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It’s a weird premise for an podcast - fanfic writer talks to the subject of her stories - but Cherry wasn’t going to turn down the chance to sit on the same sofa as Harry Styles, so she agreed. The fact that he did too was more surprising.
Nervously, she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, before shaking if free again. The shorter choppy cut does suit her, but she isn’t used to it and can’t stop fiddling, especially when she’s anxious. What if he’s angry, there to chastise her about invading his privacy, violating his intimate relationships? She should have stuck with McDanno or Dramione, never should have switched to writing about actual people. In her defence, he’s almost too gorgeous to be real, looks and sounds and moves like something out of a very good dream.
He doesn’t look angry, sitting on the purple sofa waiting for her. The interview isn’t being filmed, audio only, but between the rich mulberry-coloured velvet and the plethora of cushions, the room’s dressed to resemble a boudoir. That’s a mood, she thinks as she walks towards him, hopefully looking more confident than she feels.
Settling herself at the other end of the long deep sofa - it’s practically a double-bed - she watches him. He’s smiling, curiosity and amusement in his eyes. The tape is already running. “I’ve read some of your stuff.” His voice startles her and she takes a second to process the words. That’s embarrassing, but unsurprising given the reason they’re there. “I liked the one with the cake.”
“Thanks?” she replies, “I’m sorry about the rest. I hope you’re not offended. Some of them are a bit graphic, I know.”
To her relief, he laughs. “Not offended, just intrigued. Why me? Why anyone famous? Why not just make up a character?”
She’s thought about this, and has an answer ready. “I think most writers base their characters on someone they know, or bits and bobs from people they know, so it’s not that different. Just a bit of a short-cut I guess. I can only speak for my stories, but it’s not really you. I don’t know you so I can’t say how you’d react, what you’d think or do. The Harry in my stories is a guy who looks like you, maybe shares some of your life experiences, if we’re not in an AU, but he’s actually all mine.”
“All yours,” Harry (actual, real Harry who’s watching her closely) repeats, “your very own Harry Styles to do with as you please. I s’pose I can see the appeal.”
He smirks. She blushes.
“So tell me how it works. If this was a story, what would happen next? What would you make me do?”
Cherry shakes her head. “It’s not like that. I don’t make the characters do things. I mean, I have a plan, usually, but sometimes they surprise me."
“But you’re in control, that’s the point surely?” Now he looks confused.
“Yes,” she agrees, “but it’s more like… Okay, I set up the situation and I’m in control of what he wants, what he’s thinking, so what he does comes from that.”
Knitting his brows together as he considers her explanation, he sucks on his bottom lip. It’s an image straight out of a million fanfics; he must know. “Total control,” he says finally, voice a little gravelly.
“I guess so, if you think about it that way,” she confirms.
“Go on then. Tell me what I’d be thinking if this was your story.” There’s a teasing look in his eyes as he asks. He said he’d read her work, so he must be aware of how this is likely to go.
She accepts the challenge. “Do you want summary or story?” she asks mildly. If he’s trying to make her squirm as some sort of payback for taking liberties with his private life, she’s not going to let him win.
“Tell me a story, Cherry.”
“You’d be fascinated by the idea of relinquishing control, tempted to let me guide your thoughts.” She pauses. “Sorry, it’s weird doing this in the second person. Give me a sec.”
He’s looking at her intently again, face unreadable as he waits quietly for her to continue.
“Although you don’t know me, you trust me. You know I won’t make you do anything that makes you uncomfortable and that you can stop this at any time with a word - how about ‘penguin’?”
His lips quirk up, but he stays silent.
“As you let your mind clear, you feel a little lighter. All the responsibilities and decisions are mine now, and you’re free to just be in the moment. It’s almost like meditation, but there’s something else, a feeling, guiding you as well as my voice. You want to be closer, to anchor yourself with touch, just your fingertips meeting mine.” She’s pushing her luck and the story’s moving far too quickly - she likes slow-burn, really slow - but she’s keen to see if he’ll go with it.
He does.
Half-sliding, half-crawling across the sofa towards her, her reaches out and brushes her fingers with his own, a feather-light touch.
“That feels good, but it’s not enough, so you twist our fingers together, holding my hand and stroking my knuckles with your thumb. No, don’t look at our hands. Look at my face,” she orders.
And he obeys, those beautiful green eyes that’s she’s described so many times glazed, like he’s in a trance, as they meet hers.
With an effort, she keeps her voice steady and continues just above a whisper. “You raise my hand to your lips, turning it slowly before pressing a soft kiss into my palm.” She swallows her gasp at the feeling of his lips on her skin, splaying her fingers slightly.
“You trail the tip of your tongue across my palm, slowly, even slower, leaving a wet trail as you lick between my fingers.” This time she does gasp out loud, but manages to continue. “You’re looking at me as your tongue strokes there, letting me know that this is a pale imitation of what you really want to do, where you really want to put your tongue.”
His eyes widen as he takes the hint, flicking down to her crotch, demurely covered by a silky black skirt, before focusing on her face again. He’s waiting for her to tell him what to do next, but that’s not how this works; he has to want it. “You’re wondering how I’d taste, if I’d let you find out.” It’s daring and she pauses, wondering if she’s crossed a line.
That hesitation breaks the spell. One moment he’s staring at her, something that might be lust in his eyes, mouth still on her hand, and the next his gaze falters. “The recording…” he whispers, before leaning over to stop it, not letting go of her hand.
Cherry takes a deep breath. That was.. that was quite a moment.
“What happens next?” he asks, eyes burning into hers, but she’s lost her nerve, isn’t sure what she wants, let alone what he wants.
Trying to ignore that fact that her palm is still wet where Harry Styles, oh God she’s still touching Harry Styles, traced his tongue across it, she composes herself. “Well obviously we’re working up to a kiss, maybe some smut, but I’d usually tease the readers, and the characters, for a few more pages first. Make them earn it, make them wait.”
“What if I don’t want to wait?” he wonders aloud. “What if I’m an impatient little penguin?”
That single word shifts the dynamic in the room, and he’s in control as grasps her hand harder and hauls her into his lap. “Is this okay?” he checks as he grips her hip with his other hand. “Can I kiss you?”
Cherry answers by crashing her red lips into his, shifting her body closer as she straddles him, skirt rucked up, until they’re pressed together. His tongue is already working its way into her mouth and she meets it with her own, twirling and teasing as they taste each other. It’s playful for a few more seconds, minutes, but then he’s kissing her harder, demanding more, and it’s so good that she can’t help but move her hips slightly, rubbing against the growing bulge in his faded jeans. But Harry’s the one in control now, so he moves too, setting the rhythm as he finally lets go of her fingers to pull her against him with both hands. Immediately she tangles her now free hand in his hair, the other one gripping his shoulder as she matches his movements. It’s delicious; it’s torture. She pulls at his curls, hard, trying to get more purchase and he moans against her mouth.
“I wish I wrote magic realism,” she gasps out. Still kissing her, he makes a noise that might be a question and shifts his lips to her neck so she can answer. “Then all our clothes could just disappear and you’d be inside me now.”
At that his hips stutter, then move again - faster, harder, with more intent - as he sucks on her neck. “Is that what you want? Tell me what you want,” he begs.
“I want you to touch me,” she whispers against his ear, shifting his hand from her hip to her breast, where he rubs his thumb back and forth over the hard nipple, matching the rhythm of their bodies. “I want to ride you on this sofa. I want to make you lose control. I want to taste you. I want you to fuck me against that wall.” She grinds down against him as she pants out the words, knowing that he wants it too. She wonders if he can feel how wet she is, if she’s soaked his jeans yet. It’s her last coherent thought because he groans in the back of his throat and pinches the nipple he’s been teasing, and that’s enough to push her over the edge. Gyrating in his lap as she takes what she needs, she comes, shuddering against him.
Cherry’s hips slow, then stop and Harry looks almost pained as he stills his too, waiting to see what happens next. He’s biting his bottom lip, which is already kiss-swollen, as he struggles to stay in control. But he’s not in control, not anymore. “You want to come don’t you darling?” she says, but it’s not a question, “You want to come in my mouth.”
“Yes… please,” he breathes shakily, watching her slide off his lap and shimmy backwards on the sofa. She kneels between his thighs and slowly, agonisingly slowly, slides one hand up from his knee towards his crotch, which is indeed damp from her excitement, squeezing him before unbuckling his belt. He’s trembling now, with the effort of sticking to the story and not just thrusting against her, but her hands are steady as she undoes his jeans, yanks down his black boxer-briefs and finally frees his aching cock. He’s so hard that it’s almost purple, and leaking at the tip. She strokes her thumb over him, smearing the sticky liquid. With a strangled yelp, he manages to grate out, “I’m so close,” as his eyes beg her to do something, anything to end the exquisite torture.
“I know, sweetheart,” she murmurs, “you really want this. You need it.” As much as Cherry loves the anticipation, the wanting, Harry looks like he might die if she drags this out any longer. Leaning forward she replaces her thumb with her tongue, licking and tasting before taking him into her mouth properly, shifting her hand down to grasp what she can’t fit in.
He’s moaning as she pumps her fist in time with the movement of her head, still swirling her tongue, learning the contours of his cock. “Fuck… Yeah, like that… God!”
She hears the footsteps in the corridor and jerks back, shoving one of the cushions over Harry’s lap, just a second before the door opens.
“Dropped a contact lens,” she covers, thank Christ she’s good at making things up, adding a cheery “Found it!” as she rises from the floor. One look at Harry, who’s red-faced, chewing on that poor bottom lip and might actually be dying of frustration, tells her there’s no way the production assistant doesn’t know what they were doing.
The girl raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t call them on it. “Sorry to interrupt, but we noticed the recording had stopped and assumed you’d, um, finished. Ms Fitzgerald we really need you to come and sign some paperwork.”
“Can’t it wait a few minutes?” Harry croaks out, sounding exactly as wrecked and desperate as he looks.
The production assistant shakes her head apologetically, “Apparently not, according to your manager.”
Cherry’s pretty sure she hears Harry mutter something about the man definitely being fired as she follows the assistant out of the door. Glancing back over her shoulder as he tries to compose himself, she mouths “To be continued.”