Heavy Hands — ten (Patreon)

Author's note: And just like that, it’s over. This story — their story — has finally come to an end. Writing Harry and Y/N has been such a wild, wonderful thing; they’ve lived in my head and heart for so long that saying goodbye feels wrong. Thank you to everyone who’s read, felt, and loved them alongside me. Your messages, theories, and quiet support made this journey what it was.

word count: 7.9K

This story contains mature themes, strong language, and adult content intended for readers 18+. Reader discretion is advised.

Steam swallowed the room whole. The mirror blurred, the walls blurred, even the bruises blurred — until all that was left was skin and heat and the sound of running water.

Harry’s head rested on her shoulder, the weight of him heavy but not unwelcome. His breath was uneven, misting against her collarbone before vanishing into the fog. Y/N’s fingers moved through his damp curls, slow and steady, coaxing the blood and the night out of him.

Neither of them spoke. There were no words big enough for what had happened, and no silence soft enough to hold it. Only this — warmth against cold, heartbeat against heartbeat.

The water ran down his back in thin red lines that turned to pink before disappearing down the drain. He winced once, but didn’t pull away. Instead, his hands found her waist, rough palms trembling just enough to remind her that he was still breakable.

She turned her head slightly, just enough for her lips to brush his temple. “it’s okay. we are safe” she whispered, though they both knew safe was a lie too fragile to stand.

Harry let out a sound — not quite a laugh, not quite a sob. “I don’t know what that means anymore.”

“It means you’re here,” she said.

He was quiet for a long moment. Only the water spoke — hissing, steady, merciful. Then, softly, almost like he was speaking to himself, he said, “I love you.”

The words hit her chest like impact.

He didn’t move, didn’t look up. “Didn’t even know what that was,” he went on, voice low, thick with disbelief. “All my life, people either wanted what I could do or hated what I’d done. Never this. Never… you.”

Y/N froze — not from fear, but from the weight of hearing something no one had ever said like that before.

“In the short time I’ve had you,” Harry continued, breath trembling against her skin, “I think I’ve learned every meaning of it. All the good and all the bad. You make me want to be someone who deserves the word.”

Her throat ached. She turned in his arms, pressing a hand against his chest, feeling the frantic rhythm underneath. “Harry…”

He shook his head, water running off his lashes. “If I die today,” he whispered, “I’ll die knowing what it was to be loved. What it felt like to have someone see me — and stay anyway.”

The words split her open — the tenderness, the finality, the quiet acceptance of a man who had lived too long waiting for punishment.

“Don’t say that,” she breathed. “Don’t talk about dying.”

He met her eyes then — green, glassy, fierce. “You don’t get to save me from it. But you already did something better.”

“What’s that?” she asked, voice breaking.

“You made me feel like I was worth saving.”

The water was still falling, the steam still thick, but suddenly the air felt sharper, heavier, real. She reached for him then — both hands framing his face — and kissed him. It wasn’t desperate this time. It was reverent. An answer, a promise, a plea.

When they finally broke apart, he rested his forehead against hers. “That’s all I ever wanted,” he said softly. “Just one person to see me before the world did.”

“Don’t say that,” she said, her voice shaking. “Don’t talk like it’s already over.”

He met her gaze, raw and unguarded. “It’s not over. But if it ever is — I need you to know.”

Her breath hitched. “You don’t get to be the only one who knows,” she said quietly. “I love you too, Harry.”

The words landed softly, but they burned all the same. His eyes closed. A small, disbelieving sound escaped his chest, and then he kissed her — slow, searching, like he wanted to memorize how truth felt on his tongue. The water cascaded down their skin, washing away the night, the blood, the fear — leaving only them.

When the kiss broke, she rested her forehead against his. They stayed there until the water turned lukewarm, until the air smelled more like soap than fear.

When they finally stepped out, Y/N wrapped a towel around him, then herself. The steam had softened his bruises, made them look less cruel. She reached up, traced the edge of the butterfly bandage on his temple.

“We need rules,” she said suddenly.

Harry blinked, like he hadn’t expected her to speak. “Rules?”

“For us.” She tightened the towel around her body, eyes fixed on his. “To keep each other safe. To keep this safe.”

He frowned. “You can’t make rules for a world that doesn’t follow them.”

“Then we’ll make them for us,” she said, firm. “It’s the only part we can control.”

He hesitated — then nodded. “Alright, love. Tell me.”

She thought for a second, then spoke slowly, deliberately:

“Rule one: You tell me before you do anything dangerous. No more disappearing.”

Harry opened his mouth to protest, but her stare cut him off. “Alright,” he said. “Rule one.”

“Rule two,” she went on, “you don’t get to lie to me. Ever. Not to protect me, not to make me sleep better. If I ask you something, I want the truth.”

His jaw worked. “That’s not easy in my world.”

“It’s not supposed to be.”

He nodded again, slower this time. “Rule two.”

“Rule three,” she said, voice softening. “If something goes wrong — if you can’t make it back — you text me one word. Blue. So I know you’re in danger.”

He studied her for a long moment. “You’ve been thinking about this.”

“I’ve been thinking about surviving.”

She met his eyes again. “Rule four: If I text Home? you answer within five minutes. No excuses.”

He smirked faintly, the corner of his lip twitching. “You sound like a drill sergeant.”

“I sound like someone who doesn’t want to lose you.”

That shut him up. He reached out, catching her hand, pulling her in until she stood between his knees. His towel slipped, but neither cared.

“Alright,” he murmured, voice thick, “my turn.”

She nodded.

“Rule five,” he said. “If I tell you to run, you run. No arguing. No heroics.”

Her lips pressed into a thin line, but she didn’t argue. “Fine. Rule five.”

He smiled — faint, tired, genuine. “Rule six. You don’t forget you’ve got a life outside of me. Classes, friends, the normal things. You keep them. Promise me that.”

Y/N looked at him for a long time, then nodded. “Rule six.”

He exhaled, the tension in his shoulders loosening just a little. “Look at us,” he said softly. “Making rules in a world that wants us gone.”

She leaned in, kissed the corner of his mouth. “Let them try.”

The lecture hall hummed with soft noise — pens scratching, laptop keys clicking, the faint buzz of the projector that had seen better years.

Y/N sat near the back, her notebook open to a page half-covered in doodles and stray words that had nothing to do with economic theory.

Her professor’s voice came in waves, distant and harmless. She nodded at the right times. Wrote down sentences she’d never read again. Pretended the world around her hadn’t changed.

The normality felt surreal — like trying on someone else’s life and pretending it fit.

The fluorescent light washed everyone in the same pale tint, but she still felt marked.

She looked out the window. Outside, the sky was a muted gray, and the wind was picking at the trees that lined the quad. It could’ve been any day.

That was the strangest part — how the world didn’t stop for love or blood or fear. It just… kept going.

Someone coughed. Someone laughed. Her phone buzzed once in her pocket, a soft vibration that made her stomach tighten before her brain reminded her it was probably just a reminder.

Her mind drifted — uninvited — to a week earlier, when Harry had met her parents.

It had been her idea.

“If we’re doing this, we’re doing it all the way,” she’d told him, and he’d laughed like it was a dare he wanted to lose.

Her mother had been waiting by the window before they’d even reached the door.

The moment Harry stepped inside, she’d taken him in the way only mothers can — in one long look that saw too much.

The tattoos. The posture. The scar along his cheek.

A lifetime of stories written in bruised ink.

Her mother’s smile had been polite. Her words, less so.

“So,” she’d said, voice tight with judgment wrapped in sugar, “you’re the man my daughter’s been so secretive about.”

Harry had smiled — that small, polite one he used when he was choosing peace over pride. “Yes, ma’am,” he’d said. “Guess that’s me.”

It wasn’t a bad meeting, not really. He’d said all the right things. Thank you for having me. You’ve got a beautiful home. The flowers out front look like something out of a painting.

But none of it mattered. Y/N had seen the decision settle behind her mother’s eyes before dessert — this man is trouble.

Later, when they’d left, her mother had pulled her aside at the door.

“You think you’re in love,” she’d whispered. “But love doesn’t survive men like that. They take, Y/N. That’s what they do.”

Y/N had smiled — small, tired, hers. “Maybe. But he never took anything I didn’t give.”

Her mother’s mouth had tightened. “You’re just like me when I was your age. Thinks she can fix what’s broken.”

And that’s when Y/N had said it — not loud, not cruel, but clear enough to echo in the space between them.

“I am here because I feel like it’s my obligation to introduce you to him, Mom. But not to obey you or anyone else. I won’t spend my life being quiet just because it makes other people comfortable.”

Her mother had blinked, like the words had slapped her harder than she expected.

Then she’d smiled that sad, familiar smile — the one that always meant you’ll understand when you’re older.

Y/N hadn’t looked back when she left.

Now, sitting in class with her pen tapping against the desk, she thought of that moment — the way Harry had squeezed her hand in the car after, silent, proud.

He hadn’t said a word about it, just kissed the inside of her wrist at the next red light and kept driving.

That was his language. The quiet things.

Her professor said something about marginal utility, and the class laughed in a way that made no sense to her.

Y/N smiled anyway, for show.

The phone buzzed again.

This time, a single word on the screen.

Outside

She exhaled through her nose, small smile tugging at her lips.

Not a threat. Not a code.

Just him.

A heartbeat in text form.

The sky was the color of wet concrete when Y/N left the lecture hall. The campus buzzed around her — laughter, sneakers on pavement, the faint sound of music from someone’s speaker bleeding through the noise.

It should’ve felt normal. But normal didn’t stick to her anymore.

She’d almost made it to the main path when a voice called from behind.

“Y/N.”

She didn’t need to turn to know who it was. That tone, polished, practiced, carrying the kind of confidence people mistake for power — belonged to only one person.

Liv.

Y/N turned anyway, slow and steady. Liv looked the same as always — the perfect kind of effortless. Hair smooth, nails glossy, lips painted in a shade that looked expensive and deliberate.

She was leaning against the low stone wall, arms crossed, phone in hand like a prop.

“I was wondering when you’d show your face again,” Liv said, her smile thin. “You’ve been… busy.”

Y/N met her gaze evenly. “Hi, Liv.”

“Hi,” Liv echoed, pretending sweetness and failing at it. “Still with him, I see.”

There it was — him spoken like a bruise.

Y/N’s mouth twitched. “If you’re referring to Harry, yes. Still with him.”

Liv laughed softly, shaking her head. “Unbelievable. I take you one time — one — and you end up acting like some tragic heroine in one of those cheap paperbacks he probably hides under his bed.”

“Maybe I just have better taste than you do,” Y/N said, tone even.

Liv’s smile sharpened. “Taste? Sweetheart, that man doesn’t love anyone. He’s broken. He collects girls like bad habits.”

Y/N tilted her head, calm. “And which one were you?”

The color drained from Liv’s face before she caught herself. “Excuse me?”

“You said he collects girls,” Y/N said simply. “So I’m asking which kind you were. A distraction? A charity case? Or just someone who wanted him to look at her long enough to feel real?”

Liv’s jaw tensed. “Careful.”

Y/N stepped closer, voice soft. “No. You don’t get to warn me. You think I don’t know what he is? You think I haven’t seen it — the scars, the nights he doesn’t sleep, the way he hates himself for every bruise he ever gave the world?”

She smiled then, small and tired. “I know him better than your version of him ever would’ve allowed.”

Liv scoffed, but it wavered. “You’re delusional. He’s using you. It’s what he does.”

Y/N shook her head. “Maybe. Or maybe I’m the first person who didn’t expect him to be anything else.”

That landed like a slap. Liv blinked, stunned. “You’ve changed.”

“Good,” Y/N said. “That was the point.”

Liv’s mask cracked for just a heartbeat, and Y/N saw the hurt underneath — the girl still angry at not being chosen, still believing that being unwanted meant being unworthy. It almost made Y/N pity her. Almost.

“He’ll ruin you,” Liv said quietly.

Y/N smiled — not cruelly, just knowingly. “Maybe. But at least I’ll know it’s my choice.”

She stepped past her then, the faint scent of Liv’s perfume trailing like a memory.

Behind her, Liv said, “You really think he loves you?”

Y/N stopped, half-turned. “I don’t think,” she said. “I know. And if you’d ever seen the way he looks at me, you’d know it too.”

Liv didn’t answer. Y/N didn’t wait for one.

Y/N’s pulse had only just slowed from the conversation with Liv when she saw him.

Harry was leaning against the car parked a few feet from the main building, sleeves rolled to his elbows, curls pushed back from his forehead. His eyes — even from that distance — were searching.

He looked out of place, the way danger always does against the backdrop of ordinary life.

Students glanced at him as they passed — the kind of glances you give to men who don’t belong in daylight. He didn’t notice any of them. He was watching the door.

The crowd of classmates spilled out in clusters, laughing, scrolling, heading toward coffee shops, dorms and cars. He caught sight of faces he half-recognized from stories Y/N had told him — the girl with the red backpack, the boy who always borrowed her notes — but not her.

Every minute she didn’t appear, his jaw tightened.

By the tenth, he was standing straight, hands in his pockets, already halfway to the entrance before the door swung open.

And then — there she was.

Hair a little wind-tangled, expression unreadable until she spotted him.

The second she did, her shoulders eased. That tiny shift was all it took for his breath to come back.

She barely made it three steps before he closed the distance.

“Hey,” she said, soft but steady.

He didn’t answer. Instead, in front of everyone, the students still milling about, the professor walking past, the world pretending not to look. Harry reached out, cupped her face, and kissed her.

Not like the kind of kiss meant to claim.

Like the kind that says I was worried.

It wasn’t long, but it was deep enough to stop the noise around them. When he pulled back, there was the faintest smile on his lips.

“I thought something happened,” he said quietly. “Your class got out twenty minutes ago.”

Y/N blinked, surprised. “You were waiting?”

“Course I was waiting.” His tone softened, a trace of exasperation threading through it.

“I ran into Liv,” she said.

That name alone made his eyes flicker — not with jealousy, but irritation. He didn’t ask for details. “You alright?”

“I’m fine,” she said. “Better, actually.”

He studied her for a beat longer, reading the truth in her posture — the square of her shoulders, the calm in her eyes. Then he nodded. “Good.”

She started to adjust the strap of her bag, but he took it before she could.

“Hey,” she protested.

“I’ve got it,” he said, slinging it over his shoulder like it weighed nothing. “You’re tired.”

She smiled, teasing. “What, trying to look chivalrous in front of my classmates?”

He shrugged. “Trying to look like someone who gives a damn. Let them see.”

Y/N rolled her eyes, but there was warmth behind it. “You know that kiss is going to be the topic of gossip for a week, right?”

“Then they’ll have something worth talkin’ about.”

She laughed — a real one this time — and threaded her fingers through his as they walked toward the car.

Some of her classmates still stared, whispering, curious. She didn’t care.

For the first time, she didn’t shrink under the attention. She stood taller. Let them see the man she’d chosen, and the girl she’d become because of him.

When they reached the car, Harry opened the passenger door for her, still carrying her bag.

She slipped inside, the smell of leather and cigarette smoke wrapping around her like familiarity.

As he rounded to the driver’s side, she caught his reflection in the glass — the small, soft grin that never reached anyone else.

The flat was quiet except for the sound of Y/N’s pencil scratching across paper.

She was stretched out on the rug, barefoot, surrounded by open books and half-finished notes. The late-afternoon light poured through the window in golden stripes that cut across the floor and her bare arm. She hummed softly under her breath — not a tune Harry recognized, but one he liked anyway.

He’d been standing in the doorway for a full minute, watching her, trying to figure out why his heart felt like it was too big for his ribs. She looked so normal. So alive. Like a future he hadn’t believed in before her.

Y/N didn’t look up. “You’re staring,” she said without pausing her writing.

“Can’t help it,” he said, voice rough. “You look… peaceful.”

“That’s a first.” She smirked a little, flipping a page. “Did you need something, or are you planning to lurk until I finish this paper?”

Harry shifted, rubbing the back of his neck. “I, uh… might’ve had an idea.”

“That sounds dangerous.”

“It’s not,” he said quickly — then hesitated, as if even he didn’t trust the words. “I was thinking maybe we could, you know…” He trailed off, watching her eyebrows lift, waiting for the ridicule that never came. “Go out.”

Y/N set her pencil down, amused. “Out?”

“Yeah. Dinner. Somewhere that isn’t the kitchen or the dodgy takeaway down the street. A proper date.”

The way he said date made her chest tighten — like the word was fragile in his mouth, like it had weight he wasn’t used to carrying.

“You’re serious?” she asked.

He shrugged, suddenly nervous. “I mean, I’ve never really… done that. Not the kind that isn’t a transaction or a lie. But I figured… maybe it’s time I try.”

Y/N rolled onto her side, chin propped in her hand, studying him. The light caught the faint scar at his jaw, the one she’d learned by touch. “You’re actually blushing,” she said softly.

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

He sighed, defeated, rubbing at the back of his neck again. “I just want to do it right. Take you somewhere nice. You deserve that.”

The words hit her deeper than he probably intended. She sat up, crossed her legs, and smiled. “Okay. Take me to dinner.”

He blinked. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” She reached for his hand, tugged until he sat on the floor beside her, books and papers scattering around them. “But only if you promise not to overthink it. We’ll just eat, talk, maybe pretend the rest of the world doesn’t exist for a couple of hours.”

“That sounds perfect,” he murmured.

Y/N tilted her head. “You’ll have to let me get ready first. And no, you can’t just wear your usual black shirt and call it fancy.”

Harry chuckled, low and embarrassed. “Guess I’ll need your help with that too.”

“You’re hopeless.”

She froze for half a second, then laughed — soft and disbelieving — and leaned forward to kiss him. “You’re getting good at this,” she murmured against his lips.

“Learning from the best,” he said.

When she pulled back, she nudged his shoulder playfully. “Now go. I’ve got a paper to finish, and if you keep distracting me, we’ll never get to that dinner.”

He stood, still holding her hand for a moment longer than necessary, before letting go. “Six o’clock,” he said.

“Six o’clock,” she echoed, watching him disappear down the hall.

And when the door clicked shut behind him, she smiled to herself — the kind of smile that belonged to people who had something to look forward to.

The restaurant was small — tucked into a narrow corner between a bookstore and a florist that had closed hours earlier. Golden light spilled through the windows, catching in the wine glasses, the soft hum of music filling the spaces between quiet conversations.

Harry had chosen it because it looked safe. Because it looked normal. Because he wanted, just for one night, to feel like the kind of man who could bring someone he loved somewhere like this without checking for exits first.

They had arrived six minutes later than expected, Y/N’s hair loose, lips soft pink, wearing a simple black dress that made the rest of the room fade. He forgot how to breathe for a second.

She smiled when she saw him. “You look nervous.”

“I am,” he admitted, pulling her chair out for her.

“You shouldn’t be. It’s me.”

“That’s exactly why,” he said, and it made her laugh — quiet, bright, effortless.

They ordered wine, even though Harry didn’t usually drink anything he couldn’t finish fast. They talked about small things at first — her professor’s weird obsession with microeconomics, a stray cat that had followed him home one night, the way London smelled different after rain.

Every time she smiled, it tugged at something deep in his chest — something he couldn’t name without breaking it.

Halfway through dinner, Y/N reached across the table, brushing his hand. “You’re quiet.”

“Just… watchin’,” he said.

“Watchin’ what?”

“You.” He said it simply, honestly. “Tryin’ to figure out how you do it.”

“Do what?”

“Make every fuckin’ thing around you look less ugly.”

She shook her head, flustered, but he wasn’t done. His voice softened, rough and reverent.

“When you walk in, the air changes. People talk quieter. I don’t know if you notice it. But I do.”

Her hand stayed on his. “You sound like a man in love.”

He smiled faintly. “That’s because I am.”

The words were easy this time — no hesitation, no apology. Just truth.

Dinner went on — slow, unhurried. Every laugh, every glance felt like a small rebellion against the world waiting outside.

And by the time they stepped back into the cool night air, the city lights looked different. Softer. Kinder.

They walked without talking. His hand found hers — not possessive, not tentative. Just right.

The city had gone quiet by the time they pulled onto the road — that late hour when even the traffic lights seemed too tired to rush anyone. Y/N leaned her head against the window, watching the glow of streetlamps blur into streaks of gold. The inside of the car smelled faintly of rain and the cologne he wore when he wanted to pretend he wasn’t nervous.

Harry drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the console between them. His thumb brushed the edge of her wrist, lazy circles that said more than words could manage.

He hadn’t stopped glancing at her since they’d left the restaurant — little looks, quiet ones, like he was afraid she’d vanish if he blinked too long

“You’re quiet,” she said softly.

He smiled without looking away from the road. “Just thinkin’.”

“About what?”

He hesitated, his mouth twitching like he wasn’t sure how to say it. “How good tonight felt. How easy you make things that shouldn’t be.”

She turned slightly, studying the way the headlights carved lines across his face. “That’s the point of a date, isn’t it?”

He huffed a quiet laugh. “Yeah. Guess it is.” A pause. Then, almost shyly, “Come home with me.”

Her eyebrows lifted. “Harry—”

“Just for the weekend,” he said quickly, eyes still on the road. “Stay with me. I don’t like the idea of droppin’ you off somewhere and pretendin’ I’m not gonna spend the next two days wonderin’ if you’re safe.”

Her heart did that thing it always did when he was vulnerable — clenched and expanded at the same time. “I thought that was already a given.”

That earned a small, genuine smile from him. He reached for her hand, fingers threading through hers easily. His thumb brushed her knuckles, slow, deliberate.

“Good,” he murmured. “’Cause I’ve got a few things planned for you.”

Her pulse jumped. “Planned?”

He glanced at her then, eyes dark but soft at the edges, voice dipping into that low register that always melted something inside her. “Yeah. Nothin’ bad. Just… things I want to do for you. To you. Things that need time.”

The words lingered in the air — tender, teasing, a promise wrapped in warmth. He brought her hand to his lips, kissed the back of it once, slow enough that it made her chest ache.

Y/N smiled, gaze flicking toward him. “You’re full of surprises tonight.”

Harry smirked. “Stick around, love. I might have a few more.”

Outside, the city gave way to darker streets — familiar ones that led to his flat. Inside the car, the silence between them thickened, heavy not with tension, but anticipation.

When he stopped at a red light, he glanced at her again, voice quiet, certain. “I like this. You. Us. Feels like somethin’ worth keepin’.”

She turned her palm in his, lacing their fingers tighter.

He didn’t reply. He didn’t need to. The light turned green, and he drove on — one hand still on the wheel, the other still holding hers like letting go wasn’t an option.

The moment he killed the engine in his driveway, the world went still and quiet. The only sound was the soft tick-tick-tick of the cooling car and the frantic drum of her own heart. He turned to her, unbuckling his seatbelt with a slow, deliberate click that echoed in the silence.

“Come here,” he said, his voice a low command that brooked no argument, yet was layered with a tenderness that made her ache.

She leaned across the console, and he met her halfway. His hand came up to cradle her jaw, his thumb stroking her cheek as his lips found hers. It wasn’t the soft, exploratory kiss from earlier. This was claiming. This was a prelude. His mouth moved over hers with a hungry intensity, his tongue sweeping past her lips to taste her, to claim the soft, wet heat of her mouth. She moaned into him, her hands coming up to grip the front of his shirt, fisting the soft material as she kissed him back with equal fervor.

He broke the kiss just as suddenly, both of them breathing heavily, their foreheads resting together. His eyes were black with want, his pupils blown wide. “I’ve been thinking about that all night,” he breathed, his voice ragged. “About getting you alone. About finally getting my hands on you without an entire restaurant watchin’.”

He didn’t wait for a response. He slid out of the car, came around to her side, and opened her door. He didn’t just offer a hand; he leaned in, undid her seatbelt with a swift, practiced motion, and gathered her into his arms, lifting her out as if she weighed nothing. She gasped, clinging to his shoulders as he carried her up the walkway, never breaking stride.

He shouldered the front door open and kicked it shut behind them, the sound a final, definitive thud that sealed them in their own private world. He didn’t put her down. Instead, he pressed her back against the closed door, the wood cool through her thin dress. His body was a solid, warm wall against hers, pinning her in place.

“Harry,” she whispered, her voice trembling.

“Shhh,” he murmured, nuzzling into her neck, inhaling deeply.

His lips found the frantic pulse at the base of her throat, and he sucked gently, drawing a soft, broken sound from her. His hands slid down her sides, mapping the curve of her waist, the swell of her hips, before gripping her thighs and hiking her up higher against the door. Her legs instinctively wrapped around his waist, pulling their bodies into an even more intimate alignment. She could feel the hard, insistent ridge of his arousal pressing against the very center of her, even through their clothes, and a fresh wave of slick heat pooled between her legs.

He groaned, a raw, guttural sound, and rocked his hips against her once, a slow, deliberate grind that made her head fall back against the door with a soft thud. “Fuck,” he breathed against her skin.

One of his hands slid from her thigh, skimming up her side, leaving a trail of fire in its wake. His fingers found the strap of her dress and tugged it down her shoulder, his mouth following, his lips and tongue painting a wet, hot trail across her collarbone. He reached the neckline of her dress, his fingers dipping beneath the fabric.

His mouth was a brand on her skin, hot and wet and devouring. He sucked her nipple deep, his tongue lashing the tight peak until she cried out, her fingers tangling in his hair, holding him to her. The sensation was sharp, bright, a delicious ache that coiled straight to the core of her. He groaned against her, the vibration tearing another ragged moan from her throat.

He switched to her other breast, giving it the same relentless attention, his free hand pinching and rolling her neglected nipple between his thumb and forefinger. The dual assault was overwhelming, maddening. She was melting against the door, held up only by his solid body and the press of his hips.

When he finally pulled back, her breasts were glistening in the low light, her nipples hard, aching beads. His eyes were pure fire, dark with a hunger that made her shiver.

“I want to be rough with you tonight,” he said, the words a low, gravelly promise that wasn’t a question. His voice was stripped raw, all pretense of gentleness gone, replaced by a stark, thrilling honesty. “I’ve thought about it. All week. How I’d finally get my hands on you. How I wouldn’t have to be gentle.”

His hand came up, his thumb brushing her lower lip, a surprisingly tender contrast to his words. “I need to know you want that, too. I need to hear you say it.”

Her heart hammered against her ribs. The raw need in his voice, the vulnerability beneath the command, undid her completely. “Yes,” she breathed, the word barely audible.

His eyes searched hers. “Yes, what, love?”

“Yes, I want it. I want you. However you need me.” The admission felt like shedding a skin, terrifying and liberating.

A slow, predatory smile spread across his face. It was the most beautiful, terrifying thing she’d ever seen. He lowered her until her feet touched the floor, but he didn’t step back. He caged her against the door, his arms on either side of her head.

“Good girl,” he murmured, the praise sparking a fresh wave of heatlow through her. “Now. I want to watch you. Strip for me.”

Her breath hitched. “Here?”

“Right here.” His gaze was unwavering, intense. “I want to see every inch of you come undone just for me. Slow. Take your time.”

His command was absolute. Her fingers, which moments before had been clutching at him, now felt clumsy as they went to the thin strap of her dress still dangling on her arm. She pulled it up, then slowly, shakily, reached for the zipper at the side of her waist. The sound of it sliding down was obscenely loud in the quiet room.

Harry’s eyes never left her, drinking in every tiny movement, every slight tremor. His own arousal was a palpable force between them, a thick tension that made the air hard to breathe.

She pushed the dress from her shoulders, letting it slide down her body in a whisper of fabric until it pooled at her feet. She stood before him in just her lace panties and heels, her skin prickling under his scorching appraisal.

“Keep going,” he commanded, his voice thick.

She hooked her thumbs into the sides of her panties, her face flushing under his intense stare. She bent, just slightly, to push them down her legs, and she heard his sharp intake of breath. She stepped out of them, kicking them aside with her foot, leaving her in only her sleek, high heels.

She straightened, completely bare to him, her arms hanging loosely at her sides. She felt utterly exposed, utterly his.

“Fuck,” he breathed, the word full of reverence and sheer want. His eyes traveled over her, from her pink skin between her legs, up over the flat plane of her stomach, her heaving breasts, to her flushed face. “You are a vision.”

He didn’t touch her. He just looked, his gaze like a physical caress, heating every inch of skin it touched. The anticipation was its own exquisite torture. She could feel the slick warmth gathering between her thighs, a desperate, aching emptiness begging to be filled.

“Touch yourself,” he said, his voice dropping even lower.

Her eyes widened. “Harry…”

“You heard me. Show me how wet you are for me. Show me what my voice does to you.”

Her hand trembled as she brought it down, sliding down her skin. She gasped as her own fingers found her clit, already swollen and sensitive. She circled it once, twice, a soft moan escaping her lips.

“Look at me while you do it,” he growled.

Her eyes, which had fluttered shut, snapped open to meet his. The intensity there was nearly unbearable—a mix of raw lust and something deeper, something possessive and fiercely proud. She kept her eyes locked on his as she slipped two fingers inside herself, a low cry torn from her throat at the sensation.

“That’s it,” he encouraged, his own hand dropping to the front of his trousers, palming himself through the fabric with a rough groan. “God, look at you. So fucking perfect. Doing exactly what I say.”

He watched her fingers move, his jaw tensing with every breath she took, every soft whimper she made. He was feeding off her pleasure, using it to stoke his own. The power dynamic was intoxicating; she was putting on a show for him, but he was the one unravelling, his control stretched to its absolute limit.

After a moment that felt like an eternity, he stepped forward. His hand wrapped around her wrist, pulling her slick fingers from her body. He brought them to his mouth, his green eyes holding hers captive, and sucked her taste from them, his tongue swirling around her fingertips. The act was so primal, so filthy, it made her knees weaken.

“Enough teasing,” he growled, releasing her hand. “On your knees.”

His command was a low rumble that vibrated through the floorboards, through the soles of her heels, and straight into her soul. On your knees. The words weren't a request; they were a fundamental shift in the universe, and her body obeyed before her mind could even process them. Her knees met the polished hardwood floor with a soft thud, the position making her feel acutely small and breathtakingly exposed. He loomed above her, a tower of dark intent and coiled power, his green eyes like embers in the shadowed room. He unbuttoned his trousers, the sound of the zipper descending a rasping promise. He freed himself, and her breath caught. He was thick and hard, the tip already glistening. The sheer size of him sent a fresh, liquid heat coursing through her.

He didn't guide himself to her mouth. Instead, he fisted his hand in her hair, not roughly, but with a firm, undeniable ownership that made her whimper. He held her there, letting her look, letting the anticipation build until it was a physical ache in her jaw, a hollow need in her throat.

“Open,” he murmured, his voice thick.

She parted her lips, her tongue darting out to wet them, and he groaned at the sight. He guided himself forward, the broad head nudging against her mouth. She took him in, the taste of him—clean, salt, purely male—flooding her senses. He let her set the pace for a moment, letting her get used to the feel of him stretching her lips, the weight of him on her tongue.

But his control was a thin veneer. Soon, his hips began a shallow, rhythmic push, fucking her mouth with a slow, deliberate pace that was both possessive and worshipful. His grip in her hair tightened, just enough to remind her who was in charge. She relaxed her throat, taking him deeper, the sounds of her efforts, the soft, wet sucks and guttural moans, seeming to spur him on.

“That’s it, love,” he praised, his voice strained. “Take me. Just like that. Fuck, your mouth…”

He thrust a little deeper, a little harder, and she felt him hit the back of her throat. Her eyes watered, but she didn't pull away. The slight struggle, the trust it required, the sheer submission of it, sent a jolt of pure arousal straight to her core. She was dripping now, a slick, warm emptiness throbbing between her legs, all for him.

With a final, guttural groan, he pulled himself from her mouth, a string of saliva connecting them for a brief, obscene moment. He was breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling.

“Up,” he commanded, his voice ragged. He didn’t wait for her to rise on unsteady legs. In one swift, powerful motion, he hooked his hands under her arms and hauled her up, then lifted her completely, carrying her the few steps to his large bed.

He laid her down in the center, her body sinking into the soft duvet. The contrast of the cool cotton against her feverish skin was a shock. Before she could even process it, he was over her, one hand pinning her wrists above her head. He held them there with an effortless strength that made her gasp.

With his free hand, he reached for the post of his wrought-iron headboard. A soft, leather cuff she hadn’t even noticed was there was secured around one of her wrists, then the other, the buckles clicking shut with a finality that made her heart hammer against her ribs. She was tethered. Exposed. Completely his to do with as he pleased.

A thrill of pure, unadulterated fear and excitement shot through her. “Harry…”

He leaned down, his lips brushing her ear. “I told you I had plans,” he whispered, his breath hot. “I’m going to take my time with you. I’m going to ruin you for anyone else.” He kissed her, deep and claiming, before pulling back to look at her, his gaze burning with a possessive fire. “You’re mine this weekend. Every sigh. Every moan. Every fucking scream. It all belongs to me.”

He trailed a hand down her body, over her trembling stomach and she arched off the bed, a silent plea on her lips. But he didn’t give her what she needed. Instead, he positioned himself between her spread legs, his own arousal pressing hot and heavy against her inner thigh.

He reached down and guided himself, the blunt, slick head of his cock teasing her entrance. He rubbed himself through her wetness, circling her clit once, twice, making her cry out and strain against the cuffs. The leather bit gently into her wrists, a constant reminder of her helplessness.

“Please,” she begged, the word torn from her. “Harry, please.”

“Please what, love?” he teased, his voice a low, wicked taunt. He pressed forward, just an inch, the stretch exquisite, maddening. He held himself there, making her feel every millimeter of him, the promise of what was to come. “You want this?”

“Yes,” she sobbed, her hips trying to buck against him, to force him deeper, but he held himself still, a master of torture.

“You want me to fuck you?” he growled, his own control clearly fraying, a vein throbbing in his neck.

“God, yes! Please, fuck me, Harry. I need it. I need you.”

Her raw, desperate plea was his undoing. With a groan that was pure surrender, he drove into her in one long, smooth, perfectly brutal thrust, burying himself to the hilt.

The air left her lungs in a rush. She saw stars. He filled her so completely, stretching her, claiming her, the sensation so intense it bordered on pain before blossoming into the most profound pleasure she’d ever known. She screamed, a raw, unfiltered sound of pure ecstasy.

He stilled for a moment, buried deep, his forehead dropping to hers, his breathing ragged. “Christ,” he panted. “You feel… you feel like fucking home.”

Then he began to move.

He set a punishing pace from the start, each withdrawal a sweet agony, each thrust a devastating impact that shook the bed frame. He fucked her with a single-minded intensity, his hips pistoning, his body slapping against hers. The sounds were filthy, wet, and primal. Her moans, his groans, the creak of the bed, the soft jingle of the cuffs against the post.

He was everywhere. The scent of his skin, the taste of him still on her tongue, the sight of his powerful body moving over hers, the feel of him pounding into her very core. It was overwhelming. She was completely at his mercy, and the freedom of that surrender was the most potent aphrodisiac.

“You take me so well,” he grunted, his voice strained with the effort of holding back. “So fucking perfect. All mine.” He reached between them, his thumb finding her clit, and pressed down, circling in time with his thrusts.

The dual sensation was too much. The coil that had been tightening in her belly since he first kissed her in the car snapped. A orgasm ripped through her, violent and all-consuming. Her back arched off the bed as much as the cuffs would allow, a broken, endless cry tearing from her throat, her inner muscles clenching his cock in a rhythmic, milking spasm.

He fucked her through it, his movements becoming even more ragged, more desperate. “That’s it, come for me,” he growled, his own release clearly imminent. “Come on my cock. Fuck, yes…”

Just as her own climax began to end, he gave one final, deep thrust and held it, his body going rigid above hers. A raw, guttural roar was torn from his chest as he came, pulsing deep inside her, flooding her with his warmth. She felt the hot rush of him, the most intimate claiming, and a secondary, weaker pulse of pleasure shuddered through her.

He collapsed on top of her, his weight a welcome anchor, his face buried in her neck. His breath came in hot, ragged pants against her skin. They were both slick with sweat, breathing in the same heavy, spent air. The only sound was their racing hearts slowing to a syncopated rhythm.

After a long moment, he shifted his weight, pushing himself up on his elbows to look down at her. His green eyes were soft now, the fierce possessiveness replaced by a dazed, sated warmth. He gently brushed the hair from her damp forehead.

“Okay?” he asked, his voice hoarse.

She could only nod, her own voice gone, lost to the sheer physical cataclysm of him.

He smiled, a slow, tender curl of his lips that made her heart clench. He leaned down and kissed her, softly this time, a gentle contrast to the frantic claiming of before. Then he shifted again, his hands going to the cuffs. He unbuckled them with care, his thumbs stroking the faint red marks on her wrists before bringing each one to his lips for a soft, apologetic kiss.

He rolled off her, gathering her into his arms, pulling her against his side so her head rested on his chest. She could hear the strong, steady beat of his heart under her ear. He tucked the duvet around them both.

They lay there in silence for a while, the only sound their slowing breaths. The tension had shattered, replaced by a deep, glowing satisfaction that seeped into her bones.

Just as her eyelids began to grow heavy, his voice rumbled beneath her ear, quiet and rough at the edges.

“Didn’t think I’d ever get to keep something good,” he said, almost to himself.

Y/N smiled against his skin, the faint taste of salt still on her lips. “Maybe you finally stopped running from it,” she murmured.

He huffed a small laugh, one that vibrated through her cheek. “If I did, it’s only ‘cause you were stubborn enough to stay.”

“Then I’ll keep staying.” Harry’s hand slid over hers, anchoring her against the steady rise and fall of his chest.

And in that stillness — the space between heartbeat and sleep — it didn’t matter what waited outside.

For now, there was only this: the quiet weight of him beside her, the rhythm of something fragile but real, and the simple, stubborn miracle of being loved back.