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artificialqueens · 4 years

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before the sunrise (branjie) - holtzmanns

(read on ao3) | (tumblr: plastiquetiaras) | word count: 2648

AN: Wrote this little drabble as a break from ANOTHER drabble (which is way longer than a drabble now) that I had originally started to take a break from my WIPs. I’ve been feeling like I’m stuck in a rut lately and Writ is the best for prompting this to me and cheering me on to get me out of it. I appreciate them the MOST. And they beta-ed this too, who could ask for more? Thank you for all the sweet lovely feedback on my current fics. It makes me happier than you know.

Night shifts aren’t that bad, really.

The convenience store is empty most of the time. Quiet. The rows lined with snacks and packaged food sit untouched, acting as Brooke’s only companions between the hours of 11 p.m. and 7 a.m. in the morning.

Brooke had taken the job because ballet expenses and the rent of her shitty downtown apartment don’t pay for themselves. Four months in with night shifts, it’s not too unmanageable. She has a pepper spray bottle in the pocket of her jeans and a heightened sense of awareness towards the windows and doors, watching those who pass by for any sense of possible danger.

But it’s calm. She spends most of her nights manning the register, holding back yawns. Listening to a podcast over the overhead speakers because there’s no one else there to complain that the store isn’t playing the latest top 40 hits.

Most of the time, she’s just bored.

She has her occasional regulars, people to talk to when the dead of night becomes a little too quiet. The mom of a newborn who lives across the street and comes in around 2 a.m. with her baby in tow, trying to get him back to sleep as she rocks him while she walks. The McDonald’s employee who comes by during his break to grab a pack of cigarettes every couple of days. The businessman who leaves work late enough that he never interacts with his family during the day, preferring to grab a packet of beef jerky for a makeshift dinner. The store also gets its fair share of those who’ve drank a little too much at the bar a few doors down, gotten themselves worked up. Though she’s able to redirect them, send them on her way after filling their hands with snacks.

No one has really stood out to Brooke, made her look twice just yet as she checks them out at the register. That is, until 4 a.m. on a Tuesday night when it’s raining a little too hard outside the dingy windows.

“A place actually open? Fucking finally!”

Brooke’s not sure whether the statement is uttered by a customer or a drowned rat, by the sight of the woman who’s just walked in the front door. Her hair is soaking wet and heavy on her shoulders, her makeup smudging by her eyes and making her look like she has raccoon-esque dark circles.

Brooke watches in amusement as the woman strolls up the counter, slamming both of her hands onto the table and rocking back and forth on her heels.

“Can I help you with something?” Brooke doesn’t put on much of a customer service voice for the woman, distracted by the way she seems to be shaking the drops of water from her hair onto the counter.

“I moved here about-” The woman pauses, checking her watch, ‘-eighteen hours ago. Forgot about dinner, no big. But my stomach is growling and it’s gonna be breakfast time at this rate, and what I’m saying is I need a snack or imma truly lose my shit while tryna unpack.”

“Why are you up so late?” Brooke takes a proper look at the woman, sees her baggy shirt and shorts and rain soaked skin and the way she’s slightly shivering.

“Too much energy. Couldn’t fall asleep ‘cause I started unpacking a little. And now I’m hungry.” The woman shrugs, taking a step back to look at the shelves. “You got anything good?”

“We have some microwaveable meals, if you want-”

“Nah.” The woman waves a hand. “My microwave ain’t unpacked yet. That’s a project for tomorrow. How ‘bout snacks?”

Brooke comes around the side of the counter because fuck it, it’s 4 a.m. and it’s highly unlikely that any other customers will be coming by anytime soon. The woman’s lips part slightly, looking up at Brooke once she’s beside her, and Brooke realizes just how short the woman is.

It’s adorable.

Nonetheless, Brooke points to the aisle beside them. “Got some trail mixes and chips over here, if that’s what you’re into. Some jerky, over there. Some dry cereal in that aisle, over there?”

The woman’s eyes light up at seeing the cereal on the top shelf. “Fuck, I haven’t had Fruit Loops in ages. That’s my dinner.”

Brooke wrinkles her nose. “Fruit Loops for dinner?”

The woman shrugs. “Hey, it’s got fruit. That’s healthy, right?”

“Well-”

“Dang, I can’t reach.” The woman huffs after she tries to jump, get her hand to graze the top shelf, the Fruit Loops just out of her grasp. Brooke tries to hold back a laugh at the way her brow furrows.

“Can you…?” The woman looks at Brooke sheepishly, pointing at the box.

Brooke grabs the box without having to reach too far. “I got you.”

“A giraffe. Thank you.” The woman grabs the box with a grin that lights up her entire face, and Brooke can’t stop herself from returning it.

“I think we have some milk in the refrigerated section too, if you wanted-”

“Nah.” The woman scoffs. “Fruit Loops are best right out of the box, baby.”

It’s after the woman leaves with a wave, when Brooke’s brain is replaying the way she said ‘baby’ over and over and over in her head, when she realizes that she’d forgotten to ask the woman her name.

Brooke doesn’t see the woman for another week, her night shifts a boring haze that seem to blur together. She’s tired, real tired, from the exertion she’s putting her body through during the day with dancing, her muscles tugging and straining as she rolls out her shoulders and puts away inventory. She has to hold back a yawn as she opens yet another box, wanting nothing more than to head home and have a proper night of sleep.

She knows this job isn’t sustainable in the long term, that she has to find something else. But it’s convenient, and the night shifts pay a little bit more by the hour than the day shifts do, and her apartment isn’t rent controlled and there’s no way she’s moving back home anytime soon.

So, night shifts for now it is.

The clock hits 2 a.m. as Brooke fiddles with her phone, too out of it to sort through the register or clean a little or even pretend to look like she’s doing work. She’s watching the recording of the run through of the latest show that her company’s going to put on, going over the steps from one of the acts in her head, as if the mental exercise will help solidify it once she has to go to practice in the morning.

Hey, it’s worth a shot.

She nearly drops her phone when the door to the store slams open, hitting against the wall, and her heart’s about to jump out of her chest before she realizes that it isn’t someone trying to rob the store, or anyone intimidating. No one that she’s need to pull out her pepper spray for.

No, it’s the woman from last week. Looking a lot less damp and still as adorable in a t shirt dress that could very well be her pyjamas.

“It’s you!” The woman perks up when she sees her at the register, waltzing over to lean against the counter like she did last time. “Haven’t seen you here the last couple days.”

“Have you been coming in the daytime?”

The woman nods, and Brooke shrugs. “I only work nights.”

“Ooh, a woman of the night.” The woman winks and Brooke has to hold back a snort.

“I’m not sure that means what you think it means.”

The woman remains unfazed, still grinning at Brooke. “I like my definition better, if I’m being honest.”

“I’m sure you do.” Brooke leans against the counter too, a smidge closer to the woman, notices the way the woman’s eyes widen a bit. “So, what brings you back?”

“Out of Fruit Loops. Also ‘cause I didn’t see you during the day and was wondering whether I had made up a six foot tall glamazon cashier all in my head.”

“Real, and here in the flesh. As I am most nights.” The store seems more like a bedroom to her than her actual bedroom does, considering how much time she’s been spending here.

“Good to know. Guess I’ll have to come visit more often, then.” The woman winks at her and Brooke’s not sure, really, if she’s flirting with her, because who else would voluntarily come to a seedy convenience store in the middle of the night?

So, Brooke’s gonna lean into it. Even if she’s not 100% sure on the woman’s signals. “I’ll look forward to it, that’s for sure.”

“Good…” The woman looks down, trying to search for something, and… is she looking at Brooke’s boobs? Brooke’s about to comment before-

“You ain’t got a name tag or something?”

“Oh.” Brooke feels herself turning red, any moments of suaveness dissipated. “Brooke. And nah, they don’t bother, considering the employee turnover rate.”

The woman looks unfazed. “Cute. I like it.”

She starts picking up the snacks she’s dropped on the counter, and Brooke frowns. “You’re not gonna tell me yours?”

“Vanjie. But you can call me Vanessa.” The woman, Vanessa, flips her hair over her shoulder, and Brooke has to hold back a grin, because now she can tell, she really can, that the woman’s giving her signals.

She likes it.

Vanessa comes back every couple of days after that, buying snacks, sticking around to talk more often than not.

Brooke learns that Vanessa’s moved from Tampa, a makeup artist in town for a few months while she’s working on a project that’s filming in the city. She hates the cold and rainy weather so far, but doesn’t mind the humidity. She’s brought her dog with her while in town, and pulls her phone out excitedly to show Brooke pictures of him.

“If you think I’m not going to have a meltdown over how cute he is, you’re absolutely wrong.” Brooke can’t help the way she scrunches up her hands, the way her face pouts a little, because Riley is indeed adorable. “You should bring him by sometime.”

“Maybe I will, tomorrow, if he’s not snoring away.” Vanessa tucks her phone into her pocket, dipping her hand into the bag of chips that she’s just bought, before holding it out to Brooke. “What about you, got any pets?”

Brooke grabs a handful before answering. “Kitties. Two of them.”

Brooke pulls out her own phone to show Vanessa, whose voice becomes adorably high pitched as she flips through Brooke’s camera roll, cooing at the pictures of them all cuddled up to her.

“This is the cutest shit I’ve ever seen, are you kidding?” Vanessa gasps when she sees a picture of Brooke holding both cats up in her lap. “Stop. This is the best thing ever.”

A throat clear behind them makes both of them jump, turn around, to see a slightly dishevelled man holding a package of toilet paper in one hand and Pepto Bismol in the other. “Hi, uh, can I check out?”

Brooke chances a glance over at Vanessa and has to avert her eyes immediately to keep herself from cracking up right then and there. She takes a deep breath before looking up to face the man again, and can see how positively green he looks. “I can help you at the register, sir.”

Brooke manages to keep it together until the man lets the door close behind him and he’s out of earshot. She peeks over at Vanessa, who bursts out laughing.

“That much Pepto? Shit, he probably going through it tonight!” Vanessa’s bent over in half, cackling, and Brooke can’t help but join her.

“Oh god. I bet it’s coming out of both ends.”

“Nasty. A shitty problem to have, wouldn’t you say?” Vanessa looks over at her, eyes twinkling at her, and Brooke snickers.

“And that was a shitty pun.”

“You liked it.” Vanessa nudges her, hops up onto the counter, and the motion fills Brooke with a sense of ease, an untangling in her chest, from the way Vanessa does it so casually. Like they’re friends now, like their regular hangouts at the store are for more than Vanessa just buying some snacks.

She hopes Vanessa doesn’t have to move back any time soon.

It’s 5:30 a.m. on a Sunday night and Brooke’s tired. It’s quiet, more so than it usually is, and Brooke can’t help the way she lifts her eyes up every so often, peeking at the door, looking for a certain someone.

Vanessa hasn’t come by the store in days. Brooke had gotten used to her, had enjoyed passing the time by cracking jokes and fooling around and learning more and more about her. Telling Vanessa in turn about her ballet training, how badly she wants to make principal dancer eventually.

Vanessa had listened, asked questions. Let her ramble about her financial stress and ballet stress and work stress and it’s nice, really, because Vanessa understood it too.

So Brooke misses her.

She knows that Vanessa’s had a busy week at work, that the television show she’s working on has had longer hours than usual. Still, she can’t help the way she peeks at the door, waiting.

The watch on her wrist creeps past 6:30 a.m. and Brooke only has half an hour of her shift left to go and she’s thankful, because she needs a nap before practice today. She’s about to drop her head onto the counter for some quick shut eye when the door slams open, in a way that only Vanessa can do.

“Brought you coffee.” Vanessa holds up a cup and grins, handing it over, and the first sip of caffeine is practically heavenly.

“You absolute godsend.” Brooke takes a second sip, then a third, before putting the cup down.

Vanessa puts out a hand in front of her from grabbing the cup again. “Slow down, you. Don’t wanna burn your tongue.”

“I want caffeine, though.”

“True, who needs taste buds, anyway?” Vanessa reaches over, grabbing her hand, tugging her around the side of the counter like she usually does. “Help me pick out a morning snack.”

Brooke grabs another box of Fruit Loops from the top shelf because Vanessa’s gotten her into them, too. Vanessa’s squeal of delight makes the extra sugar worth it.

Vanessa cracks the box open on the counter after she pays, shoving her hand in to grab a handful. She holds the box out towards Brooke, who grabs some too.

The tail ends of Brooke’s shifts always bring in a hint of sunlight, rays that catch in the glass of the windows as they start to rise. Dawn is Brooke’s favourite part of her shift. When the darkness starts to leave, when the rows upon rows of snacks aren’t illuminated just by fluorescents anymore.

Vanessa in the light of day has a gentle glow to her, the sunlight hitting her skin in shades of gold. She’s beautiful, even as she munches down Fruit Loops like her life depends on it.

Brooke’s about to ask her what her day holds when Vanessa reaches into her pocket, pulling out a folded piece of paper. An old receipt? Brooke can feel her brow furrowing as Vanessa holds it out to her.

“Think there was something on one of my old receipts earlier. Can you look at it?” Vanessa’s eyes are sparkling and Brooke doesn’t understand why as she unfolds it, before…oh.

A phone number.

Vanessa’s phone number.

“You mighty cute in the nighttime. Care to hang out with me in the light of day?” Vanessa reaches out, interlaces their fingers, like she already knows what the answer will be.

“Know any good breakfast spots?”

#rpdr fanfiction #branjie #brooke lynn hytes #vanessa vanjie mateo #fluff #drabble #lesbian au #holtzmanns

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secret-rendezvous1d · 6 years

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For When You’re Missing Me.

NO REQUEST.

This is just something that the smut side of my brain decided to spring upon me, late at night, having stumbled upon a particular video that sparked the idea. My first piece of smut writing for 2018 (I know it’s almost mid-2018 but... deal with it) and, hopefully, the first of many, many more to come this year. Some WIPs that I’ve been working on and have been sitting in my drafts for some time, some new stories that conjure up in my brain, some old requests that have been sitting in my inbox for months and months, and some stories I’ve been promising for a while but haven’t quite gotten around to writing yet.

I’m trying out something new with this piece. Smut is usually a very quick scene that I write. Limited detail. Rushed in some areas. When it comes to smut, the dialogue side of things is something that I’m not so good with, so I hope this suffices and doesn’t make the story too... cringe.

WARNING: THIS IS A MATURE PIECE OF WRITING. PURE SMUT. ALL FILTH. SOME MATURE LANGUAGE USED AND MATURE SCENES. PLEASE READ IF YOU ARE COMFORTABLE WITH READING THAT KIND OF STORY.

Feedback would be insanely appreciated.

IDEA BASED ON THIS VIDEO, HERE.

Word Count; 12k+ (what the hell?)

Enjoy. xx

Harry loved his job.

He loved that he was living the dream that he had as a child. The dream he told his mother about, the dream that his father was willing to help pursue, the dream that his grandparents became the biggest supporters of, the dream that his sister never made fun of him for and the dream that his friends always spoke so positively about. When teachers at school asked him what he wanted to be when he grew up, what he wanted to do when he left school, he would tell them he wanted to be a singer. A performer who was known for the good times he threw in front of thousands of fans every night, in venues that his idols performed in and in venues that held hundreds of people, working his way to the top until he was performing in front of thousands and thousands of fans. Like a future Mick Jagger. The modern day Elvis Presley. The male version of Stevie Nicks. A singer who wanted to be known for singing his favourite songs, for supporting the biggest campaigns and participating in charity events that were broadcast all over the UK, singing his own songs, putting across strong messages and creating an atmosphere that people enjoyed being in, that they felt safe in; because he’d been to concerts as he grew up and he’d been to places that had live bands and live musicians showcasing their own work and he wanted to do that, too.

He loved that his dream career had become his full-time career. In the space of 5 years, he’d gone from someone who worked in a bakery on Saturday’s and studied during weekdays to someone who was receiving number one singles and awards that he had earned with his friends and cracking every continent on the planet. No longer having to sing on a karaoke machine in the living room and no longer driving his family insane from singing the same song on repeat, no longer having to participate in school talent shows with White Eskimo, no longer having to ask people for the truth about how good they thought he was because he had the stamp of approval from one of music’s highest moguls, no longer being asked to perform at family or friend’s or family friend’s weddings and social gatherings during a twenty-minute slot assigned for entertainment, and no longer needing to work hard to be seen by a talent scout that his school had brought by or to be noticed by someone who might offer him the chance of a lifetime because it as clear that he was already there. He was at the top of the chain of musicians, in a band that was widely spoken about and had become a household name, up at the top of the list with artists he had grown to love as a young boy, during family road trips and playing on the record player on a Sunday afternoon - and he fucking loved that.

He loved that his life now consisted of singing and meeting fans who had waited ages for One Direction to step foot on their land, who had brought tickets to see them and were the real reason they were at the top of the chain of musical artists, and he loved that he was given the opportunity to travel all over the world because every day of his life was a day where he was introduced to somewhere new, introduced to someone new, introduced to a world that he was still so fresh in. Exploring the countries he’d always wanted to go to but never had the privilege as a child, taking in the sights that he’s always wanted to see but could only see them in geography books and magazines, that he’d learnt about in primary school geography and begged his mother to take him to, and being able to turn into a tourist during his days off with a camera, brought with his own income, as he documented every place he stumbled upon to keep as memories for the future. To share with his future children and his future grandchildren so he could be the grandfather who told the most wicked stories, ever. From quaint towns in the mountains that were barely populated with 100 people to sweet villages that were brimming with life and sold homemade treats and trinkets and made him feel peaceful and relaxed. Because relaxing days off weren’t so common for him anymore and he liked to the cease every chance he got to be himself. Where he didn’t have to worry about his name being whispered around.

But the one thing he hated - and it was only the one thing - was sleeping in beds and staying in places that just weren’t home.

To anyone else, they would snicker at the double entendre.

And he would simply tut and shake his head and show his unamused distaste of being someone’s act of entertainment because of what modern day society had done to people’s pure minds.

Harry Styles, the teenage boy who had grown up with all the looks and the charm, who was the womaniser of the most prestigious and popular boyband, hated hooking up with the women? Who hated taking advantage of his status and turned down all the women who fell at his feet and purely stuck his nose up at the idea of waking up in unfamiliar territory. Beds that were far too unfamiliar for him, in a part of the city that he never planned on visiting, in rooms that he’d never seen in his life and knew, from the smell and the feel of the sheets and the atmosphere of the room, that was far, far away from his hotel rooms.

But to everyone else, from his family to the woman he adored and loved to share a bed and a home with to his close best friends and commonly aquatinted mutuals, it was far from something amusing and much rather something that was completely understandable. That was met with nods, a clap on the shoulder, and Everyone knew he liked his own comfort and you, for first hand experience, knew he liked to be in places he was entirely familiar with. YN knew he found it awkward to sleep in beds that he hadn’t slept before - he struggle the first night he slept in hers - and she knew that he liked his own personal space and a room that was all him - or had aspects that were him, whether it be a deodorant bottle on the vanity or a pair of shoes tucked into the corner or a bottle of fresh cologne beside her perfume bottle. That he felt more at home when he was staying in a place that was considered as home.

The hotel in Seattle couldn’t have been further from what felt like home.

The room was small, and he didn’t need to strain his neck to look around, and it was perfectly fitting for just one person - it was a single room, to be honest - with a couple of windows that were smeared with cleaning products, having been wiped after the last person who had stayed in the room, and a view of the hotel pool rather than overlooking the skyline. Which was a view he liked to see when he woke up in the mornings and when jetlag kept him awake at nights; seeing people sunbathing just never felt right to him. It wasn’t like any other hotel he’d slept in before... not that he was materialistic and thought he was worthy of 5 star rooms that looked like apartments and was double the size of his girlfriend’s flat. He didn’t mind not having luxurious rooms fit for royalty because he was happy to have a roof over his head and bed to sleep in for the night. The bed had a squeaky mattress that was too solid for him to lay comfortably upon, it didn’t have his body imprint left behind for him to find as he rolled around and shuffled under the duvet that covered him, and it didn’t have a pillow that completely swallowed the back of his head and gave him intense comfort. It didn’t have the intoxicating smell of his girlfriend lingering in the small space around it, the room didn’t hold them fruity smell of her body spray and it didn’t emit warmth like his bed did back home. The sheets were itchy and scratchy against his bare skin, far from the soft cotton that clung to his own king-sized mattress, and the duvet cover felt like paper... and, if he was being honest, he was sure the pillow had crumpled balls of paper pushed into the pillowcase to fill it out because the pillow didn’t quite succeed its purpose. His feet hung over the end and he knew he needed to curl up to ensure his toes didn’t get cold through the night, only putting pressure on the small of his back and creating kinks that would become trouble throughout his busy days, that might potentially cause him to be winded on stage during a performance. The floor looked like something from a motel in horror movies and it was scratchy beneath the surface of his feet and the light shades were old-fashioned and shaped like overturned tulips.

He missed London and he missed his own home and he missed his own comforting environment more than he had ever done before.

Harry dropped his wallet, his key-card and his phone, encased in a pink and rubbery case, upon the small table beside the en-suite bathroom door, sighing heavily as he dug the heels of his hands into his eyes. Wiping away the sleep that made them feel like they had slits slashed across them with the burning blade of a knife and aiding to the ache that lingered because, even though he felt tired and knew he would probably drop off as soon as his head hit the pillow, his adrenaline-fueled mind just hadn’t quite caught up with the rest of him yet. His suede boots becoming heavy upon his feet, weighing down every step he took and causing him to scuff with each footstep that took his further into the room, as he toed them off and kicked them in the direction of his suitcase.

Outside his room, and scuffing down the corridor, he could hear the rowdy chatter and the heavy footsteps and the cackling laughter belonging Louis and Niall as they made their way to their rooms - Liam having travelled back with Sophia, as soon as the after-show excitement had come to its gradual end - discussing the events of the night, reminiscing on how the show had gone for them and expressing their feelings in how they couldn’t wait to explore the city of Seattle on their day off, the next day, before a late-night flight to Vancouver. Because, as sad as it was to think about, it was the last time they would be exploring the state as a group.

Oh, and that was another thing that Harry hated about his job.

Not necessarily hating it all of the time (because he felt so privileged by it) but hating it most of the time; exploring the cities that One Direction were lucky to perform in, taking in the sights around and learning never-before-heard facts that were fascinating to have stumbled upon, without the one person he wanted to have by his side, snapping candids and capturing the moment with a camera - his girlfriend. Always promising to take her anywhere she wanted to go, anywhere she wanted to explore, to be anywhere in the world that caught her eye, so she could say she’d been there. He felt like he was cheating her, as silly as he sounded, and he was making promises that he knew would take a long while before he fulfilled them.

He crouched down beside his suitcase, toes cracking underneath his weight, and pushed open the top after having left it foolishly unzipped when he was in a haste to leave the room after giving in to Niall’s consistent bangs against the door of his room when he was in charge of making sure they were all meeting in the lobby on time, letting it fall to the floor with a rattle. Zips clinking together. His neatly packed case making him rather frustrated, because he would only need to re-pack it neatly for the journey to the next city, as he rummaged around for a clean pair of boxers and a tee shirt to sleep in; usually, and rather frequently, he would sleep in the shirt that he had performed in (because YN wasn’t there to steal it from him), but, the grey material was soaked with sweat and clung to his back in an uncomfortable manner. Like a second skin that covered his torso. And as much as it hadn’t bothered him at the time, it was beginning to make him feel gross. The shower calling his name, his hair, that was almost instantly tied up in a bun before the journey back to the hotel, begging for a wash, and his back screaming to be rid the discomfort that he chose to ignore - he could freshen up tomorrow.

As he slung a clean shirt over his shoulder, he discovered an envelope.

A white envelope, that was no bigger than the stretched out palm of his hand, tucked in between a suede boot and his gym trainers - the ones that he knew his girlfriend hated but wore them anyway because they were comfy and felt light on his feet as he jogged on a treadmill and threw a few punches at a personal trainer’s mitts - keeping it as flat as possible. Fresh boxers draped over his shoulder, brushing over his cheek, as his nimble fingers pulled the paper from the contents of his case. His name was written in a beautiful cursive script, right in the middle with a couple of ‘x’s underneath, accompanied by a lipstick kiss pressed to the corner in his favourite shade - a magenta that was bold and prominent and smeared a little at the corners.

His finger tore open the seal and he immediately hit another piece of paper that had been folded once and then once again and, knowing his girlfriend like the back of his hand, probably folded a final time to keep it as secure and as tight as she could have possibly made it. Something heavy settled in the corner and capturing his mind with curiosity; it was definitely from his girlfriend, definitely addressed to him, but what on earth could she be giving to him?

A note...

... and an SD card belonging to one of her cameras.

Harry,

 If you’re reading this then you’ve found my little surprise!

I didn’t tell you about what I had planned for you because I knew you’d go looking for it - I know you and you just can’t resist yourself - so I wanted you to find it by yourself, when you were least expecting it.

I don’t know how long it took for you to find it, I don’t know where you’re reading this, what country you’re in or what the time is, I don’t know when you’re reading this or under what circumstance, but what I do know is that you’re missing me more than you thought you would. Don’t lie to me. I’m missing you, too. So, I hope my little surprise will make you miss me a little less. Regardless of when you’re reading this, I’ll see you very, very soon and I’m really looking forward to that.

Make sure you lock whatever room door you’re behind, make sure you’re alone, make sure you’re not going to have any interruptions and make sure you have no plans that will coincide with what I have planned for the next fifteen to twenty minutes... maybe longer... depending on how things go. Enjoy yourself because this is something special, made by me, that is just for you. JUST FOR YOU. No one else. For your eyes only. (And I mean that, too).

 I adore you. Always.

 Love you. xxxx

He tipped it over and let the SD card drop into the middle of his palm. Fogged plastic landing upon his skin, blurring out the label of the black-coloured SD card, with a scribbled heart drawn in the middle with a red Sharpie. A red pen that was, without a doubt, from the collection in his office that he had hidden in his drawer that had the sole purpose on making changes in his schedules and for writing on demo CD’s to be sent off to different artists who had requested his help in songwriting or to be given to his management office across the pond so they could listen to what he’d been working on and to see and hear the well-thought out title of a single that he wanted in the charts. A pen collection that he would always find in her office but hadn’t ever gotten upset over because she always did something so wonderfully colourful with them.

And he wasted no time in rummaging around for his laptop. Whatever was on that SD card, whatever he was going to be met with upon the screen and whatever she was going to be surprising him with was something that got him excited. Tingling from the inside out. Whatever was happening on social media and whoever was tagging him in tweets and in Instagram posts, whatever was making his phone buzz and whoever was sending him messages and making his notifications go crazy, yeah... they can wait, he thought. Butterflies erupting in his gut, fluttering around and tickling all around, pulsing blood through his veins.

Perching down on the end of the neatly-made bed, which made him feel slightly guilty because he’d left the bed in a right mucky state when he’d woken up that morning, he used his teeth and one hand to open the card holder whilst balancing the base of his laptop upon his thighs, using his free hand to open the lid, to type in his password and to direct the mouse to the bottom left corner.

It was was so close to being known and he was expecting something that was from both sides of the spectrum.

On the one hand, he was expecting something sweet and adorable, something that screamed YN. Like a little montage of photos and videos that she’d taken and managed to find from their shared iCloud, putting them all together into a digital photo album, with a song that meant a lot to them (one that they sung together, that they played in the car, that they hummed during dinner, that they always turned up when it came on the radio), with a sappy message at the end that, annoyingly, made him cry. She said it would make him miss her a little less and that would definitely work... but it would also make him miss her a little more than he liked to admit to anyone. Even to her.

But, on the other hand, it could have been a cheeky montage of photos that she’d taken, without his knowledge, that ranged from nudes to lingerie shots to close-up selfies that looked incredibly realistic to her ‘Harry’s just fucked me really rough’ face. A face that had a mix of her mascara and her tears running down her cheeks, hair matted to her forehead with sweat and her lipstick smeared across her lips and the underside of her nose - his favourite look.

He squinted at the screen to see the title.

JUST WANT UR COCK BUT THIS WILL HAVE 2 DO

What will have to do? What was he about to see? To witness?

What was this surprise?

He cautiously double-clicked on the small folder that appeared once he pushed the card into the slot at the side of his laptop, his eyes darting nervously from the bright screen to the door of his hotel room, silently praying that Paul, or anyone from the crew, didn’t walk in to tell him “light’s out, big guy. Busy day tomorrow”. A paused screen going straight to full-screen mode, showing the smiling face of his girlfriend, who was half-naked and had one of his button-up shirts covering her exposed breasts. Her nipples erect and almost tearng through the material.

“’ello, my sweet peach.”

He grinned widely, on instinct, because he’d really missed her voice. Hotel rooms sounded eery when she wasn’t there to fill the silence with her cackles and her garbage talk about why pigeons looked the way they did or how planes managed to stay in the air despite being made from metal - he hated those types of conversations but had really grown to miss them when they weren’t there to drive him insane.

“Wait, no. That sounded weird. Sweet peach. Let me start this again. Sorry.”

He chuckled lightly when the screen went black, cutting off from, what he imagined was, a mistake that she had left in for humours sake that was there just to make him laugh. The seconds still ticking away at the bottom of the screen and he chose to sit and patiently wait. Her face, no longer than a couple of seconds more, soon appearing back on his screen. Closer than it was beforehand, with the buttons of his shirt, that were done up to help keep her breasts covered, now unbuttoned and allowing the flaps to open with each movement she made.

“Hi, mister. Hey. Hello... ohhh, yeah, that felt so much better. Nice and simple.”

He snorted; he wanted to say he loved her little, out-of-the-blue nickname because ‘Peaches’ was a newfound pet name she was experimenting with, just a little personal something between the two of them before she took to using it in the world outside, but, if he had to be honest, he preferred her second attempt. It was sweet and natural and very YN.

‘Mister’ was what she called him on a regular basis, had been since their first date, whether it be to sweet-talk him or when it casually slipped out during a conversation at breakfast or from beneath the shower, and it had slowly become on of his favourite nicknames for himself. A difference from the common H or Haz that his friends called him.

‘Missus’ slowly becoming part of his vocabulary just so he could match with her. So they could be that cheesy couple who had the cute nicknames and made their friends gag dramatically in their presence but fawn over them in the distance.

“I’m guessing that, since you’re watching this, you’re all alone and in an empty hotel room and feeling a little lonely and missing me, yeah? You found this in your luggage, realised you missed me, and just wanted to see what I had for you, is that right? I imagine you’re feeling a little horny, too? Since you saw the title. And you just want me there, sucking you off, making you cum, and making you feel good, right? It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

“A long while,” he mumbled to himself, gulping thickly as he pressed pause, and released a deep sigh. The door needed to be locked and he needed to be naked, if not completely than definitely, from the waist down. This wasn’t a case of slipping his hands into his pants and trying to be discrete about the whole thing; he was on his own, and he would be till morning, and he had no need to worry about being interrupted with someone who was eager to see him. With her looking like that, dressed in his clothes, with a sultry voice being used to talk to him, he had a feeling this wasn’t something that was quiet, meant to be soft and made just to make him cry. “A really long while.”

He stood up from the mattress, discarding his laptop to the side of him, as he unbuttoned his black jeans on the way to lock the door, grabbing a ‘do not disturb’ sign on his way passed the small table that he bumped into upon both of his arrivals into the room that day, sticking his head out of the door as he hung it on the handle. Grinning to himself because if anyone noticed, he would be ridiculed and teased. He wouldn’t mind what they thought though. He didn’t think any one else, from the crew to the boys to the strangers who walked passed in the night, had a loving partner as surprising and as thoughtful as his own and, deep down, he liked how jealous he would be making them.

He shimmied out of his jeans, letting them pool at his ankles as he stepped out of them and left them in the middle of the room, his sweat-soaked t-shirt soon joining the black denim. Hobbling around on one foot as he tugged off his socks and threw them over his shoulders, not particularly fussed about where they landed, darting to the window to pull the sheer curtains to a close. Almost succumbing the room to complete darkness if it wasn’t for the yellow glow that emitted from the lamp on the bedside table - he could deal with that. Tugging off his boxers and leaving them on the floor, closer to the bed than his other garments, he situated himself against the headboard because, over the many years of having to have solo orgasms when his cock wouldn’t soften and wanking until he could no longer wank, he’d found that was the most comfortable position to be in.

Using his foot to reach for his laptop, pulling it close with the arch of his ankle and leaving it be on the empty side of the bed, stretching out his thumb to press the space-bar. Her voice, yet again, filling the quiet room.

“I thought I’d treat you to a little something special,” was the first thing she said when the video continued, “so consider this as my way of apologising for not being able to travel with you on the first few legs of your last tour with the boys. Should’ve tagged along, really. I bet you’re having a great time though. With all the lads, having lad fun and being all lad-y. Although you’ll probably tell me you aren’t because you miss me and want me with you because you always enjoy having me around. I think that might be something to do with me being your personal groupie though. Going to all the shows, squeezing in a shag in afterwards, but never saying goodbye to me because I’m your girlfriend and I’m always there in the mornings.”

He smiled a little, shyly amused, and dropped his chin to his chest; she found humour in reading about his X Factor days and how 16-year old Harry was a little bugger when it came to the ladies. Comparing him to the Harry she knew because she could see that näive teen streak, showing at times but remaining hidden, still inside him. He knew she had stumbled - well, she says stumbled but he knows there was more to it than her coming across it during her time in the toilet - upon an old story, about him and Zayn and a couple of girls who had followed them around on the duration of their very first tour. Finding it funny to use “Christabelle Riley” when she felt annoyed with him or when she wanted to be downright annoying to him or when she wanted to make him squirm because she was in one of her playful moods. The name being one that he wished she’d drop because it was something about his past he wished to forget all about - he was a serious artist. Wanted to be taken for more than just his ‘groupie’ past.

“Do you remember that gift you brought me a while back? For my birthday? The one that you had to hide away from the rest of the presents, in the corner of the garage, because our parents were there?”

Sybian - that’s what the website said it was called.

And how could he forget about it? It would be impossible to. He had never heard of one before, let alone seen one, so he almost spunked in his pants when he stumbled upon it. On the dark side of a website specifically for sex-toys, different bottles of lube and specially-made lingerie that weren’t just to look good on the body but were also made to help encourage the feeling of pleasure - pouches in the knickers, vibrating knickers, role-play outfits of all sorts and latex garments that accentuated every curve of it’s wearer. Having ordered it at a time when he couldn’t spunk in his pants; when he had a spare few minutes from doing a chunk of recording in the recording booth, when Jeff was out on a call from his father and his band were out getting a bite to eat, having promised to bring him a sandwich and a water from the shop on the corner.

“Well, I’ve only used it once, just to test it out, and I thought it would be a perfect piece of footage to give to you, whilst you’re away, so that you have a little piece of me as to not miss me so much. Something sexy so you don’t need to stare at photos or watch porn. I see your web history after you say you’re ‘going for a nap’, you dirty prick.”

He feels his cheeks heat up.

Even though she knew that he was a avid watcher of amateur porn videos and even though she knew he turned to Pornhub when he was having difficulties feeling satisfied, he still felt embarrassed when she called him out on it. Having been caught one afternoon, when she was supposed to be spending the whole day with his mother, with his hand around his cock and a body that was spread out on the bed with clothes all over the floor, as he watched an amateur teen having the time of her life with a vibrator as she spoke dirtily to the man to the side of the frame, she hadn’t let him live it down. She watched him, she watched the video, and she waited for him to finish before she made her presence known and his face was purely picture-perfect. His mouth in the shape of an O, his eyes wide and watering at the corners, his cheeks heated and flushed, his hair completely tousled after he’d tugged and pulled his strands and his thighs were still quaking. Picture. Bloody. Perfect.

“It makes a difference from all those other videos that I send to you, as well. The ten second Snapchat stories or the grainy iPhone camera videos that you get to see when you wake up. The is done on my proper camera. My blogging camera. Professional and all that. And, unless you lose this SD card, it’s just yours and no one elses. It won’t get leaked, it won’t get downloaded, and my modesty, and my dignity, will forever be in tact. My boobs are yours to see. Not the world. And, as much as I love the toys we have and the dildo’s you’ve brought me that are all shaped like you, this has to be one of my favourite things to play with. So, thank you for buying it for me. We can both have some fun with this.”

Riding a prick was something that he didn’t think about too often. Of course, he’d explored around as a teenager and he’d slipped a finger in and what have you, had the opportunity to find what really got him going, but having a cock sit heavy in a place that burned with the thickness of a finger was something that he wasn’t desperate to try. That wasn’t on the top of his fantasy list. It was something that he’d brought just for her to use when she was missing his body to straddle rather than penetrating his hole that was foreign in the act of anal and had only been visited once in the past... by her tongue and a thumb and forefinger.

The memory, on its own, was enough to make him shudder. A good shudder, of course. The kind that came from something that felt really good, really pleasurable and came from something that had good intentions behind it, and he knew that experimenting around would bring him immense pleasure.

“Tonight, from me to you, I’ll be riding this.”

He felt his cock twitch when she jazz-handed as a way to show it off, involuntarily and almost reflexive against his stomach, much like it did when she happened to be wearing something that got his motor running or did something that he found rather enticing - like it did when she hunched over in front of him and allowed him the chancing moment to peek down her top and to stare at her boobs cupped so delicately by a pale-yellow bra or when she purposefully bent over in front of him and gave her bum a wiggle because she knew he couldn’t let the moment go unseen. He let out a choked sob of relief when he gave his base a soft squeeze, dropping his head back against the headboard as he slowly pulled his fist all the way to the top of his shaft, his foreskin tickling his length underneath his heavy and rather sweaty palm.

His other hand slipped down his body, his fingers toying with the pebbled nipple to the right of his chest before he ghosted the tips down his abdomen and down passed his belly button, itching at the underside of his belly and feeling his stomach contract as he brushed over a slightly ticklish portion of skin, until he was happy on where they had settled. Course hair, thick and dark and looking a little unruly (“a trunk as thick as yours always needs a little grass around the base” is what she’d always told him when he questioned whether to shave or trim) at the touch of his fingertips, enough to grab in small clumps and long enough to not lose a grip of. A strangled moan bouncing around the insides of his mouth before it escaped the small gap made when he took his bottom lip between his teeth.

Her virtual presence, so bright and infectious upon his laptop screen, was there for his disposal and for his needs and, due to how delectable she looked, it was easy for him to let his imagination run wild inside his mind. Plain and simple for him to imagine that he was balls-deep inside of her. Sinking into the most desirable, cavernous-like space so deep and filling her up so nicely and deliciously, with her slick walls clenching and squeezing around him in the way that he just loves, in a way that could never be forgotten because it felt so pleasurable. So insanely good. How her legs would almost always spasm and how her thighs would quake and how she would shiver and pierce his back with her fingernails as he pounds into her and fucks her through her euphoric high.

His hips jut upwards impulsively and he tears his hands away from his pubis, thick with hair, and tucks them between his open thighs, his little finger resting perfectly against the crease where his thigh met the curve beneath of his pubic bone, and he begins to fondle his balls gently. Rolling them between his fingers, cupping them and almost making juggling motions (juggling - which he had become a professional at doing) and making the muscles of his stomach tighten even more.

“So good, so good... fuck.”

In his mind, she’s saying his name. Well, not exactly saying it... more like mewling it out from quivering lips. Eyes wide and staring into his, legs tight around his waist as he deeply grinds his hips into her, her orgasm being so visible through her coloured orbs as she cries and squeaks out her appreciation, as her fingers cling to his neck. The heels of her hands resting at the top of his neck, her nails scratching at his scalp as her fingers push through his hair, tugging harshly on the sweaty roots that were beginning to feel dirty and gross under her touch and the sensation, itself, was enough to make him loose his smooth rhythm...

On the screen and filtering out from the speakers, filling up the empty spaces in the air that was full of his deep panting and soft moans, she was deep in chatter - so far from where his imagination had taken him. He’s not sure what she’s talking about, really. She’s pointing at things, reaching out of the frame from things, grinning at the lens and toying with the hem of the shirt covering her body.

“... so, I guess I should explain to you how this works? It might make it a little easier for you. I’ll show you. It’s a fascinating piece of equipment,” she heightens herself on her knees and crawls forward a few centimetres, her hands coming up from her side to adjust the button-up that was flowing away from her torso. She stretches over and picks up, what seemed to be, a control box. A heavy block, that looked rather mechanical, that was coloured silver and black. “This is its remote control and it controls everything to do with this toy. The rotations. The vibrations. The speed of both. Oh, god, and I have full control so I’m like a dominant and a submissive all rolled into one,” she giggles, and it makes his heart skip a beat, with a contagious little squeak that had him letting out a chuckle - well, a loose breath of warm air pushing out from between his lips. “I can be tough on myself. Give myself a real go at it. Make myself cry and all that. Or I can be really soft and gentle. Calm it all down if it gets too much. I’m a softie so...”

She grins so widely before her shoulders slump and she drops from her height, her bum brushing over the carpet of the bedroom. And, as she stares at the camera with her hand wrapped around the fake, peach cock, he loses it. Completely and utterly loses it and gives in to the coil in his gut that was screaming out in mercy. Her eyes holding so much behind them as he squeezes his own shut, cumming hard as he continued to jerk his shaft, imagining her clamping down on him tightly as he filled her full of his thick juice. He wheezes, like he was winded and struggling to catch his breath, slumping down upon the mattress and ruffling the pillow that was trapped between his back and the base-board of the bed.

“... it’s extraordinary, Harry. I’ve never seen anything, or ridden anything, like it. This attachment is a wonder. My clit sits and rubs against here,” - she points to a small lump made in the rubber, scratching her nail over the grooves made for added pleasure - “you see the little bump? Well, I say little but it’s not. It’s like a lump. Yeah, uhm, that’s where my clit sits. The curve, it’s perfect, and the wiggly lines - I think they’re the grooves? Yeah, they make it so much better. The rest slips deep inside me,” - she strokes it like she would his cock and he glances down at his slippery, mushroom-shaped head, oozing cum and turning a deep shade of pink - “like your cock would do, but it doesn’t go as deep as you go, and it doesn’t fill me up as half as how you fill me up, but it feels so good. And it rotates and vibrates, too. Unfortunately, your cock doesn’t do that. It’d be cool, and a little weird, if it did. But I love it, nonetheless. It’s my favourite cock to ride. And these plastic ones will have to do until you get back to me.”

He wished he had something other than his hand.

He says he’s not adventurous in exploring new positions, new techniques upon one side of the relationship, but he’s all for experimenting with toys. He nicked one of her vibrators one night, for goodness sake!

She had a couple of rounded-tip vibrators in her bedside drawer, she had a wand that was his preferred vibrator to use on her (and himself), and she had a small dildo collection (that he had stumbled upon when he was being a domestic house-boyfriend and cleaned the cupboards of their walk-in wardrobe) that, after much interrogation on his part, she said she used rather frequently. A shy promise to use one when he was home and when she was next in that mood.

He had nothing but two hands and a vivid imagination.

“So, this is the rotation,” she twists the knob, with the “ROTATION” labelled beneath it, and there’s an abrupt sound that begins to crackle through his laptop speakers. His eyes completely focused on how fast it was spinning on the spot. “This is the fastest speed but that is way too fast for me. Maybe we’ll go that fast when I’m feeling a bit more courageous and feel more confident. Maybe when you’re here so I can focus on you and how you like to get off to me getting myself off. Because watching your hand around your cock, jerking yourself and cumming from your own touch, yeah, that really gets me going. Could watch you do that all day, like watching my favourite movie,” and she sports the naughtiest of smirks as she looks at the camera, sending him a cheeky wink, toying with the knob as she adjusts the speed to show him, “and, if it gets too crazy, I can just turn it down. And, if that gets too less and I need a little more, I can turn it back up and let it go crazy. Reaching inside and touching every inch of me. Not as good as you though, of course,” she slows down the rotations and adds a little force to the small switch at the bottom of the left-hand side, stopping the mechanical motion completely, “I’ll probably just go to the halfway mark. It was on a real slow rotation last time I used it and it took me forever to get to an orgasm. You’d have laughed. Called it a useless contraption and gave it a kick for not doing it’s job.”

Useless, of course, for not doing its assigned job in making her squirm and scream.

That was the reason he brought it, of course: to help fulfil the need and the desire for nothing but pure satisfaction when he wasn’t there to help her. It was junk if it didn’t serve it’s purpose.

“... the vibration though? Harry, it’s fucking crazy. You wouldn’t believe how good it feels. I had it on quite a quick vibration last time and, oh my god, you’d have to feel it yourself to understand how amazing it feels. It’s insane,” she smiles sweetly and it drives him nuts as he slumped down against the pillow, his non-existent double-chin resting against his chest as he switched his focus between his erect cock and his girlfriend, crawling backwards and setting herself up behind the mount, “are you ready? Make sure you’re on your own, yeah? Make sure there are no interruptions? Stick a sock or a tie on the door or something. Let people know you’re occupied and have no time to spare for anyone because this is for your eyes only, mister,” she points accusingly at the camera lens, at him, and he giggles tiredly, “do you understand me? If I find out that one of the boys has caught a look at me, you’re on the sofa for the next year. No sex, now blowies, no handjobs, or anything. You’ll have to resort to your hand.”

He knew she was serious because it had happened before. Not to the same extent as what she was implying, here, but... rather similarly.

They were fresh into a relationship, give or take eight months, when it happened.

Despite dropping the ‘L’ bomb just 5 months before, and with their first time being sexually intimate with one another just a short 2 months before, they were still exploring the excitement they could have with one another and they were still finding their own ways in dealing with the distance when he was country hopping for tours and promotional purposes and they were still trying to come to terms with being away from one another for so long. It’s when nudes were first introduced. When the very first video, filmed by her and sent to him, first happened. Of course, he had initiated it - she’d woken up, one morning, to a rather glorious photo that he had taken from the bathroom of whatever five star hotel room he was staying in, with everything on show and the cheekiest of grins on his face, without an inch of embarrassment written on his face. He seemed so happy. Pride was probably the correct way to describe it.

Given the time difference between London and the States, she’d sent him one back... breasts on show, laced knickers at the bottom of the frame, with her bottom lip between her teeth and a seductive wink that closed her left eye... and it couldn’t have been sent a worser time.

Because she was inundated with messages that she had a feeling weren’t sent from her boyfriend. In the 244 days of being with him, she had never once seen his use slang or the common ‘text language’ that the kids were using, back in the day. Lots of ‘u’s rather than ‘you’s, lots of ‘2’s rather than ‘to’s, plenty of ‘z’s being added to the end of plural nouns rather than the usual ‘s’s and there were no ‘xx’s at the end of the texts and Harry never skipped out on sending a couple of little kisses at the end of each message he sent... never.

She couldn’t talk to the four boys for weeks. Could barely look them in the eyes because she felt so humiliated.

“... oh! Do I look good for you, baby? I hope so. I feel good with myself. Been wearing this for the majority of the evening. I bet you look pretty amazing, too. All spread out on the bed, completely naked and just the way I like you, with a little semi going on because we haven’t reached the real action yet but you know what’s about to come and you’ve gotten all excited.”

She giggles sweetly and peels away the lapel of the white, intricately scattered with black polka-dots, button-up that draped down her torso, and she lets it fall off of her shoulder to show one of her breasts as she grabs at the soft flesh. Pinching her nipple and biting her lip as it sparked a reaction throughout her body, a cheeky wink sent to the camera before she rolled her shoulder swiftly, bringing the material back to cover her chest.

“Although, that one flash of my tit probably had you sporting a hard-on like a teenage boy seeing fanny for the first time.”

It falls silent between both ends and all he can hear is his wheezing breaths as his chest rose and fell with each deep breath her took.

“Have you just come off stage? All high on adrenaline and you’re not sure what to do with yourself, yeah? You know I live for post-concert you. Sweaty, smelling a little dirty, t-shirt clinging to you, patches under your arms and your back completely soaked. You know how that gets me riled up, Peaches. When you smell like you’re already fucked out, like you’ve already been through a few rounds with me, when you’re all hot and bothered and eager to get that cock inside me.”

There was one night that came to mind; June 3, Edinburgh, 2014.

As soon as he stepped off stage, backstage at Murrayfield Stadium, she’d been glued to his side from the moment she gave him a kiss to congratulate him on such a remarkable show. Despite the horrendous smell that wafted from under his arms and despite the sticky sensation that he could feel all over his skin, she stayed tucked under his bicep as he thanked everyone for being so helpful, grabbed himself a chilled bottle of water and let the boys know he would be missing out on their scheduled boy’s night out because he knew he wouldn’t last long in a dingy bar, drinking his weight in tequila shots and cheap lagers, and being stared at, regardless of how many times he escaped eyelines. With a promise to head out with them when they arrived in London and getting everyone together to celebrate their return, he sunk his mouth into YN’s hair and they were out of the stadium before anyone could tell them to stop with their “disgusting PDA”.

She’d practically wanked him off in the car and ruined the orgasm that was building up in his belly, she’d left hickies all over his neck in the lift going up to their room and she’d tore his shirt at the collar in a haste to take it off, she’d hid her hand in the waistband of his jeans and squeezed his bum as they scuffed down the corridor and, as soon as the door to their hotel room had closed with a click against the lock, she’d whipped his trousers down and, without any hesitation, welcomed his semi-hard cock into the warmth of her mouth before they had the chance to make it out of the entryway.

To this day, he still wasn’t sure if it was the adrenaline that made his stamina break the bar on how long he could last or whether it was the excitement of sinking nice and fulfillingly into his girlfriend multiple times throughout the night... he was thankful for whatever it was though.

“Do you want to fuck me? I hope this video, me riding this, makes you want to fuck me even more. I hope it gets you excited to come home, to sink deep into me, to make me feel good. To make me feel even better than this ever could,” she scoffs to herself playfully and bangs a hand down on the arched mount, “let’s make a deal. I’ll cum for you if you cum for me.”

His eyes widened nervously as he took a glance down at his, what was once tight and almost in a death-like vice, fist. His fingers loosening from the grip he had upon his erect cock, letting it spring back against his slick stomach, splattering a few droplets of spunk that caught at his slit, the space of stretched skin between his thumb and his forefinger sporting a glow of his ejaculate; sticky against his flesh, dribbling down to his wrist and speckled upon the fuzz of his upper thigh because he was always messy when he came and, really, he wasn’t afraid to admit that.

“Bugger,” he mumbled lowly, coughing into his clean fist to clear his dry throat, “could’ve bloody said before I spunked, baby.”

“And you have to tell me how good it felt afterwards. I don’t care if I’m sleeping or if the time difference is wacko or if I’m busy and can’t get back to you right away. If I’m with your family or my family or out with friends. I want a simple text to tell me how could you feel after blowing a load over this video. To know that it’s done its purpose. Because this whole thing is to make you feel so good. Is that an okay deal? I think that’s a pretty good deal.”

He heard her cough and he watched the screen intensely as she taps her fingers against the black leather.

“Wrap your hand around your cock for me. And stroke it. Stroke it like I would for you. Up and down. A little squeezing. You know how it goes, don’t you? Keep doing that until you cum for me. Can you do that? You better be able to do that for me. I know you can and you don’t want to disappoint me now, do you?”

He shook his head, and he chuckled lightly because she couldn’t see him, and happily obliged. Tightening his hold upon his cock, for the second time, and wiping his sensitive head to evenly spread out the remnants of his orgasm. Wincing through clenched teeth as spasms of electricity shot through him, pulsing his veins more rapidly and throbbing in his hold. His mouth watering as he stared between her thighs.

“You know what my pussy looks like. But, here’s a little glance before it’s ruined by this contraption,” she says as she leans back on the mount, hands bracing her weight on the edge of the arch to stable herself as she pushes up, into an amateur crab position, to let the camera focus plainly upon the soft folds between her thighs, “remember how this looks, yeah? If you have to rewind it, rewind it. If you have to take a screenshot, take a screenshot. A photo with your phone or whatever. Because I’ll show you again, at the end, to show off how crazy this makes me feel,” she leans her weight on one hand and uses her forefinger and middle finger to spread her slick folds, letting him catch a couple of seconds of her, yet to be ruined, pussy before she settles back on her knees and lets the rounded tip brush over her clit, visibly shivering at the stretch of pleasure coursing her veins.

“I’m not going to lie. I’m a little nervous. You’re actually out with Nick right now, you know? Remember when you came home at the end of June? A couple of weeks ago? Spent a couple of days with me before you took off to America? Nick took you out for some beers and you’ve been out for a few hours now so you could be home at any minute.” - And he remembered this so vividly. How she’d given him a clean button-up and told him to not where black jeans because it was muggy out and he would have gotten hot, how she’d snuck into the shower with him when he was getting ready to leave and how she’d helped him shave because, the last time he shaved, he had missed a patch by his sideburn and looked utterly ridiculous. She’d made him a cheese and pickle sandwich with a cup of tea so he had his stomach lined before his night out and she’d ate her own dinner whilst he ate. He’d kissed her goodbye when Nick had arrived in the taxi and he’d begged her to give him a reason to stay at home because, deep down, he didn’t really want to spend the night with his friends and get pissed to the point where he would be vomiting all night and would end up with a rotten hangover by the time the morning came. He remembered how they’d teased him because he’d been glued to his phone the entire night, how he’d been texting his girlfriend because he missed her and didn’t feel right without her there, telling her how he should’ve been feasting on peanuts and drinking lagers but had chosen to stick to water and cokes, only for her to encourage him to have a good night because she could look after him in the morning, and he’d told her how it didn’t take long for Nick to start sweet-talking the bartender because he thought he was cute. How he’d walked through the door and tripped over his own feet and fallen flat on his face because YN was in stitches when she told him over breakfast the following morning, how he’d been sick in the bathtub because, apparently, the toilet was too far from the door, and how he’d been bedridden until his flight in the late hours of the evening. - “It’s exhilarating to know you could catch me but I really don’t want you to catch me. Because then this whole thing, this video and this surprise, would be ruined. It’ll be your loss. Your fault.”

He smirked and rolled his eyes - he still would’ve asked for the video to be in his possession and he knew she wouldn’t have been able to turn him down.

“Are you hard for me yet? I want you so badly, you know? Every time I want something to penetrate me, to slip between my walls, to fill me nice and deep, I’ll always think about how badly I want you. How badly I want you to penetrate me. How badly I want your cock to slip between my walls and how I want you to fill me up, nice and deep, and hitting all those delicious spots inside me. The ones that have me squirming underneath you.”

He could feel his second orgasm beginning to tip over the brink and his cock was involuntarily twitching, again, in his hand. His slit pulsating and his tip tingling and his veins making his shaft feel hot as he flicked his wrist in achingly slow jerks. He’d already had one and he was as sensitive as his teeth were to ice-cream - it was painful but it was pain that was delicious and enticing.

“If your mind wanders away from wanting to fuck me, that’s okay. You think about whatever you need to think about. If you want to think about these lips,” she points at her pink lips and using her finger to drag her bottom lip down, “wrapped around your cock, shining with your pre-cum and bright pink against your tip, then go ahead. If you want to think about this tongue,” she sticks out her tongue, flat and thick, and wags it from side to side, “licking you up and down and coating your balls with spit, then go ahead. You’ll be able to feel the real thing soon. Wrapping around the head of your cock. Sucking gently, at first, and getting harder and harder and harder. Until you can barely see straight,” she tickles her fingertip down her neck, down between her collarbones, down the middle of her torso and taps the hooded bundle of nerves at the top of her pubic bone, “and, if you need to think about this pussy, riding you, going in and out of me,” she lets the dildo sink into her, reaching up inside her and settled so perfectly that it felt like it was breaking all kinds of walls to feel so good, “like this, then think about that. Think about my tight little pussy wrapped around you because I know how much you like to think about that. Know how much you love the feeling of me being completely wrapped around you.”

“... oh, what about my bum? Know you’ve slipped in once before. Could think about that, you know? Sliding in and out of there,” - he visibly shuddered. Because, little did she know, he thought about their first anal session whenever he needed to get off and was struggling to do so. Remembering how her bum was propped up by her pillow, how his hands cupped her ample cheeks with his fingers, how his cock laid perfectly where the crevice of her bum met the small of her back and how it felt so delightful as the newfound feeling, that was foreign to the both of them, took over. - “I know you liked how that felt, Peaches. Feels good, doesn’t it? When someone loves on your bum? When someone takes you to cloud nine by inflicting pleasure around the backside? Must give your bum some more loving when you get back home.”

He was too shy to ask her about exploring the area that was his backside, up front, so he would definitely hold her to that. Would even quote her, if he had to.

“Are you ready to start? I’m ready to start,” she stretches over and grabs the square remote control box, holding it tightly in her hand as the back rested against the bare flesh of her thigh, “there is one thing I forgot to tell you though. Might make you get there a little faster. This little contraption makes me squirt, you know? Feels so good that I just can’t help it. Thinking about you, it drives me insane, and I wish you could see this in person, Harry.”

His head snapped up just as she shrugged off his button-up; squirting? That was somewhat brand-new for the both of them. Sure, they’d spoken about it and he’d always wanted to try and make her have a wet orgasm that soaked his thighs and had her completely convulsing in his arms, and he’d googled all about it and whether it was normal and easy for all women to do, but they’d never reached the perfect moment to give it a try.

“Have to be hard now, right? Been naked for a little over five minutes. Had my tits on show for that long. You’ve probably already had one orgasm, hm? Watching me fuck this, imagining it being your cock, yeah?”

He so focused on her hips that her voice was only background noise for him. His complete upper jaw gnawing down on his bottom lip as he worked on stroking his cock hard and fast, quick and tight, fingers beginning to shake as his eyes squeezed shut. Her whines and her whimpers encouraging his orgasm and enticing it to spurt up his chest, beckoning it to escape and mix with his first.

He tried to hold himself off for a little while longer; it’s his second orgasm of the night and he wanted to milk the pleasure for as long as he possibly could. Wanted to feel every inch of it coursing his body. But, with each pump of his hand going up and down his girth and with each swipe of his thumb over the, deep shade of raspberry, head of his cock, it was becoming increasingly difficult to hold himself and to contain his hips from bucking up into his fist. Watching his girlfriend squirming and whining and whimpering as she ground her hips down and round on the peach-coloured dildo, that was lucky enough to be feeding her the pleasure he should have been giving to her, and whilst picturing her pretty lips, now swollen and bright red from how she’d continuously bitten and nibbled to contain her squeals, wrapped around him, it was overbearing for him. Overwhelming, if you will, as his moans caught in his throat and his grunts rumbled through his chest.

He groaned with deep guttural passion, almost like a yelp that bounced off the walls and echoed around the quiet room, his mouth dropping open as he rolled his head back against the ball of his neck. The tips of his hair tickling at the space between his shoulder-blades, the top of his head bumping against the soft headboard behind him as he tugged his cock, flicking his finger beneath the ridge at the underside of his tip, gargling out a string of profanities as he shot an almost empty load across his thigh.

Her voice so broken as she spoke through her orgasm; “fuck, m’squirtin’, Harry.”

He watched as she bobbed up and down, grasping her left breast and squeezing the soft flesh as splashes of her release escape from between her thighs, coating the base of the dildo mount with droplets he could only wish he was there to taste. To lick clean. The desire assisting his orgasm as more cream coated the fuzz of his inner thigh.

“Remember when you fucked my throat?” She says with a crack in her words, “had me gagging around you because you were so thick and heavy? Touching the back of my throat and you had my eyes watering? S’exactly what my eyes are doing right now, Harry. You remember how that looked? Remember how you had my eyes leaking? How I was close to crying with so much pleasure? I bet you do. I bet you think about that so much. Pretty sure my throat needs that again soon. I’ve been practicing.”

Deepthroating her was a spur of the moment thing.

What started off as a sweet blowjob after a warm shower, with gentle kisses being pressed against his thighs and her tongue being so soft with his flaccid cock and her hands cupping his backside so delicately, had soon turned into something much more. When he was erect and hard in the palm of her hand. When he was leaking pre-cum and she was slicking up the dry skin with the natural lube he excreted. Her nails digging into the fleshy mounds of his bum (which, he was sure would draw blood to the surface - not that anyone would see) and her teeth dragged up and down the thin flesh and bumped over the tingling veins pulsing with blood, that covered his throbbing muscle, with each rough thrust he gave her mouth. Gurgling around him as she tried to whine and whimper and moan out to tell him how she wanted him to keep going, gagging and dribbling down her chin and onto her coffee-coloured thighs from how he broke the boundaries of her throat, his fingers raking through her hair as he pulled fistfuls to guide her up and down his cock.

He remembered how she couldn’t speak for days beyond that. How she smacked his arm, kicked him up the bum and wanted to yell at him, but couldn’t. How she had meetings with important sponsors and how she had trouble with speaking in a hushed tone because people were struggling to hear her. She blamed it on the start of a cold and, despite how terrible she was as a liar, was rather pleased when they brought it.

“I wish you were here, baby. Fuck,” she whimpers, the heels of her hands resting on the front arch of the large toy, his hips stopping the motion of going up and down as she rotated them around in circles. Fighting the rotation of the toy as it sunk deep into her. “Do you wish you were here, too? Watching me squirt like this? Helping me through my orgasms? I wish you were here to fuck me, Harry. Wish you were here to finish me off with your cock.”

And, oh gosh, how he wished he was there, too.

It didn’t feel right to be so far away from her, wanking over her and thinking of her as he jerked himself off in each country they visited, and he wasn’t so sure he could last another month and a little bit longer without asking her to fly out to whatever city in America One Direction were next going to be in.

Her job was flexible and she could take her work anywhere in the world; that was one of the many perks to being a lifestyle, freelance blogger. A laptop in her bag, passport in her hand and a camera around her neck with cities all around that were full of picture-perfect moments that were momentarily opportune. So, surely, she wouldn’t mind swapping the four walls of her office back home to working from all over the world, right?

“Wish I was there, too,” he muttered, giving his cock one final tug before he let it spring back against his stomach, “so bad.”

He took his come down as a brief break. Letting his fingers relax as they had started to feel stiff, letting his cock feel a little cooler and to make sure he wasn’t overworking himself as he let it droop to one side, resting against the curve of his upper thigh and in a pool of his own spunk.

“Fuck, m’squirtin’, Harry. For you. You know what I’m thinking about?”

He smiled tiredly and watched her as she sunk down, knees pushing into the carpet as she let her orgasm loose, little splashes being heard as he watched her, cheek resting against his shoulder.

“I’m thinking about you pounding into me, baby. Spanking me and telling me how good I am and telling me how amazing I feel. Clenching around your cock, squeezing you and edging you closer, and squirting for you as you fuck me deep. All over your stomach. All over you. Feels good when I make myself squirt, you know? Want to show you so badly.”

He whimpered and it was such a cartoon whimper that rolled from his tongue that, usually wouldn’t have embarrassed him because it wasn’t forced and came from an act that enticed it from deep within him, made his cheeks heat up.

He had this habit, that he wasn’t sure how it started, of banging his hands down on the mattress when he pushed up after being stretched out down the spread of the bed. Whether it was after a full nights sleep and it was time to get up or after a nap that he’d taken with YN after a busy morning or after they’d spent a few hours on the bed being amorous with their sexual activities. Because it annoyed her and he loved to annoy her and it had simply become a habit he would do when he was on his own. Using his trembling arms to push himself up from the bed and onto his knees. The pillow that he hadn’t slept on, which still held the strong aroma of hotel washing detergent and was still crisp white and had a fresh pillowcase and was untouched and wrinkle-free, was grasped tightly in his hand. His knuckles turning white after he lunged forward and grabbed it, leaving an empty space at the headboard. His erect and tingling and leaking cock swinging as he moved, his laptop pushed to the side in a haste to find a new position, his bare heels pushed into the pillowy flesh of his bum cheeks. Green eyes staying focused on the screen as he watched her grind against the arched base of the sex-toy between her thighs. Her back arching, her nipples pebbling as a hand disappeared behind her frame, her other clinging to front to keep her as stable as she could possibly make herself.

She’d spoken about pillow humping before... and it definitely wasn’t something that would slip his mind with ease. Whether it was during their late night chats when the time ticked passed midnight and the both of them were struggling to sleep, whether it was when they were discussing ways they managed to get themselves off when they were alone, or whether it was overhead when she was talking to a female friend during a stay-at-home brunch in the kitchen. It wasn’t a foreign topic of conversation and he was all for trying new things - he’d gone as far as having his girlfriend give him a rimjob, for goodness sake, so there were no boundaries he was terrified of crossing.

He folded it over as quick as he could - well, actually, it was more wrapped around his cock than it was folded before his quivering frame - and, despite being untouched, it was warm and, if he could let his hazy imagination wander a little further than her lips wrapped around him, he could really imagine her warm cunt clenching around him. All slick and warm and deep, homing him perfectly and stretching to accommodate the thick girth he packed between his thighs, and being enough to milk his balls dry. He didn’t need a hand fondling his balls or a finger pushed into his behind. Needing the sounds and the touch and the smell to drive him over the edge. He grabbed either side of the pillow, keeping it in a tight fold, as he gave his all into thrusting between the gap, feeling his bum clench with each forward thrust, his body almost toppling to the mattress with each retracted thrust, and his eyes were watering. His bottom lip situated between his teeth, chewing hard on the flesh and nearing the point of drawing blood, making it red raw and dribbling down his chin.

Because, oh god, did it feel good.

It was better than his hand; far much better. It had the creases, it had the depth that her warm cunt had to offer every single time, it had the metaphorical entrance that he found pleasure sinking into and it had the warmth that he could imagine wasn’t just a folded pillow. Where he could imagine it was really her. It was an action that he didn’t mind drooling over and that he didn’t mind making a mess of, an action that he definitely wouldn’t rule out in the future, and an action that he would have to tell her all about, just to tell her she was right. That it felt brilliant. That it sent him spiralling towards a place where he felt he was flying. Not necessarily cloud nine but... something even better than that.

His knees were starting to ache from holding up his weight, his stomach was clenching and coiling with white-hot pleasure as he kept pushing his hips losing all rhythm but driving deeper into the groove that the pillow offered him, his head swimming, his knuckles turning white and his fingers feeling like they were stiff when he tried to give them a wiggle, and he was beginning to feel like jelly because he was on the brink of a third orgasm - the most orgasms he’d ever given himself in one night - all whilst his girlfriend was edging towards her second.

In hindsight, he felt guilty for what he was doing. This wasn’t his property, it wasn’t his room, it wasn’t his bed to get messy and the pillow wasn’t his - it all belonged to a hotel, a room, that many people would use after he signed himself out and handed over his key. It was a pillow that people would use, that they would rest their heads upon, without knowing the high levels of deep lust it had helped him feel. And, despite not wanting it to end, he threw it to the floor. The least he could do was salvage what was left of the inanimate piece of furniture.

His stomach ached as he jerked himself through his third orgasm, the third of god knows how many, just as his girlfriend announced she was cumming hard. His hand feeling clammy around his length as he tugged up and down, up and down, up and down, adding in a spark of pleasure as he squeezed his girth and stroked the sensitive, mushroom-shaped head with the pad of his thumb. Her squeals sending him over the edge as he spurted thick, white strings of release up his chest, painting his sticky and shimmering, with sweat, skin. Smearing his release over each and every section of exposed skin he could.

He fell back against the bed, his head missing his pillow by mere centimetres as he choked and swallowed saliva down his dry throat, releasing his cock and spreading out, like a starfish against a rock, upon the mattress. Feet hanging off the end of the bed as his fingers twitched. YN’s cries of relief echoing around the room as they filtered from the speakers at either side of his laptop and he wasn’t so sure he could last another go. Three orgasms was good enough for him.

“... this is driving my clit crazy, Harry. And, as much as I love it when you use your fingers and rub them against me, when you flick me with your tongue or suck on me, this feels so much better,” she hums, his eyes straining as he peered over his shoulder to watch her, “it’s up there on things that drive me crazy. Love your fingers though. Make me feel so good in so many ways. They’re so soft and gentle, delicate and feathery, touching me so lightly and it’s like they know exactly what to do. They know where to go. They know just how to make me feel nice.”

This go around, as he watched her unravel on the sybian, he skipped out on a potential fourth. He could have gone for it but a staggered orgasm, that he would class at number four, could come in the morning when he could keep his eyes open. When he wasn’t feeling sore. When his cock had had a break and had regained all feeling from tip to base. He had new material to watch, to think about and to help his imagination delve further into the darker depths of his mind now that he had stumbled upon what she had so sweetly given to him... that he was thankful she had given to him... that he would, as corny as it sounded, keep safe and look after and would only use it when he was in dire need of a little help. When amateur porn just wasn’t satisfying enough.

“... I think s’all I can take. 3 orgasms is good enough for you, right? I feel great. I’m going to go and take a warm bath, relax a little and wait for you to come home so you don’t smell sex on me,” she giggles, dismounting the sex-toy and walking over towards the camera on shaking legs. He could see her glistening thighs struggling to close from how long she’d been in her position, the upper muscles trembling under her skin, “drunk you always seems to know when I’ve been naughty with myself and I can’t be giving myself away. If you’re curious as to where I’m putting this, it’s back in the box and in the wardrobe under your shirts. Means I can grab one when I chose to have some fun,” she grins into the lens as she picks the camera up with her hands, holding it at arm’s length as she twirls on her bare feet and collapses - well, more like lets her legs give out from underneath her weight - upon their bed. Head nudging between the two plump pillows as she hid her face into his. A tired smile on her face. “That’s all I can do. My legs ache and I’ve still got to put it all away and get myself freshened up. I’ll see you really soon, mister. Really soon. Enjoy the rest of the tour. It’s your last one with the boys, for a long time, so make the most of it. I’ll see you at home in a short few weeks. 6 nights at London’s O2? That’s going to be so cool! I love you huge amounts.”

Sure, he missed home... but he was missing it a little less now.

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