Harry is staring at the ceiling.

The silky bedsheet is wrapped around his body, tangled up in his long legs, just enough to hide his intimacy from view.

The woman's fingers travel down his hot skin, her nails grazing just above his navel before going down, down, down. And then, right before the fire within him starts burning again, her soft touch comes back up in a torturous, gentle caress, lapping his excitement just like the surf of a wave laps the seaside on a warm sunny day.

There's not much of summer in the oddly tinted light in the room though, a deep, dark orange glow. It's the only thing he doesn't like about that place, that burnt orange, the same shade of the browning leaves in autumn, the same one of his dreams.

Maybe he's indeed in a dream, there. One where his darkest hopes become reality, one where he doesn't have to pretend he has an innocence that no longer belongs to him.

She ignites his spark and lets it die out in a continuous way, teasingly but restfully, playing with his body just like how she enjoys toying with his mind.

What a magical creature, she is. He can almost hear the ghastly cries of his soul every time she gets him closer to the light, just to leave him wanting more.

There's sweat all over his body, making his skin glisten in the mild darkness as if it was made of diamonds. It's cooling on him, and Harry knows he'd feel a little cold by now if it wasn't for her.

She's on top on him now, exploring his resting muscles with a devilish smirk on her face, tracing the line of the ferns until it disappears under the blankets. She bends forward, grazing his lips with her finger, a little frown on her face when she finds them dry. She presses her mouth against his, biting his lower lip playfully, sending a hot shiver down his spine as a memory resurfaces.

Flushed cheeks and hot flashes. Everything's warm around him, he can't help but wonder if it's the same warmth of his naked body, the one that envelops the air of the closed room they're in.

He takes a wrong step, the freezing cold wall against his hand.

She turns on the light. "Harry."

He glances at her. She's naked as well, the only piece of fabric on her body being a pair of white panties that compliments her complexion so perfectly. He knows the honour of stripping it off her body will be his soon.

He knows he'll hook his fingers on the sides of that lacy treat and slide it off her legs, slowly, just as teasingly as she'll play him just before. That's how it works between them. It's a game of power, one in which he has to be willing to give it up before getting it back. But soon he'll be the one with the upper hand and he'll take his time, kissing and biting her inner things until she'll be pleading him to kiss her lips and sink his tongue in her.

And then he'll do just that, and it'll be as sweet and rewarding as the first strawberry of the season.

She slides her nails down his throat, and the sensation of danger makes his eyelids flutter. She grabs his chin, her hot breath against his lips, he can smell the cherry of the cocktail she just drank in the air between them. "That's too easy."

"It's the rules," Harry breaths, staring at her just as intensely. If only he could touch her, he'd run his hands all over her body, exploring every curve and nook with his fingers, find that spot where her fire hides and not stop until every inch of her trembling figure will be set alight. If only he could touch her. But he can't, because he still hasn't earned it and those are the rules.

"You've become too good, then," she murmurs in his ear, biting his lobe. He'd fall right there and then, if she paid the same attention to the rest of his body. "What about we spice things up?"

"How?" He questions faintly, and she pulls out a strand of black tissue.

"Close your eyes, babe."

He does and soon after he can feel her covering his eyes with it, grazing her long nails down his neck when she's done.

"Isn't it funner like this?" She whispers, and his soul jumps a little when he hears her so, so close to his face. "It can be our secret." He barely has time to nod before she crashes her lips against his.

"What are you thinking about?"

Harry frowns, suddenly taken back to the here and now, she's still straddling him, drawing lines on his lower stomach with the teasing little smile of someone that knows they're in control.

So she thinks.

He turns them around swiftly, easily fitting between her parted legs. "You're asking me what I'm thinking of?" He asks her, leaving a trail of wet kisses down her neck, squeezing her hips. "Can't you guess by yourself?"

He presses his crotch against her, needing her to feel what she does to him. "I found you."

"You did find me," she lets out in a quick gasp, her soft body pressed between his and the mattress. He'd love to claim her again. He'd love to connect with her in the most intimate way possible, the only one he knows. He'd love to see how deep their intimacy could get, if he'd survive it at all.

"You shouldn't have challenged me," Harry whispers to her in reply, grazing the by then familiar red lines around her wrists. He experimentally wraps his fingers around them both, blocking them right above their heads, and her breath falters.

"You found me."

His inner peace rejoices when he hears her speak. He found her. He knows what it means, and she does too.

She turns around and kisses his chest, brushing her lips down his body, and falls to her knees before him. He anticipates it even before it happens, feverishness washing over his whole being before her lips even land on him.

That must be what heaven is like, he thinks. Or hell, he can't tell. It's probably the latter, he has too many sins on his back to even be thinking of heaven. His sweet punishment, his hot damnation.

His breath trembles in his throat as she explores him with her tongue, and even though he can't see he can imagine the sight.

He can imagine her pretty plump lips around him and her doe eyes staring up at him with that faked innocence he's come to hate and be transfixed by at the same time. She can see him just as doomed as he truly is, she knows his spark has left long ago and she lives to ignite it again every time he comes there.

His back crashes against the wall and he puts a hand on her shoulder to stop her before pleasure can drip from his body like honey.

He needs to save it, that teasing retribution, that cursed satisfaction.

She stands up and removes the fabric that was covering his eyes, and he knows he can't wait to take off the one that hides her soaked core with the same glee.

He can already imagine it, the way he'll take her on every surface of that room if she allows him to, the way he'll make her feel so good his name will be the only thing left in her mind. He can already feel the way she'll feel around him, how sweetly she'll welcome him into her.

Harry feels so alive.

He lifts her up and throws her into the bed, his eyes darkening when he sees the little smile she sends him from in between the pillows. He knows she has the same expectation.

And he has no intention of disappointing her.

He takes the black piece of fabric, that has fallen to the ground sometime during their exchange, and walks towards her, a smirk on his face.

"Wrists above your head."

"You know I live for it," she murmurs in reply and he blinks a few times, focusing on the line on her wrists again.

"I do," he replies, sitting up between her. Even though he'd like to stay in his little makeshift hell a little more, he knows he can't. He's required back at the residence.

He can never stay away for long if he doesn't want them to suspect anything.

"Going away so soon?" she asks him, a pout on her lips. She seems sad that he's leaving, but he knows it's all a part of their game.

He likes to play, he always has, and she knows it too. She loves to see how far she can take him before he finally snaps back.

"You know I can't stay."

He stands up, the bedsheet dripping off his body like a silky waterfall, and collects his boxers from the floor, putting them on again and adjusting himself until he's comfortable.

Next, he retrieves his shirt, and then the rest of his clothes again. He gets dressed meticulously and quickly under her penetrating gaze, and he knows it's the last part of their game for her. Watch him put everything on again after having stripped him of his clothes and part of his dignity for a little while.

He'd go crazy if people found out. They can't know what he does, it has to stay a secret. His secret.

He knows he should stop coming to that place. He doesn't belong there, he knows that deep down. But in a way, he also does.

He isn't that different from all the other people that visit that place. Lost, damned souls, looking for a way out of the mundanity of life, somewhere they won't be judged. Somewhere they'll feel like they belong, maybe.

But even though he belongs to The Den by essence, he doesn't by name.

In fact, because of his name and his position in their society, he should stay far away from that place. He shouldn't even know it exists. But it's the only way he can truly escape. The only place where he knows he can be unapologetically himself, away from the scrutinising eyes of the vipers that like to call themselves his employees.

Harry fixes the knot of his tie and looks at himself in the mirror, even though he can't see much in the ridiculous light. He supposes it's a way to never be truly immersed in obscurity even when the lights are off, but orange has never been his favourite colour and it takes away from the whole experience a bit.

He turns on the main light, welcoming the pale yellow glow that invades the room right away.

He glances at himself in the mirror, his eyes are greener than ever and there's a healthy flush on his cheeks. He still feels like every inch of his body is on fire, the kisses, bites and scratches she left on him creating a map on his skin that he doesn't know where will bring.

He glances at her over his shoulder, letting his eyes travel over her body as she lies before him shamelessly, looking at him.

He'd never take that kind of behaviour from anyone, if he was at the palace. But he isn't, he's in a lair of sin far away into his city, and his residence is nothing but a lighthouse in the night to him, now.

"Goodbye, Mr. President," she tells him sarcastically, and he purses his lips but doesn't say a word.

He takes his jacket from the chair and walks out of the room, stepping into the familiar dark corridor, the music beating deep into his chest now that he's closer to its source.

There are fluorescent lights of every colour illuminating his path as he makes his way to the back door. He can't go out from the main entrance, he can't let anyone see him.

He pushes open a metallic door and the cold of the night suddenly hits him, but he welcomes it, knowing it will help tame the fire that's still crinkling inside of him.

He walks up to the stairs that bring to the street, the multiple coloured neon lights shining on him and on the many graffitis that cover the walls he walks between. He knows they can go from a muddy mess to street art when it comes to quality, but he isn't sure he can rank them on that scale. They're a bit of both.

He finally makes it to the last step and is finally in the street, the orange light of the banner shining down on him.

It takes him only a second to spot the black car with darkened windows waiting for him, and he gets inside just as quickly.

The driver speeds down the road in the second he closes the door and Harry closes his eyes not to see the flashes of the thousands of lights of his street, but gulps when her naked body comes to his mind again.

He bites his finger, pushing the thought away. There's a time and place for everything, and that surely isn't the right one for him to let his curious mind wander.

They arrive at the residence not too long after, and Harry gets out of the vehicle right away, entering the palace and walking to the lift, reflecting on his latest escapade.

He likes to go to that place every few days. It's the perfect way to unwind, cleanse his body from his sins and his stress and starting anew. He doesn't get to do so a lot in his day to day life.

The doors of the lift finally open and he runs out of it as if he'd seen a ghost inside, frowning when he's stopped by the man behind the desk before he can get to the other one.

"Someone left this here for you a few minutes ago, sir."

Harry glances at the man, raising an eyebrow when he notices he's holding up a cup. Why would anyone leave a cup for him?

"It's coffee, sir," the other adds, as if he can read his mind.

"Coffee?" Harry is confused. He isn't confused often, so he absolutely hates it. It takes him only a couple of seconds to remember an event from a couple of days before, and he visibly relaxes. "Was it a girl, average height, brightest eyes you've ever seen?"

The other man clears his throat nervously. "I mean, I don't know about the eyes, sir, but it seems to fit her description."

"Alright," Harry says, taking the cup form him and walking to the other lift.

He presses the button of his floor and turns his attention to the plastic cup in his hands just as the doors close.

The liquid inside seems to be still warm, so he takes a sip. He has to refrain the sudden need to spit it out that overcomes him in the second the coffee touches his tongue.

Too much sugar. It's almost sickeningly sweet.

He doesn't mind, though. He's been brought the perfect coffee one too many times, it doesn't have the same effect on him anymore. It's just natural, it's expected.

But Lark fucked up his order.

He definitely doesn't mind.

The doors open again and he walks out, ignoring all the looks that are sent his way and everyone that tries to talk to him and making a beeline for his office.

He lets the door close behind him and walks to the small cabinet on the side of the room, taking out one of the most expensive bottles of whiskey he has and generously correcting the coffee. He sips it again, and the second time around the alcohol makes it taste better.

He closes the cabinet and sits on the little sofa on the side of the room, staring at the brightly illuminated city right out of the window while sipping his makeshift drink.

He feels like a fraud sometimes.

The door of his office is suddenly opened and someone runs inside. Harry grimaces, but turns towards the annoying newcomer, sighing and standing up when he realises it's one of his agents.

He leaves the coffee on the floor next to the sofa and moves closer to his desk, raising an eyebrow when he notices a dish of cherries on top of it. He's been requesting them every evening for the past week or so, but he'd totally forgotten about them today. Until now.

"It's the Revolution, sir," the agent tells him even before he can ask him why he's daring to bother him in such a way at that time. "They're getting ready for something."

"Getting ready for something?" Harry asks, mildly uninterested, sitting behind his desk. He's heard many things on the Revolution lately, but none of them has been worth of his attention.

"They're breaking into our warehouses and stealing food and weapons," the other says, and that gets his attention. "Some voices say they're recruiting more people too."

Harry looks up at him, a serious look in his eyes. "Any idea about their location?"

"Not yet, sir."

He doesn't like it. He hates everything he can't control, he has to put an end to what they're doing. He won't let them threaten everything he built. "You're dismissed."

The man nods and flees the room, leaving him alone with his thoughts.

It doesn't surprise him that the Revolution is getting ready to fight back. He was waiting for them to, if he had to be honest. He was thoroughly confused when they didn't do anything after he killed their leader.

He expected a reaction, he thought something would happen, but nothing had.

But what if something indeed happened and he just doesn't know yet?

There's a knock on the door and he looks up instantly, wetting his lips with his tongue when he realises Lark is standing in the frame.

"Can I come in?"

Harry automatically stands up. "You may."

He observes her quietly as she walks into the room, letting her gaze wander around for a second before glancing at him again.

"I was wondering if you got my coffee?"

The corners of his lips turn up slightly. "I did," he answers, "although I'm sorry to inform you that you put too much sugar in it."

"Oh," she murmurs, seeming to be a bit embarrassed, and Harry's having much more fun than he should at this point. "I see you aren't a sweet kind of person then, are you?"

"Not in the slightest."

Lark hums. "I'll keep it in mind for the future then." Her gaze gravitates to the desk he's still standing behind, and her eyes widen a bit in surprise. "Oh, cherries," she comments, "can I steal one?"

Harry gives her a faint nod. "By all means."

Lark gives him a smile and takes a red cherry from the bowl, parting her even redder lips and popping it into her mouth. She pulls at the stem while holding onto the sweet fruit with her teeth to make it come off, and Harry observes her, almost transfixed, when she hums gently.

"This is actually very sweet," she tells him, looking at him straight in the eyes, and for an instant he feels like he's staring at his own demise.

"Oh," he says, not paying attention to the words that are leaving his mouth, and she gives him a playful smile.

"It looks like you're a liar, Mr. Styles."

I hope you enjoyed this chapter x
Miki