him deeper access.

"Y/N." Aemond breathed your name like a prayer, his chest still flush against your own as he nibbled the shell of your ear. "I can feel you tightening around me." You cried out as he increased his pace still more, fucking you deep into the mattress. "I need you to come. Show me you're mine." His cock twitched inside you. "Mine alone to claim."

"I am yours, Aemond." You felt your second orgasm of the night begin to rush through your body, your spasming quim already beginning to milk his member. "Forever yours."

Your name, so sweet on Aemond's tongue, filled the night air, mingling with your wordless moans of ecstasy as your husband spilled his hot seed within your clenching cunt. He pushed himself as deep into you as he could, remaining rooted there until you had both come down from the high of your climax.

Your legs were shaking in earnest now, Aemond reluctantly pulled away, his cum spilling out of you onto the now ruined bedsheets. Exhausted, satiated, and heedless of the mess you'd made, Aemond pulled you against him, encasing you in his arms. He placed a kiss to the top of your head as you made a pillow of his chest, his legs still tangled with your own.

Sleep took you quickly, a lock of Aemond's silken hair wrapped around your forefinger as you had a habit of doing when seeking comfort.

Aemond lay awake for a long while after you had drifted off, his mind still alive with the fear and rage that had consumed him mere hours before. Bedding you had taken the edge off, however the many gruesome possibilities of what could have happened remained unbidden and unwelcome.

He held you tighter against his lithe body, feeling the reassuring rise and fall of your chest on his, the light snores emitting from your slack mouth. Eventually exhaustion overtook Aemond, his eye falling closed, his lips still pressed to your head even in sleep.

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