#Harry styles makes good music I’m just not aware of all of of said music

[munsonthemisfit]

“people” they said, hm. 🙄🤨

educating people on harry styles and his music is my full time job <33

[hardcandycigarette]

Long Way Down PART Three

LONG WAY DOWN PART 3

Welp, the Styles family isn’t doing great without Y/N, and Auntie Gemma has a few opinions. We’ve got more fluff and dad!rry here. Once we get to Part Four we are back to some angst and more feels.

Stick with it guys. And thanks to everyone who has given such positive feedback. It makes my day to hear from you.

Word Count 6.7K

Warnings-  a few curse words. If I missed a warning let me know.

“All right, thanks.” Harry taps the screen on his phone to end the call. “He slings it on the coffee table. Shaking his head, he lies back on the sofa. “Not at her mother’s, sisters’, or Julia’s.”

“We have spoken to everyone in her most intimate circle of friends and family, so do you have anyone else in mind?” Gemma asks.

His ring-clad fingers run through his messy hair as he throws his head back, face toward the ceiling with his eyes closed. “She had everything she wanted, Gem. All of it: houses, cars, love, money, and babies, she had everything she could possibly desire.“

"It’s not everything, you know. I am sure you are aware of that. I think you can let go of that story now.”

“What do you mean by that, Gemma?”

“There’s a shocker. It appears you didn’t listen to what she was saying to you.”

Taking a deep breath, he lifts his head and leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “In fact, I was listening to what she said. I told you almost word-for-word everything she said.”

“Harry, she told you she needed you. She wants you, her husband.” She points to the hallway. “They need you.”

I’m on a break, not going on tour anytime soon.“

“What’s a while, Harry? A week, a month, a day? She never knows.”

“A while. I dunno.” He shrugs. “After Manchester, contracts are over.”

“Oh, get off it. That means nothing. Numerous contracts have ended, but the outcome is always the same. A signed contract, a new album, a new tour. Or three, then of course throw in a movie or two for good measure. Lather. Rinse. Repeat.”

“It’s m’ job Gem. Just because my job doesn’t look like everyone else’s doesn’t mean it’s not a job. Gotta feed m’ family, gotta pay for all this.” He raises his hands and makes a sweeping motion around the room.

She shakes her head. “It’s a job, but is it also a way for you to have your cake and eat it too?“

“What?” he scoffs.

“You have the beautiful wife, incredible children, and the comfort of knowing that someone is there for you 24/7. There’s also the glitz, fame, millions of people adoring you, and tons of money too. Pretty nice setup if you ask me.”

"Well, I didn’t and you’re full of shit, that’s what you are.” He points at her as he stands, then places his hands on his hips as he stares at the ground.

“Oh, you wish I was full shit.”

“Are you saying I was wrong? Should I have never married the woman I love and never had a family?”

“No, I’m saying you should think about what she wants and needs. Loads of people have jobs in the music industry that don’t take them constantly away from their families. She needs you to be present. She wants to know her husband isn’t writing a song in his head or doesn’t need to go meet with Jeff or whatever it is you do.“ She waves her hand.

"Whatever it is I do?”

“Yes, whatever it is, you do. You realize they need to eat soon.” She nods toward the kids’ rooms.

“Okay, well, let’s get that sorted.” He picks up his phone.

“Is Y/N still breastfeeding?”

“Weaning, but we have milk too.”

Gemma picks up the mugs, napkins, and the plate with one last biscuit and walks to the kitchen. Harry thumbs at the screen of his phone.

When she returns, she says, “The kitchen’s still a mess, isn’t it?”

“I cleaned it.” Harry stares at his phone.

“That’s not clean, Harry.”

“”Tis.”

“No, that’s half-assed,” she says.

Harry doesn’t look up.

“What did you order?”

He shakes his head as he focuses on the phone and scrolls.

“I don’t know what to order.”

“Just choose something. It’s not life-altering.”

Harry stands and leaves the room, heading to Y/N’s office.

When he returns, he carries a thick, heavy binder. "So bloody much.” He drops it on the coffee table and sits.

“Jesus, Harry, gonna break the flippin’ glass off the table. What is that?”

The deep red binder is a 4-inch, 3-ring binder. It’s open, laid flat on the table. It has three color-coded sections: purple, yellow, and blue. “This binder- is filled with everything we could possibly need to know about m’ kids.”

Gemma shakes her head. "No, things you need to know about your kids. Your kids Harry, things you need to know, do you hear yourself?”

His eyes are fixed on the binder as he flips through it, but he doesn’t respond. “Gemma. Each child has their own color. She has their likes and dislikes, allergies, movies they hate, songs they like, ways to calm ‘em down, and discipline that works. She also knows when to take it easy on them and when to be stern. She’s even got their favorite clothes.”

“Well, numb nuts, learning anything?”

He rolls his eyes and nods. “Yeah, but it’s so much.” He closes the book and picks up the phone. He punches around on the screen, scrolling once again.

Gemma reaches across the table, picks up the binder, and places it on her lap. She turns the pages, stopping on certain ones to skim the page.

After a few minutes, Harry puts his phone on the table. “Got it. 20 minutes it’ll be here.” He lays his head back against the sofa.

“Did you decide to order by looking at this?”

He chuckles. “No, I actually know what they like from The Dragon.” He sits up and gets his phone. “Gotta call Winifred, make sure she’s coming tomorrow.”

“It’s Sunday.”

“Yeah, she started comin’ on Sundays to get us setup for the week, and she has some sorta smthn she likes to do on Mondays.” He picks up the phone and dials the number. Soon there is someone else on the other end. “Yes, Winifred. It’s Mr. Styl-. Yes, I know it must be a surprise to hear from me. Look, I was calling to make sure you will be here tomorrow. I’m sorry, say again. Yeah, train stations can be quite loud. Oh, she did? No, I think there must’ve been a misunderstanding. Y/N is not available at the moment, so that must be a mistake. Really? Well, it would be really lovely if you could come in. Oh, of course, yes. I’m sorry to bother you, and please enjoy your time. We’ll see you when you get back. Take care.” Harry hits the red button on the phone’s screen.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

Gemma glances up from a binder. She almost laughs at his overreaction to everything. “What now?”

“The housekeeper, Winifred? She’s at the train station, so she won’t be here this week. Y/N called and told her she could have a paid week off so she could visit her family.“

Now Gemma really wants to laugh. Well done, Y/N.

“What now, Gem?”

"I don’t know, Harry.” She turns a page in the binder, not even caring what she reads, just doesn’t want to look at Harry.

“Listen, there’s plenty of space. Maybe you could stay and-“

She shakes her head, “No, absolutely not.”

“C’mon, Gemma, I need ya.’”

“No, I can’t. I have work. Tomorrow is a super busy day. I’ve got to set my own self up for the week. And what you need to do is listen to your wife.”

“I’m callin’ her again. I mean callin’ her, not textin’ this time.”

Gemma notices that whenever he feels excited about something, good or bad, his hometown accent pops up, especially in private.

He dials Y/N. In seconds he hangs up the phone. “Voicemail.”

“Must’ve turned it off,” Gemma replies.

“Or maybe the battery died.”

"Maybe. Okay, so you don’t have Y/N. That’s a given. Winifred won’t be here, and I’m not staying, so what’s your plan?”

“She’ll be back tomorrow. Won’t be able to stay away from the kids longer than that.“ He stares at the floor. “Where could she be?”

The two are quiet for a long time.

Gemma breaks the silence. "Did you know that Lola will only eat peas if you mix them in applesauce? Strange combo, but she is your child, so strange comes naturally, I suppose.”

“What?”

“Lola, her pea, applesauce combo?”

“Yeah. That started sometime when I was on tour.”

A cry from the nursery pierces the air. Harry stands and jogs down the hall. She follows closely behind him. He pushes Archer’s door open. It appears the three kids were playing on the floor until a moment ago.

Harry picks up a crying Lola. “What’s this all about, huh? Wha’s m’ girl cryin’ for?” He kisses her head and pulls her close. Tears, drool, and snot drip down her face like a little waterfall. “What happen’?” Harry asks the other two.

“Nothing, Daddy,” Archer says.

“Well, somethin’ obv’sly happen,’ or she wouldn’t be cryin’ like this, would she?”

“She’s a baby,” Poppy answers as she rolls a toy truck along the rug.

Gemma stands at the door.

“We were just playing Dad, just rolling the ball like we were when you and Auntie Gemma left,” Archer says.

Harry walks to the changing table and grabs a burp cloth to wipe Lola’s face. “Told you to be gentle with her. She’s just now sittin’ and playin’ without fallin’ ver all the time. Gotta be careful. Can’t have been five minutes since we left ya’ in here.”

“We were nice, Daddy. She didn’t even fall over,” Archer points out.

“Oh my goodness, my sweet girl, you’re burnin’ up.” Harry cuddles her even tighter.

Gemma extends her arms toward the baby as she approaches. “Let me see Harry, so over the top all the time. She’s probably just a bit warm.” She takes the baby in her arms and places her hand on her face. "Jesus, Harry, she is like a stove.”

“See, I told you she was hot. Oh, you’re so dramatic, Harry, quit bein’ over the top, Harry,” he mocks. The gate buzzes. “Must be the food- that was fast.”

“Not really; we’ve been in the living room for a while, just not talking.”

“Shove it with semantics, Gemma.” Harry walks past Gemma, down the hall, and out the front door.

“Soups on people. Whoever wants to eat,” he calls from the living room.

The kids run to the front of the house, where they find Harry carrying two large white paper shopping bags. Lola is in Gemma’s arms, still sniffling and whimpering . The scent of warm spices wafts through the room. “Smells delicious,” Gemma says.

“What is it, Daddy?” Poppy asks.

“The Dragon.”

It’s not called The Dragon, but that’s what the kids call the Asian restaurant the family frequents.

Lola continues to cry. “I’ll take her temperature. I’ll be back.” Gemma says, then turns and leaves the room.

“Okay, follow me to the kitchen. We aren’t gonna mess up Mummy’s pretty dining room table tonight.”

“She’s not here,” Poppy replies.

"Still, we aren’t going to mess up her table.”

Archer, Poppy, and Harry walk to the breakfast nook. He places the bags on the table, opens them, and begins revealing the night’s offerings. The kitchen light is on, but not over the table. He reaches up and pulls the string to the light as the kids sit, eager to eat. He puts two white cardboard containers on the table. Archer reaches over.

“S’cuse me, wait, please.“ Harry rolls his eyes and takes a deep breath.

“Sorry.”

Two more containers are removed, followed by two more. The second bag contains three more containers, cutlery, napkins, and plates. The children sit quietly, fidgeting, waiting to dig in. He walks behind them and pulls the frilly blue curtains closed. "We aren’t usually here at night, are we? Didn’t close ‘em this afternoon. Need to keep these closed.”

“Why?” Poppy asks.

"So the psychos can’t see us.”

“What’s psycho?”

“Archer, tha’s not a polite word,” Harry says.

“You say it. Cause Dad’s famous.”

“Famous?”

“Lots of people know him because of his singing,” Archer says.

Walking back to the other side of the table, Harry sighs. He opens two containers. “We have yours here, Poppy. Chicken fried rice, one piece of chicken, and one egg roll.” He opens the container, puts some on a plate, and hands her a fork and spoon. “Archer, shrimp, and no rice, with tons of veggies and one egg roll. You like the things I like. Good boy.” He serves him a plate.

Gemma returns and rests against the counter. “Not as high as I thought, probably just got too warm, but she does have a bit of a fever. What do you usually give her?”

"It’s in our bathroom, the medicine cabinet, the one by the sink on the right side.”

Gemma motions with her hand. "C'mon, you can do it. What’s it called, Harry?”

“Where is she?”

“In her crib.”

“Is she still cryin’? Wha’d ya leave her for?”

Gemma rolls her eyes. “I’m on my way back. Tell me about the medicine.”

“It’s red liquid. Never mind, I’ll get it.” Harry exits the kitchen and heads toward the children’s rooms.

Gemma walks over to the table. “Wow, this looks delicious and smells wonderful.” She sits with the kids for a moment before serving herself.

                                                                       ###

“Okay, she’s down. It took her a while, but she fell asleep,“ Harry says as he returns to the kitchen.

Gemma throws away the dirty plates, cups, and containers. "She alright?”

“Yeah.” Harry’s reply is curt.

“It was so yummy, Daddy,” Poppy says.

“Good, baby. I’m glad you liked it.”

“Is it time for ice cream?” Archer asks.

Harry sits. “Let me finish my food, mate.”

“Yeah, mate,” Poppy says as she stands in her seat.

“Poppy, when did all this standin’ on furniture start? Bottom. Seat. Now” He points to the bench beneath her.

Poppy sits.

“So, let me see, which one did I order? Ah, here it is.” Harry picks up the container and opens it to find room-temperature food. He gives a slight pout and then shrugs. “Eaten worse.” He serves himself. Before he sat, he was famished, but after four bites, he’s lost his desire for the meal.

Gemma wipes the countertops and going back over Harry’s previous kitchen cleanup. He covers the container of food and pushes it to the side. “Maybe I’ll want this later.” He stands, walks to the trash, and drops his plate in.

“Can we have ice cream now?” Archer asks.

“What?”

“You said we could have ice cream after dinner.”

“Oh yeah.” He walks to the fridge and opens the freezer door. “Gemma, you don’t have to clean that.“

“Don’t mind,” she answers.

He studies the freezer. "No ice cream; looks like we’re out.”

“But you promised.”

“I know, dude, but I didn’t know we didn’t have any.”

“Ice cream, Daddy,” Poppy calls out.

“Said we’re out, din’, I?”

“Can we go get some?” Archer asks.

Harry stares into the freezer, willing the ice cream to appear. “What? No, we’re not venturing out for ice cream.”

“But you promised.”

Harry walks over to Archer, leans over, and places his hand on the table. “Said we were out, that we’re not gonna go for any. Archer, you know you have really tried my patience today. Shudn’t give you any just based on your behavior, so when I say we’re out, that’s it. Full stop.“

Archer starts to cry.

“Now, we’re not cryin’. Normally, I understand, but today you’ve not been at your best, so I’ll see what we’ve got for a treat, but we’re not havin’ ice cream, and the cryin’ can stop.”

Harry walks to the pantry. Archer stops but still sniffles as he wipes his face on his shirt.

“Do you think Sarah would know? Where she is, I mean.” Gemma asks.

“Don’t think so.” Harry takes a bag of biscuits off the shelf and gives it to the children. "Two. You can each have two.” He puts two fingers in the air, opens the package, then sets it down before he turns to Gemma. He leans against the table, arms folded across his chest, legs crossed at the ankle. The children dig into the bag of biscuits.

“I don’t think she would know and I wouldn’t really wanna call ‘er, just yet because then she’ll tell Mitch, that blabber mouth will tell someone else.”

“He’s your closest mate, Harry.”

“But can’t keep a secret for shit.” Harry laughs. “Then Jeff is calling soon and he wants to know about my life story.”

"Well, then, my baby brother, what’s your plan?”

He straightens his posture, walks to Gemma, and then leans on the counter next to the sink. “Don’t have one, Gem. I don’t. I didn’t ever picture her leavin’ me, especially not knowin’ where she is.” He keeps his voice low, then drops to a whisper. “It’s scaring me,Sis.”

“I am so sorry this happened, Harry. I really am. I wish I knew what to say.” She finishes washing her hands and then dries them on a kitchen towel.

"If you can’t stay, and I understand you have work, then I’ve got to call Mum. She could leave in the morning and be here sometime in the afternoon.”

“Can’t. She’s on some kind of retreat. Tried to call her on my way over.”

"Dammit, Gemma, I told you I wasn’t callin’ her yet.”

"Calm your britches, hot pants. I was calling her about something else.”

Harry shrugs. “Okay, well then, it looks like ’m on m’ own tomorrow.”

She nods toward the children. "Want me to stay for their baths and help put them to bed?”

“Nah, yeh alright, I’ll do it.” He opens his arms and reaches over for a hug.

She embraces her brother.

“She’s coming back, right, Gem?”

“You’re gonna be fine, Harry. All of you.“

                                                          ###

Lola’s cries jolt Harry awake at 3 AM. After being fussy all night, she’s only been down for four hours. Getting up with her at night is nothing new to him. When he’s home, he’s always the first one up with the kids at night. Nevertheless, a good night’s sleep would be welcome. Getting up, he walks towards Lola’s room.

The nightlight guides him to her bed once he’s in her room. As he picks her up, he bends over and kisses her. Holding her close, he rubs her back. "Shhh. What’s wrong, sweetheart?”

She cries and chews on her hand. “Dada.”

‘”Yeah, Dada’s got you. Let’s go change your diaper, shall we? Maybe that’s what you need.“ He walks to her changing table, lies her down, and cleans her up while she cries. Singing Adore You, he smiles at her. “Walk through fire for you. Just let me adore you,” He stops singing. “And darling, Daddy would walk through fire for you. He would do anything for you. I hope you always know that for the rest of your life.” When he is finished changing her, he picks her up and places her head on his shoulder.

For a moment, her cries soften, but soon they rip through the room again. “Let’s get your lovie, okay?” He walks to her crib to get her stuffed turtle, but he doesn’t see it. His hand reaches out and grabs a stuffed frog from her dresser for her to cuddle. She throws it on the ground as he sits in the chair. After picking it up, he gives it to her and begins rocking her. Still crying, she throws it again. Oh baby, why don’t we take your temperature? You don’t seem to be too hot, but let’s check.” He reaches over to the changing table and pulls out the thermometer. “Sit still for a minute, my angel. Daddy will be super quick.” He takes her temperature. It reads 100.6, which isn’t ideal but isn’t alarming. We’ll get you some medicine to help bring down your fever, okay?“

He stands and carries the baby back to his and Y/N’s bedroom. Once there, they walk to the bathroom, get the medicine, and in no surprise twist, she spits half of it out. Harry does not want to give her anything else to make up for what she has spit out. "Oh, that’s not very helpful, is it? You need all your medicine.” As the baby continues to cry, he walks the floor with her, jostling her just a bit. “Where’s your cute frog, huh? Where has he gone?” He carries the baby only to find the frog on the hallway floor. Her tiny chest releases a rough, rattled cough.

He picks up the stuffed frog and hands it to her. She throws it down. Harry gives up and leaves it there. Once back in the bedroom, he sits on the bed and turns on the TV. He’s not watching it, but it’s just something to drown out the silence filled only with Lola’s cries and the most recent addition of a cough. It doesn’t appear she’s about to quiet down anytime soon. Almost an hour after she woke up, Lola finally falls asleep on his chest. In the absence of her cries, Harry has drifted off as well. He wakes up to see the baby is finally calm. He lays the baby in the spot where his wife usually sleeps, covers half of her with a sheet, turns off the television, and falls asleep.

                                                          ###

A knock at the door startles him awake. He glances at the clock. It is 7:33. “Yes.” he croaks.

“Daddy.”.

“Yes.”

“Can I come in?”

“Yes, sweetheart.”

She walks over to the bed. “Why’s Lola in here?”

“She was feeling sick last night, so Daddy brought her in here.”

She pouts and looks at the floor. “Not fair.”

“What?”

She points to the baby. “She gets to be in here.”

“Well, I’m sorry, love, but don’t I always bring you in here when you’re sick?”

She looks at the ground. “Or stay in my room.”

“That’s right, but we’re always together if you’re sick, aren’t we?”

“Uh-huh.” She nods, then struggles to climb up on the bed with Harry and Lola, grabbing at the fluffy, white duvet..

"Here, Popscicle, let Daddy help, but walk over to my side- don’t want you falling on top of the baby.”

Poppy walks over to Harry, and he picks her up. She crawls over and plops down hard on his abdomen.

“UH, God, don’t kill me, kid. Don’t mind you comin’ up here but don’t need you playin’ so rough.”

“Sorry, Papa.”

He closes his eyes, but Poppy leans over, pushing his cheeks together. “You have a beard. It sticks.”

“Not quite a full beard but kind of, yeah.“ He rubs his nose while his eyes remain closed, then rests his hand above his head on the pillow. .

“Why?”

“It’s my time off, so I haven’t wanted to shave.”

“I don’t like it.”

“Sorry, I’ll consult you next time.”

“What?” She pulls the claw clip out of his hair, then tugs on his ear.

"Okay, Pop, let’s be calm.” He pats her on the hip. “We don’t need so much activity th’s early, do we?”

She grabs his large, bare hands. "Where are your rings?”

“Don’t need ‘em to sleep.”

Lola begins to whimper, but Harry places his hand on her. “Shh, Daddy’s here.” Her cries grow a little stronger just as there is a knock at the door, even though the door is open.

“Come in, Archer.”

“How’d ya’ know it was me?” He walks over to the bed.

“Didn’t figure a robber was knockin’ on the door, did I?

Archer climbs onto the foot of the bed and walks over to Harry and Poppy. "Archer, crawl or scoot, please before you-”

And before Harry can finish, the boy loses his balance and falls on Lola’s leg. She screams shrill and loud. The boy scurries away from her.

Now Harry’s eyes are open. “What is wrong with you?“ Told ya a million times to be careful ‘round the baby.” Harry sits up, then lifts Lola into his arms, soothing her with soft words and a back rub. "Why are you lot like a very adorable but ruthless gang?”

“What?” Archer asks.

“Said you’re adorable but complete chaos, don’t mind the rules, and act mean to people, like a gang, aren’t ya?”

“Did Mummy call?” Archer asks. “Did she?”

Harry hadn’t planned ahead for the question, partially because he hoped Y/N would come home or, at a minimum, actually call. "She’s fine. She is resting, just like I told you.”

“Will she call later?” Poppy asks.

“Not sure.” The baby continues to cry, though she’s much quieter now. “Alright, I’ll get Lola changed and freshened up since we’re all awake. You two go brush your teeth and wash your faces.”

Archer jumps off the bed but remains on his feet for only a second before landing on his knees. With the crying baby balanced in his arms, Harry crawls to where Archer is. “Alright?”

Breathless and startled, Archer answers, “Yeah.” He rubs his foot.

“Gonna hurt y’rself told ya ‘bout jumpin’ off the furniture. Thought we understood this.”

“Saw you jump over some stairs on stage. You didn’t get hurt,” he replies.

Harry scoots to the edge of the bed and stands. “Yeah, well, Daddy does lots of things he shouldn’t but ’m a grown-up.”

“Still dumb.” Archer stands.

“With that word again, Archer, if you say dumb one more time, ’m gonna g’v ya a timeout. Told ya ‘bout that yesterday.”

Poppy is jumping on the bed. “Hey, just watched ya’ brother fall, and now ya jumpin’ like a silly monkey. And stop jumpin’ and standin’ on furniture, will ya?”

“Don’t be mad, Daddy. It’s fun.” Her half-flattened curls swirl around her, as she flies up into the air.

She stops when she lands.

“Lots of things are fun, but that doesn’t mean we gotta do everything that’s fun. Poppy, come here. I’ll help you down. Now, go do what I said and brush your teeth and wash your faces..”

Poppy stumbles across the bed to Harry, who lifts her in his arms and puts her on the floor. Lola continues to fuss and cough, the rattle still in her chest. With a gentle pat, he hits Poppy’s bum. “Off ya’ go.”

Poppy rushes out of the room with Harry close behind. Archer limps alongside Harry. The children go into their bathroom, and Harry enters the nursery.

                                                          ####

“But today is donut day,” Archer says. “And my foot hurts.”

“Well, it might be donut day usually, but not today. I’ll make ya breakfast here. And as for ya foot, whose fault is that?” Harry takes eggs from the fridge.

Archer pouts and leans back on the bench in the breakfast nook. “Not fair.”

“Yeah, lotsa things not fair, my man.” While holding Lola, he grabs the milk and juice and then places them on the counter.

“But you promised us ice cream yesterday, no ice cream, now donut day, no donuts.” He crosses his arms and kicks the table. “Ow.” Archer cries out. “My foot.”

“What’s with the foot, Arch?”

“Hurt it.”

Harry shakes his head. “Well don’t kick the furniture.”

“Not that, from falling, Dad.”

Harry raises an eyebrow. “And if ya hadn’t been jumpin’ wouldn’t happen.”

“Fine, let my leg fall off.”

“Alright mate, here’s the deal, your leg isn’t going to fall off.  Your baby sister is sick. You can’t just start runnin’ about for donuts when someone’s sick- not good for them, and not right to spread germs to other people. We’re stayin’ here.” Harry walks to the pantry to get the bread and returns to the kitchen island. “Where’s Poppy?”

“Dunno.” Archer shrugs.

“Can you go find her, please? Can you do that for me?” Harry walks over and places Lola in her highchair.

Archer sniffles. “My foot hurts.”

Harry walks over to Archer and pats his thigh to signal the little boy to raise his foot. "Le’ me see.”

Archer raises his leg and rests his foot on Harry’s knee. Harry examines his foot. “Yeah, a bit swollen and a little red. Le’ me get you some ice.” He rests Archer’s foot on the bench.

Harry walks to the fridge, gets an ice pack, returns to Archer, and puts the ice on his son’s foot and ankle. “I’m not sure what’s hurt your foot or ankle. Keep it right there. Dad’ll be right back.”

Harry leaves the kitchen and walks to Poppy’s room. He finds Poppy in her closet eating a packet of jelly. Jelly is all over her face. “Oi, what’s this young lady?”

“Jelly.”

"I mean, I see that, but why? And where did you get it? But also, why?” he tries not to laugh at the complete ridiculousness of it all.

“It’s good.”

“It is, but we don’t just eat jelly packets, and why are you in the dark again?”

She laughs. “Can’t reach the light besides told ya I like it Papa.”

Harry rolls his eyes. “So first things first, give me the jelly packet.”

She hands him the small jelly packet split open with the red substance puffing out.

“Are there more?” Harry turns on the closet light.

She nods.

“And can I have them?”

She shakes her head. “No. Mine.”

He squats. “Actually, everything in this house is mine. I paid for it, so really, the jelly is mine.“ He smiles at her. He knows they don’t buy jelly packets, and though he’s curious as to where she got them  he doesn’t have time to talk about now.

“Nope.” She giggles.

"Poppy, please show me where the rest is.”

She stands up and walks out of the room. In the hallway, she picks up Lola’s toy frog. "Why’s this here?”

Harry tosses the half-eaten jelly packet in the bin as he exits the room. “Ya sister threw it down so many times I quit picking it up last night. Guess that’s where it finally landed.”

She lifts her sweet, cherub face to him. "It’s the wrong one.”

“What’s that jelly face?“

She blinks and stares at him. "She doesn’t like it.”

“Well, I couldn’t find her turtle.”

“Prolly lost it. She does that.”

He rubs the top of her head. “You used to do that too.”

“Know, but Mumma fixed it.”

He can’t help but grin. “How’d she do that?”

In her small sticky hand, she takes Harry’s hand and leads him down the hall to a storage closet. “Here.”

“In here?”

“Yeah, it’s got lovies.” She struggles to turn the doorknob.

Harry places his hand over hers and turns the knob. Inside the closet at the very top is a shelf of stuffed animals and blankets, multiples of each one. Some he recognizes are Archer’s, Poppy’s, and Lola’s. “What’s this?”

“If we lose it, Mummy fixes it.”

“Well, that’s very smart of Mummy.“ He reaches up and takes one of the stuffed turtles down, tucks it under his arm. "I’ll cut the tags off this when we get to the kitchen.” He heads back down the hall. “Poppy, need you to wash your face and hands, then come to the kitchen, please.”

Back in the kitchen, Lola kicks and fusses in her highchair. Archer talks to her about football. “So when they score a goal like that, they get a trophy.”

“Talkin’ footie with Lola?” Harry walks to the sink to wash the jelly off his hands.

“Yeah, but my foot still hurts.”

“Let me get ya somethin’ for it. Watch Lola just one more minute- I’ll be right back.”

Harry jogs down the hall, still carrying the turtle. He meets up with Poppy. “Go to the kitchen, love. I’ll be right there.”

“You did it wrong.”

“Did what wrong?”

She points to his hand. “The lovie.”

“What about it? Told ya I was gonna cut the tag off.”

“No.” She shakes her head. “I’ll show you.” Her clean but wet hand grabs Harry’s, and she leads him through his bedroom into the bathroom. He walks to the sink, grabs a children’s Tylenol for Archer, and closes the medicine cabinet. Poppy points to the counter. “There.”

“What love? Whatcha pointin’ at?”

“That. Smell good stuff.”

“This?” He points to Y/N’s perfume.

Poppy nods and smiles.

“Mummy’s perfume?”

“Yeah.”

“Poppy Daddy’s had a very crazy morning. Can you help me a little bit, love?”

“Spray the lovie.” She smiles at him.

“Spray the lovie with Mummy’s perfume?”

She nods and smiles again.

Harry picks up Y/Ns signature perfume and sprays the stuffed turtle. “Like that?”

“Yes. Mummy. Now you.”

“Me?” He points to himself and smiles.

“Now, spray you.”

Harry picks up his bottle of cologne. “This? My cologne?”

“Daddy, just spray.” Poppy laughs.

Harry sprays the turtle with his cologne.

“See, all fixed.” She throws her hands in the air.

“That’s it?” he asks.

“Uh-huh.”

“Well, that’s quite smart of Mummy, and you for knowing all of that.” He picks her up. “Does Mummy do that for you?”

“Yep. Then we can smell Mummy and Daddy.”

Harry is sure that if his heart weren’t already broken, it would have shattered at that moment. The baby wanted to smell him and Y/N. That’s why she didn’t like the frog. Harry kisses Poppy. “I love you, Pop. Know that?”

She wraps her arms around his neck and kisses him. “I love you,”

Harry lowers her to the ground and walks through the bedroom to his nightstand. He picks up his phone to check for any messages or calls from Y/N. Nothing. “Poppy, run along to the kitchen. I’ll be right there.”

The girl darts out of the room.

He sends Y/N a text.

Y/N I’ve learned my lesson, love. I’ll do better. Swear I will. Please call. Please come home. I’m dyin’ without you here. The kids are OK, except Lola’s a bit sick, but mostly we are all fine. Just want you home. Please, please come home. I love you more than I can ever say. Please at least let me know if you are okay. The kids keep asking about you. They miss you so much. Please give me another chance. XX-H

He slips the phone into his pocket and walks back to the kitchen.

“But he doesn’t even know why.” Poppy laughs as she talks to Archer.

"What’s got, you so giggly, Miss.”

“I was telling Archer about a boy at school.”

Harry walks over to sniffly, whining Lola. “Daddy’s here. Look what I got you.” He shows Lola the toy. He hands the baby the frog. She cuddles it close to her, delivering a fresh dose of snot right to the top of the frog. “I just sprayed it Lo, now it’s not gonna smell nice anymore.”

“It’s okay Dad it’ll be fine. She won’t care, if you sprayed it she’ll like it,” Archer says.

“Arch did you know about the sprayin’ the lovie trick?”

He shrugs. “Yeah, didn’t you?”

Harry smiles. “No. Feeling like I’ve been left out now.”

“Mum just does it,” Archer says. “Dad my foot hurts.”

“Right, sorry, here you go.” Harry hands him the Tylenol, then pours a cup of juice, and hands it to his son.

“So, I’m gonna make breakfast, then I need you guys to play as peacefully as possible because I have something important I need to take care of. Got it?”

The two kids nod.

“’M serious guys. I need ya to not fight, not jump on things, need you to be super, big time quiet. Can you please do this? And Archer, if you are so good, I will make sure we have ice cream by dinner.”

“Pinkie promise, Daddy.” Poppy extends her small pinky to him which he gladly wraps his large pinky around.

“Me too, Dad,” Archer says.  Harry extends his pinky which Archer hooks with his own.

“Alright. Thank you. Love you both.”

                                                           ###

Two hours later

Text From HARRY

Love, I know you’re angry, and I’m so sorry. I was wrong. I know you need your space. I’ll accept that, but can you please let me know you are somewhere safe, and that you are okay? It’s been more than 24 hours. I don’t see transactions on your cards. I know you have a private account and I can’t see that. That’s fine too, but I need to know you are safe. I’m waiting two more hours. If I don’t hear from you I’m calling the police, and reporting you missing.

                                                            ###

“Jeff do you not understand what time off means? Told ya I’m dealin’ with some stuff with m’ family. Told ya I’d call ya back when I get it settled. Yeah I get that but I can’t worry about the new contract right now. We’ve got plenty of time. Send it to my lawyers, once they go over it we’ll talk. OK, then I’ll schedule a meeting with them this week. Gonna talk to ya later.” Harry hangs up, and drops down into his black leather office chair, and exhales.

He spins the chair to face the desk, and opens his laptop, logs into the bank account- no signs of Y/N. He checks her credit cards. No updates to activity. He looks at his texts and missed calls. No Y/N.

He’s known her for nine years. One thing he knows is that she would never want to frighten her children. Even at her maddest the thought of Lola being sick would prompt her to call. Certainly her mum, sisters, and Julia would’ve told her Harry is looking for her. It makes him sick to think of contacting the police. The internet and rumor mills will explode once he does. Y/N knows that too, so the threat of police would’ve compelled her to call.

Harry decides to call her sister, mum and friend once more before taking the next step. After he makes no progress. He knows one more person who might be able to help him figure out what to do. He calls his most trusted security advisor, Liam.

After talking with Liam, he calls a meeting. Jeff, Glenne, Liam, Mitch and Sarah. All of them know he wouldn’t want to meet during a break unless the matter was urgent. Everyone agrees to be at the house in four hours.

“And so that’s it. That’s the whole story.” Harry throws his hands up in defeat, then begins to cry. His eyes water, a few tears trickle down his cheek. He takes a gulp of air. “I’ve called my mum. She was out of town so gotta give her some time. She will be here super early in the morning. We’ll need her. M’ dad is workin’ on fliers and posters. We’ll get those printed in-house so that the public isn’t in a panic before we talk to the police and we are ready to make an official statement.” He cherishes the people who sit at the table yet, he feels it’s betraying  Y/N to share such personal details of their marriage. What if he’s just blowing everything out of proportion? No, she would never do this, never. Something is wrong.

[karlie-what-you-want]

Grammy Voting, Record Labels, and Reputation…

An anonymous source with industry connections has provided me with some interesting context on the academy and has given me permission to share. I personally found it very eye-opening—just another layer or two that most of us would not even be aware of when considering things like awards, touring, and the power of record labels. Let’s begin.

* Grammy voting - 40% musical merit, 60% business

What does this mean? My source estimates that about 40% of the judging is based upon the content of the song/album/body of work being presented. Is the song actually good? Is the album sonically cohesive and coherent as a whole? What are the technical aspects that deserve recognition? Etc. This is what we, the audience, generally expect the Academy to be voting on, but that’s not all there is too it. In fact, my source feels that their estimation of 40% may actually be too generous based on what they have seen, because the business aspects of voting carry a lot more weight (again, roughly 60%, which means the business side matters more).

Look at it this way. Grammys are a form of currency in the music industry. Having a Grammy on a track or a record gives that project more exposure and more value, as well as being an excellent marketing ploy. The highest honor, the biggest gold star. So…

* Labels trade votes

According to my source, voting season is a big deal. A big part of the daily schedule for label executives at this time revolves around trading those votes. If you have something to offer, your artist will stand more of a chance. For example:

“Can you and your team vote for [my artist A] for album of the year?”

“Yes, but in exchange, I’d like you and yours to vote for [my artist B] for song of the year.”

Alternatively, and potentially more interestingly…

“Give me your votes this year, and next year, I will have my A-list artist give a collab and a few words of praise to your new up-and-coming artist whose first album you’re making right now.”

We’ve seen how much a little recognition can catapult a new artist into the stratosphere of fame and success. An IG story feature from Taylor is basically like having the light of god shine upon a new artist, and suddenly they’re not an obscure indie artist, but a shiny brand with big associations. Look at Conan Gray, Olivia Rodrigo, Girl in Red, Gracie Abrams. Allison were at varying levels of fame before Taylor acknowledged them, but they are massively famous now with a strong foothold in the industry that goes beyond their respective genres.

Please note, I’m not saying that Taylor is in charge of these things or at fault. I’m talking about the labels specifically, and the inner workings of them. I would imagine a lot of artists just do as they are instructed.

* Artists vs Labels, Labels vs Labels

It’s important to have a menial understanding of the labels themselves. The “Big Three” as it were (UMG, Warner, and Sony), while not technically being a conglomerate, have put in place a system of major cooperation. This is especially true for the big account labels.

What are big account labels? Well, using Sony as an example, they have a lot of “sub labels.” Some of these Sony created themselves, others they have bought. A lot of this is division by style. That said, a lot of the BIG accounts are with Columbia (Beyoncé, Springsteen, Adele, Bowie, and…oh hey, look, 1D, John Mayer, Calvin Harris…). For a lot of big accounts, this is where the vote trading happens. It determines who gets the best tour dates, the best venues, and in some ways, it stops mattering what label you have at this point—because there are so many outside factors.

* Yes, Grammy votes are even negotiated against touring dates and venues

My source has seen Grammy votes be traded in favor of freeing up a couple of nights at the O2, a big venue in London. When we look at these huge stadiums that popular artists often tour in, we have to remember how much has to be juggled in order to secure those dates. Many of those stadiums exist primarily for sporting events, so that is a big portion of any given year taken off of potential tour dates. Ie “You can’t perform there on any of these nights, because there’s a game happening.”

Tour dates and venues are often negotiated, planned, and booked years in advance. Oftentimes, a tour will be booked before the artist has even finished working on their album. Taylor’s next tour is probably booked already, or is being booked right now.

With that in mind, competition is going to be even higher for the nights that remain open. And how many artists are gunning to play at those stadiums? How can it be divided fairly and evenly? Well, it probably can’t, but that’s where the vote trading comes back into play. There is a lot of politics, trading, back-scratching, and back-stabbing going on regarding these things.

Let’s think of it in terms of X-Factor winners. They are all signed to Sony upon their victory—a huge label with plentiful resources and successful artists. But, Sony knows that most of the winners don’t actually find success in the industry, so are they going to invest time, money, and resources into the winners when they already see that track record? Of course not. My source says that in one particular year they have knowledge of, the season’s winner did not have a single person at the label assigned to them. Nobody to advocate, nobody to plan, nobody to book tours.

If a label loses interest or thinks you’re too much of a liability, they can simply let the contract expire (and potentially your career along with it).

In that regard, I can imagine how frustrating it would be to be signed to a label. You go on bright eyed and hopeful, excited that you got signed because you think that this will open up so many new opportunities for you. Then you discover that your label might not book you any shows at the best venues (or any venues at all), and you’re not allowed to perform without their permission. You don’t have much to negotiate with because you’re a new artist, so how can you ever prove yourself?

Alternatively, you’re a veteran artist who’s suddenly being neglected, but you notice the new artist without any released work is being promoted and getting all sorts of opportunities that you used to have. You don’t realize everything at play behind the curtain; all you know is that this thing that was supposed to put you ahead in the industry has now put you very far behind. Which brings me to…

* Why was Reputation snubbed during its Grammy season?

I’d imagine that if you’ve read this far, it’s all coming together for you now. In Miss Americana, we watched Taylor’s heart break over Reputation not being acknowledged by the Academy. She tearfully resolved to just make a better album. But there was so much more at play here.

We now know that during Reputation era, Taylor was in a battle with Scott B. and her label—hoping to secure her freedom. She wanted the rights to her work, and likely the freedom to show the world her true self. My source says that when Big Machine executives failed to campaign for Taylor at all in that Grammy season, they knew something was very, very wrong behind the scenes. A successful artist like Taylor would usually be the bread and butter of their label, and they were not advocating for her.

It was not a lack of talent or merit that lost Reputation a Grammy (or even a nod), but the fact that she had pushed back against the label in hopes of owning her own work and determining the direction it would go. This struggle seemed to start back with 1989 when Taylor decided to go full “pop” against their wishes. I can’t help wondering if Taylor wanting desperately to live her truth openly also contributed to this, which would make it even more heartbreaking.

I know some people in the GP were puzzling over why Midnights won AOTY, and I’m sure many of us around here have been baffled by the lack of critical acclaim for Reputation. I, obviously, am a huge fan of Taylor’s and I love to see her talents recognized. I also just enjoy discovering more about the inner-workings of Hollywood and the music industry. Fresh off the Grammys seemed like a great time to share this “insider’s perspective” that I’ve become privy to.

[positivelyholland]

You're Not Sorry II

PLEASE GO READ PART 1 FIRST

pairing: harry styles x daughter!reader

genre: hurt/comfort

warnings: fight with a parent, tell me if i missed anything else

summary: after a week of tension between you and your dad, Harry ultimately comes to his senses 7 days after saying the terrible words he did

A/N OMG ITS FINALLY HERE!!!

~~~~~~~~~~~~

1 week. 7 days. 168 hours. You haven't talked to your dad since his last blow up a week ago. And the thing is, he hasn't talked to you either. You figured his lack of apology proves he meant all the terrible things he said to you that day. 

It hurt like hell at first, you'll admit that. But eventually, you realized through the help of your amazing mother and friends that made you realize he's just not worth your time. If he's gonna act like that and still call himself your dad then might as well not let it bother you. 

Harry on the other hand, has been the complete opposite of content the past week. He was really stressed when he said those awful words to you, although he's aware that there's no good enough excuse for what he said.

 All he wants is to apologize and beg for your forgiveness to be able to give his daughter a hug. Although he figured you wouldn't want to talk to him so he didn't push your boundaries. However, while his words weren't necessarily affecting you too much at the moment, all you wanted was a hug from your dad. 

At the end of the day, all these problems would be solved by the word “sorry” coming out of Harry’s mouth, and you both knew that. 

So here we are, a week later. After a week of no contact between the father-daughter pair, Harry decided it was time to face you along with dealing with his mistakes. 

Taking a deep breath, Harry walks up the stairs to your room where you were currently blasting music from. He hesitantly knocks on your door, resulting in you pausing your music and letting out a loud groan before stomping over to your door. 

When you opened the door and were met face to face with your dad (aka the last person you were expecting to be knocking on your door), your facial expressions exposed how much surprise you were experiencing. 

Harry's heart broke at the shock in your face. Did you really not expect him to ever apologize? And your honest answer to that question was no. You were convinced he wasn't ever going to come to his senses and realize how terrible he was to you that day. 

But here he is. Awkwardly standing at your door, looking miserable due to how much he had been beating himself up lately. 

“Can I come in? I have some things I need to say” 

Harry’s voice was small and shy, you almost didn't hear it. You nodded your head in response and opened your door wider for him, before going over to sit on your bed. You patted the spot next to you, signaling for him to sit by you. 

Harry cautiously moves into your room and slowly sits to the spot next to you on your bed. The room is dead silent for a few long, excruciating minutes before he eventually speaks up. 

“I’m gonna start by saying I love you so much, don't you ever forget that. I know I haven't been very good at showing it lately but my love for my daughter is unconditional and will never change. I’ve been terrible to you lately and I hope we can move past this one day, but I understand if you never ever forgive me because I wouldn't forgive myself but-”

“Dad!! It's ok. I forgive you and I love you too” You interrupted his rambling because if you didn't it probably wouldn't have stopped for hours. 

“Wait really? Just like that?” Harry's face was a mix of surprise and so much love and appreciation for his incredible daughter.

“Of course, you're my dad. I love you too and everyone makes mistakes” you answered like it was no big deal. 

Harry made no response other than taking you into his arms and embracing you like he never has before. Hugging your dad was such an important thing to you, and being in his arms was something you wouldn't trade for the world. All your worries were washed away the second you felt his fatherly touch. 

“I love you dad”

“I love you so much y/n. Don't you ever forget that”

[blues824]

This might sound a little too much to ask, but could you do headcanons about Ace, Deuce, Jack, Epel, Ortho and Sebek going to the reader's world (which is real-life Earth), please? I would like to see them explore the countries and cities, taste the unique cuisines (including the ones they had never tried before), buying souvenirs, etc. I would also like to know their favorite singers, songs, movies, food, drinks, countries and cities from the reader's world.

I made myself hungry. Reader is barely mentioned, but kept gender-neutral. They are all aged-up because some characters have alcohol as a favorite beverage (besides Ortho).

Ace Trappola

Favorite country + city he visits: Los Angeles, United States. He loves the big city, and L.A. has a day-life and a night-life. NYC comes in second place for that same reason.

Favorite cultural cuisine and specific favorite food: It’s stated that he likes cherry pie, so he probably likes food from the U.K. (I looked it up and it said that cherry pie originated from there)

Favorite drink: Strawberry green tea with popping strawberry boba. Riddle’s taste for strawberry has rubbed off on him, and since L.A. has a lot of boba shops, he loves it.

Favorite souvenir: A fancier deck of cards, for obvious reasons

Favorite singers/songs: I have a feeling this man knows his Nicki, so his go-to song is Monster by Jay-Z, Rick Ross, Nicki Minaj, Bon Iver, and Kanye West

Favorite movie: High School Musical, but when you ask he will say something like Silent Hill to seem all bad and cool

Deuce Spade

Favorite country + city he visits: Probably Tijuana, Mexico. It’s right on the ocean, and therefore it has a beach. He would love to rent a motorcycle and ride with you all over town.

Favorite cultural cuisine and specific favorite food: Mexican food, specifically street tacos. Mexican street food is some of the best I’ve ever had. When you had him try it, he fell in love.

Favorite drink: Horchatas. They’re a popular drink, and he thinks it’s so good (so do I)

Favorite souvenir: A handmade keychain that has ‘T.J.’ engraved on it. 

Favorite singers/songs: I feel like he’d be into Bad Bunny, but more specifically the song ‘Te Bote’. Mans doesn’t know what the lyrics translate to, he just thinks it has a good beat. (Btw, I’m aware Bad Bunny is Puerto Rican)

Favorite movie: La Bamba. He loves it, but it always makes him cry. (😢 RIP Ritchie)

Jack Howl

Favorite country + city he visits: Madrid, Spain. Beautiful scenery, wonderful sunset skyline, and rooftop bars: all you need in life.

Favorite cultural cuisine and specific favorite food: Bocadillos, any kind as long as it doesn’t have green peppers.

Favorite drink: Sangria. His canonical favorite food is pear compote, so I feel like he would love a fruit-based drink

Favorite souvenir: A pair of Spanish sandals that he got custom-made. He thinks they are comfortable to walk in.

Favorite singers/songs: He loves the local artists that you can find on the streets, playing for flamenco dancers. His favorite song is Ninguna, by Juanes (I know Juanes is Colombian).

Favorite movie: Call of the Wild. It's a sad story that made him tear up the first time he watched it.

Epel Felmier

Favorite country + city he visits: Marseille, France. He went on a road trip all around France (as much as he could, anyway) and found that this place was at the top of his ‘favorites’ list.

Favorite cultural cuisine and specific favorite food: He does prefer macarons over macaroons, so French cuisine would be his favorite. However, Italian food comes in second.

Favorite drink: He wants to be seen as manly, so he would say his favorite drink is whiskey on the rocks (he does genuinely like it), but his favorite is actually a lighter spirit. He would settle for beer, though.

Favorite souvenir: A very small model of the Eiffel Tower.

Favorite singers/songs: Probably As It Was, by Harry Styles. He is secretly a Harry Styles fan 

Favorite movie: Like Ace, he would say his favorite movie is something like The Conjuring, but it’s the Titanic.

Ortho Shroud

Favorite country + city he visits: Thessaloniki, Greece… for obvious reasons.

Favorite cultural cuisine and specific favorite food: He doesn’t eat; he’s a robot

Favorite drink: He doesn’t drink; he’s a robot

Favorite souvenir: A chess set, but instead of normal pieces it’s Greek Soldiers

Favorite singers/songs: I feel like he likes older songs, so I will say Ain’t No Mountain High Enough, by Marvin Gaye and Tammi Terrell

Favorite movie: Guardians of the Galaxy

Sebek Zigvolt

Favorite country + city he visits: Stratford-upon-Avon, England. He likes to read, and this is where Shakespeare was born.

Favorite cultural cuisine and specific favorite food: I have reason to believe he likes Italian food. His favorite food remains salmon carpaccio.

Favorite drink: He doesn’t drink a lot, so his favorite drink is Earl-Grey Tea. However, when he needs to relax, he drinks campari (he probably likes the bitter flavor)

Favorite souvenir: A leather-bound copy of Romeo and Juliet

Favorite singers/songs: Until I Found You, by Stephen Sanchez (probably discovered after he read Romeo and Juliet for the first time)

Favorite movie: He loves the Harry Potter movies, and no one is allowed to argue with me.

[pankowcrumbs]

Chapter 2: The Invitation

The after-party was in full swing when you finally stepped inside, your nerves still buzzing from that surreal encounter on the red carpet. The venue was filled with a sea of glittering faces, the music loud, and laughter echoing through the air. You didn’t feel out of place, exactly, but something about tonight made you hyper-aware of your surroundings. Harry Styles had noticed you. And now, he wanted to meet you again.

It was strange—almost like something out of a dream. You’d heard about the magnetic energy he had, how effortlessly charismatic he was, but seeing it firsthand? It was on another level.

You made your way to the bar, needing something to settle your racing heart. The bartender gave you a knowing smile as you ordered a drink, and you were grateful for the few moments of calm. But it didn’t last long.

Just as you were taking a sip, you felt a presence beside you. The unmistakable scent of his cologne, fresh and woodsy, reached your senses before you even saw him.

"Mind if I join you?" Harry’s voice was smooth, like velvet, and it made your stomach flip in a way you couldn’t quite explain.

You turned, surprised but trying to hide it, to find him standing there—casual in a white shirt and black jeans, sleeves rolled up just enough to give you a glimpse of his tattoos. His hair was tousled in that perfect way that only he could pull off, and he gave you a small, playful smile.

"Not at all," you said, trying to keep your cool. You motioned to the empty seat beside you. "You found me quicker than I thought."

Harry laughed softly as he settled into the chair next to you, close enough that his shoulder brushed yours. "Well, I wasn’t going to let you slip away so easily."

You couldn’t help but smile at that. "Are you always this forward?"

He looked at you, eyes sparkling, and you could swear he was holding back a grin. "Only when I’m interested."

Your heart skipped a beat, and you tried to hide the shock behind a sip of your drink. His gaze was intense, but there was something warm about it—nothing intimidating, just genuine curiosity. "And what exactly are you interested in?" you asked, playing along.

"Well," Harry began, his voice low, teasing, "I’ve heard your music. I like it. But there’s something more. I like the way you carry yourself. You don’t seem like you’re here just to be seen—you’re present. You’re real."

The sincerity in his words caught you off guard. It wasn’t the kind of line you expected from someone like him, especially not from someone so famous. You raised an eyebrow, trying to process his compliment. "I appreciate that. I’m just here for the music, really."

"That’s refreshing," he said with a smile. "It’s not often you meet someone who isn’t playing the game."

You tilted your head, intrigued. "And what game is that?"

Harry chuckled, his eyes flickering around the room as if considering his answer. "The whole fame thing. The spotlight. People sometimes forget what they’re doing this for. But you…" He gave you a small, almost imperceptible shrug. "You don’t seem to care much about that."

"I mean," you said, glancing around, "it’s fun, but it’s not everything. There’s real value in making good music, you know?"

His smile widened at that. "I get that. I really do."

There was a moment of silence as both of you sipped your drinks, the music from the party providing a soft backdrop to the conversation. You felt strangely comfortable in his presence, like the world outside this small corner of the room didn’t matter.

"So," Harry broke the silence, leaning slightly closer, his voice playful, "what do you usually do when you’re not making music?"

You thought for a moment, surprised by how natural this felt. "Well, I’m usually writing songs, or recording. But I guess when I’m not doing that, I like to keep a low profile. I read a lot. I watch a ton of documentaries. And I definitely enjoy a good cup of coffee." You chuckled. "Not exactly glamorous."

He laughed along with you. "I think that sounds perfect. I’m definitely a coffee person too. You’d probably laugh if you saw how much I drink in a day."

"Oh, I get it," you said, raising an eyebrow. "Coffee is basically its own food group for me."

Harry’s eyes sparkled with amusement. "I love that. It’s the little things, you know? Like finding someone who understands the necessity of caffeine."

A few seconds passed, and Harry seemed to study you for a moment, his gaze thoughtful. "You know," he said slowly, "I’m not really one to stick around long at these things, but there’s something about you that makes me want to change that tonight."

Your pulse quickened again, but you kept your composure. "Oh? And what makes you want to change your plans?"

He looked at you, the playful smirk still there but now with something a little more sincere behind it. "Well, it’s not every day I meet someone who makes me feel like I’m not just another guy in the room. You’re not intimidated by who I am, and that’s… rare."

You couldn’t help but smile, the compliment settling into your chest like a warm hug. "I don’t see the point in being intimidated by anyone. We’re all just people, right?"

"Exactly," Harry agreed, his voice softer now. "And tonight, I’m glad we’re just two people having a conversation."

The moment lingered for a second longer than you expected, and for a brief moment, you forgot about everything else around you—the noise, the flashing lights, the people you were supposed to be mingling with. It was just the two of you, and it felt... nice.

Harry broke the silence again, his expression more serious now. "I was thinking… maybe we could get out of here? Grab that coffee you mentioned?"

You couldn’t suppress the smile that spread across your face. "You mean, leave the glitzy red carpet behind and go grab a cup of coffee?"

"Exactly," Harry said with a wink. "What do you say? You and me—coffee, and no cameras."

You hesitated for just a moment. This was Harry Styles asking you to leave an exclusive party, to step out of the spotlight and into something... more personal. It wasn’t exactly how you imagined your night going, but somehow, it felt like the right choice.

"Alright," you said, feeling the butterflies flutter in your stomach. "Let’s go grab that coffee."

[watching-pictures-move]

Movie Review | Miami Vice (Mann, 2006)

I last saw this movie nine years ago, when my awareness of the original TV series only was through parodies like Grand Theft Auto: Vice City and a general consensus I’d encountered that it was just some cheesy ‘80s cop show. And at the time I was pretty taken with its arthouse action movie stylings, if I can glibly summarize what the movie’s trying to do. So I was long overdue for a rewatch, especially after I’d spent the second half of last year going through the series. And listen, there’s no way I can be fully objective about any comparisons between the two, given that I could not shut up about the show the entire time I watched it and in the months since, and how obsessively I’ve rewatched the first encounter between Crockett and Tubbs and the subsequent chase scene on Youtube, and the fact that I still regularly listen to Jan Hammer’s score. So there may be a tinge of “this isn’t the Miami Vice I remember” fanboy whining to this.

But while this is on the surface a different beast, I don’t actually think it’s as divorced from the original series as seems to be the consensus. Michael Mann obviously has certain interests that he returns to, and there will be similarities in how you explore international drug dealing wherein Miami is a nexus, even if the particulars of how such crime is conducted differs across decades. But the sense of mood I don’t think is actually that divorced from the series, with its iconic music-video style needledrops that let you linger in feeling, it’s just now the music featured is way worse. (I’m a musical luddite and don’t listen to much past the mid ‘90s, so take what I say with a grain of salt, but I do think Mann’s taste in music here is substantially worse than it was in the ‘80s.)

Mann is applying a mumbly distanced arthouse style to the dramatics here, which is a novel choice given that action movies about drug dealers tend to be high on the dramatics. But quite frankly I’ve lost my tolerance for mumbly distanced arthouse style over the years, and I think it’s an especially bad mix with most of the performances here, which this time around I found bizarrely hammy. John Ortiz plays the main villain like he’s in an SNL sketch, and there’s an especially embarrassing scene where Naomie Harris and Eddie Marsan shout at each other in their respective shitty accents. Some of the actors seem to be channeling their TV counterparts but doing it way worse, like Colin Farrell doing a bad take on Don Johnson’s growl but also dropping it with every second line, or Barry Shabaka Henley trying to evoke Edward James Olmos’ minimalism and precision but instead coming off as a sleepy nonentity. The only good performances here are by Jamie Foxx, whose charisma survives Mann’s smothering dramatic style, and Tom Towles, whose unsavoury aura pierces through it not unlike how the better guest stars’ presences would emanate in the original series. Others seem to be taken with Gong Li’s performance, but I found her dialogue too stilted, and whatever emotion is supposed to be there between her and Farrell I did not feel at all this time around.

All that being said, the visual style did still work for me this time around. A lot has been said by smarter people than myself about Mann’s use of digital cinematography. I will point out collapsing effect of the digital image, both in its sense of depth (which makes the over the shoulder shots in the action scenes especially immediate) and in colour (with lights becoming bright smears and shadows crushing in their darkness) and the tension between the movie’s stylization and verisimilitude are summarized somewhat poetically in the dialogue. “Fabricated identity and what’s really up collapse into one frame.” And the art direction here is much more muted than in the original series (not a lot of pastel or neon here), but I do think the way the digital image makes the texture of the fabrics shimmer makes for a pretty interesting visual flourish.

[thebestofoneshots]

☆ star

hi!! i’m not sure if this description will be helpful in the slightest but i hope so 🤞🤞

physical/ public appearance: british, mid size, chubby-ish face, 5’6, curly brown hair, freckled and usually rosy cheeked,

personality: extroverted introverted and awkward 100% UNLESS i’m with someone i know and am comfortable with, soft girl at heart and love a good fluffy fic, people pleaser so my feelings are shared with me and me only, shy in social situations, sarcastic, odd humour but funny when i know you, my social battery is controversial so i’ll deffo need time to myself but am super energetic for periods of time and like to have fun, aquarius, INTJ personality, i easily hold grudges and fend for myself if someone wrongs me

hobbies/ things about me: i love art, reading (wattpad hehe), i spend all day everyday crocheting or knitting, i get hyper fixated on piano for a few weeks then won’t go near it for the next 3 months, music is my life (i’m a harrie but also love taylor, pheobe bridgers, 1D, lana, inhaler, wallows, queen, jeff buckley etc), love love love coming of age movies (and harry potter ofc), my style is a mixture between downtown streetwear grandpa and hippie (depends on my mood), marauders gal for sure (remus or poly = favs)

i’m not sure what else there is to say so THANK YOU 🌷💌

If you want to participate in "TBOS' 400 Followers Celebration" too, you can look at this post for all the options of prompts you can choose from <3

☆ Star: send a short description of yourself and I’ll tell you who I ship you with!

Ufff, I definitely, definitely ship you with Remus, but also, somehow Sirius as well? But it was 100% Remus who developed a crush on you first. It started when you stole one of his sweaters. It wasn’t intentional; you were cold, and Sirius was carrying it around in his backpack so he gave it to you. You wore it all day, and Remus only realized you were wearing his sweater in the evening when you walked into the common room with it on.

“That’s mine,” he said with a little frown, still, finding it cute how big it was on you.

“Oh, is it? Sirius borrowed it to me earlier, sorry,” you said and took it off quickly before tossing it his way.

“I didn’t… You can still wear it if you’re cold," he told you, a little more politely now.

“It’s fine,” you told him as you approached the fireplace to sit beside it. “I’m warmer now, thanks, Rem.” You then pulled out some yarn and a work in progress from your bag and continued knitting. Remus observed you quietly from behind, wondering if he could ever do such artistic work with his own hands. He had seen you knit before, yeah, but he wasn't sure if he had actually seen you the same way he had that day.

Next time he put on the sweater, it smelled like you, and it drove him crazy because he liked the smell a little too much. He was honestly debating whether to take it off so the scent wouldn't wear off. Sirius noticed his hesitance and smiled.

“Looks like my boyfriend has developed a little crush.”

“What?” Remus turned to the boy alarmed. “What are you…? That’s ridiculous!”

Sirius only shrugged. “I also think she’s pretty,” he said, nodding to the sweater. “I wouldn’t mind sharing you. As long as it was with her.”

Next thing you knew, Sirius was casually flirting with you, not so much that it would intimidate you, but enough to make your heart flutter in despair, since you were very aware of his relationship with Remus. But then Remus started to grow closer to you too. He asked you to teach him how to knit, and even if his pieces had these huge holes at the start, he pulled through. And that’s not to mention how much he loved your classes, how you would sometimes place your small hands over his to tell him what to do, and how you’d laugh when you helped him fix a big hole. Remus was absolutely smitten.

Eventually, the boys invited you to Hogsmeade. You assumed it would be a friendly reunion with everyone. But when you walked to the meeting point just outside the castle, you realized only the two of them were waiting for you. On the way to Hogsmeade, you discovered you and Sirius also had a lot in common, especially when you started to talk about music. You told him your favorite song was 'Too Much Love Will Kill You,' and he laughed, because too much love would definitely not kill you.

At the Three Broomsticks, they talked to you about their crush and how they wanted you to join their relationship, if you were okay with it, of course. You were a little shy at first but decided to give it a try. After all, you found both boys stunning in their own ways, your crush on them growing exponentially the more time you spend with the two. Even if you weren't sure how dating two boys at the same time would work, you decided you'd figure it out along the way.

A/N: I hope you liked this, I know I've been taking so long on finishing the stuff from my 400 Follower celebration, but they'll all come out soon. If I haven't done yours, is not because I don't want to or I won't, I've just been a little too busy with work.

Much love, Lilly xx

MASTERLIST

[comeon-harry]

Spent part of my day off re-reading harry profiles and these were some of the things that struck me:

- he really loves to take reporters cold water swimming

- he must have so much clothing and bags and everything like I’d pay good money to see his wardrobe/ where they’re all kept

- this quote  “ You can't win music. It's not like Formula One," he said. "I was like, in my lifetime, there will be 10 more people who burst onto the scene in that way, and I'm only going to get further away from being the young thing. So, get comfortable with finding something else that makes you happy. I just found that so liberating."  (BHG)  And yet he just seems to still be getting bigger.

- he really does revert back to the same images and phrases like “bowling with the bumpers up” it’s no surprise he did the same things when he was lost for words at the grammys

- it’s kind of insane the amount of details about people that he remembers considering he must meet so many people all the time and it really is a sign that he pays attention to people, he cares about the interactions

- lol at his curiosity to just learn, even if it’s about how magazine deadlines work

-  “ He thinks hard about love, shame, honesty, and the importance of kindness and therapy. And he worries. He worries about how he can be one of the biggest pop stars in the world, the kind who can be everything for his fans while also being a great son, brother, friend, and partner to the people standing beside him.” (RS)

- I LOVE HIS CURIOUSITY AND DESIRE TO LEARN EVERYTHING ABOUT EVERYTHING AND ABOUT HIMSELF

-  “Styles is not the most online person — he uses Instagram to look at plants and architecture posts, has never had the TikTok app, and calls Twitter “a shitstorm of people trying to be awful to people” (RS) — but he’s still aware of how those small, toxic corners of the internet are treating the people closest to him.” all of this! I want to know what plants he likes, what plant pages does he follow, what kind of architecture does he like, i want to hear him say the words shitstorm, how difficult it must be to have this group of people who have allowed you to do this job you adore but it comes with having a portion of this group be downright cruel to the people you love most around you

-  “It’s obviously a difficult feeling to feel like being close to me means you’re at the ransom of a corner of Twitter or something,” (RS)

-  “ He thought about going completely off the grid while making it: maybe get a flip phone, stop making music. “The reality is you get there on the first day and wait around for 75 percent of it,” he says. “And it’s like, ‘Actually I’m going to text my mate.’ ” (RS) - so relatable lol this is me. the desire to be kind of artsy and cut off from the world but the reality is it’s kind of a pain and kind of boring

- he’s so funny wearing those beat up shoes with the heels squashed down in all the pictures along with all these fancy clothes like how do those conversations go 

- he had the whole my policeman part memorised before the audition

- i’d love to see him play the piano on stage. i’d love to see how much he’s improved

- someone who is “inexplicably difficult to casually enjoy” that sounds right

- he watches love island which idk why this surprised me like we know he watches the RHOBH and i want to hear all of his thoughts

[dont-call-me-baby-posts]

Blacking Out and Breaking Hearts - Bonus Chapter 3

Blacking Out and Breaking Hearts - Masterlist

Word Count: 10.1k

Warnings: Nothing really just the usual.

Summary: Harry listens to BOBH for the first time and decides she really is better off without him.

Alternatively: The One About BOBH.

A/N: OKAY LISTEN I genuinely really like this one I feel like it's really good! It's all about Harry's reactions to the album. You can listen along to the BOBH playlist here: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/4zgfuDLKeWWLLVD4EdbC9A?si=107ed28cb837450c

Bonus Chapter 3

“Aren’t you nervous?”

Harry was restless, legs kicking over themselves anxiously. He was trying, quite genuinely, to seem at ease, but the fingers picking at a seam on his jeans gave him away. Anders looked at him under his brows, taking one more bite of his salad.

“And why would I be nervous?” Anders retorted shortly, hiding the humorous edge to his voice. He continued stabbing his fork into his meal, a little too hungry to stop what he was doing for the sixth time and talk Harry off the edge. Harry just sighed, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes.

“I dunno…” He groaned, throwing himself backwards in his chair. The quiet chattering of the restaurant played like music behind them, the noise settling all around. Harry felt it in particular right between his shoulder blades, every syllable and whisper and friendly laugh from a neighboring table making him feel a bit more tense. He thought for sure he was going to lose his patience any second, deciding to take his pent up aggression out on his plate in front of him as he shoved it across the table. “I don’t want to eat a fucking salad right now. Why would you tell me to order a salad?”

Anders widened his eyes, chewing a bit slower now. “Fucking calm down, man…” He chuckled, though his eyes shifted around the room a bit hesitantly. “Just order something else then. I didn’t make you order it.”

“You suggested it.”

Anders dropped his fork, tossing his hands up. “Okay, sorry? Jesus Christ, dude...” Anders bit his tongue, resisting the urge to tell Harry to get a fucking grip. “Do you want me to get you something else?”

Anders craned his neck a bit, trying to spot a server. He wasn’t exactly sure what he was going to do once he found one, because he definitely wasn’t going to just wave them over to their table like an asshole, hoping silently that Harry would stop him before he got that far. At this point he knew him well enough to know he would, Harry’s hand coming out to rest on Anders’ shoulder.

“S’fine.” Harry pouted, biting at the corner of his lip. He frowned. “I’m not really hungry, anyway.”

“Can I have yours, then?” Anders asked, reaching towards Harry’s plate before quickly retreating under Harry’s angry glare. Anders sighed, shaking his head. “Why’d you invite me out to eat, then? I could’ve had a salad at home without you yelling at me. There’s going to be pictures of this, you know? Everyone’s going to think you hate me or something.”

Harry sat up a bit straighter, his expression softening after a few seconds as he realized Anders was right.

Now, Anders wasn’t usually the one to care about that sort of thing. About the “public” or his “image” or all of that shit… But he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t a bit more on edge these days. Ever since getting out of rehab he had been hyper aware, more than ever, of how everyone saw him. Could they tell, somehow, where he’d been? Did someone somehow have a picture of him, skinny and shaking and on the verge of throwing up, curled up on one of those lime green chairs in the rec room? He wanted to fly under the radar entirely, at least for a while, and having a photo of him with Harry Styles arguing would certainly not help achieve that. Not that they were fighting, but given Harry’s body language it would be easy to spin it that way.

Anders was annoyed, just for a second, that his brain worked that way now. Always thinking one step ahead. Dissecting his movements down to the last blink. Folding himself into whatever shape he thought was most appropriate like origami, trying to ignore the way the paper had already been creased in places it shouldn’t have been.

“I didn’t want to sit around at home jus’ waiting.” Harry answered him, his tone fixed from upset to mildly annoyed. The corners of his mouth turned into a bit of a sneer as he said the last words, as if just the idea of waiting disgusted him to his core. “And if you could eat a fucking salad at home then why order one here?”

“Vegetables are good for you, Hardin.”

(Anders had just been informed of the whole “After” situation, which was at this point old news to everyone else. He hadn’t been able to get the image out of his head, taking almost every possible opportunity to bring it up. He’d even stayed up late the very first night he’d been home from rehab watching the movies just to distract himself. There really was no better way to keep himself busy than watching a film based on a fanfiction based on one of his closest friends. Y/N was upstairs in her room, Anders on her couch with a hand covering up his snickering, none the wiser).

Harry groaned, loudly, covering his face with his hands as his head fell back to rest on the booth behind him. He groaned for a second before sitting upright again, pointing a finger to Anders.

“Don’t fucking call me that. Jesus Fucking Christ, let it go!”

“Calm down!” Anders laughed, looking around. A few pairs of eyes had found them at Harry’s outburst, making Anders slink down a bit in his seat. “People are going to think you’re mad at me!”

“I am mad at you!”

Anders just shook his head. This whole album situation had really gotten under Harry’s skin, turns out. Anders had expected as much, but not quite to this extent.

“Eat your fucking salad so we can go home.” Harry grumbled, crossing his arms across his chest. He corrected himself, the way he always did seemingly without thinking, sitting up and putting on a more neutral expression. Anders didn’t put up a fight, (he was starving), picking his fork back up. Harry just watched him silently before rolling his eyes and pulling his plate back to the edge of the table and taking a bite of his own. He chewed as if he was angry at himself for needing food.

“Everything’s gonna be fine, man…” Anders chanced saying. He looked at Harry tentatively, waiting for an explosion, only to find Harry nodding slowly with eyes trained on his salad. “I know it’s hard, but-“

“It is hard.” Harry agreed, cutting him off. He took a sip of his water to keep his hands busy, biting his lip as he set the glass back down. His eyes flickered from the ceiling to the table and out across the room before falling back on Anders. His eyes teared up, just a bit, his chest rising faster now as he shook his head. “I can’t fucking do it, Andy, I can’t- I… I-“

He was nearly hyperventilating now, taking another sip of his water. Anders felt frozen, hating himself for letting his eyes check his surroundings for any evesdroppers before comforting his friend.

“You don’t have to, man. We can just go back to my place if you want and watch a movie or something. We could go anywhere you want, like out to a movie. Or a bar, maybe.”

Harry almost laughed. “I’m not taking you to a bar.”

Anders sighed, as if Harry had said the opposite. “Look, if it’ll really make you feel better, I’ll take one for the team and get blackout with you tonight.” He shrugged, patting Harry on the hand. “As your friend, it would only be right… You don’t have to ask me twice, man, I’ll do it.” Anders squeezed Harry’s hand. “For you.”

“You’re not funny.” Harry scolded him, though he was on the verge of cracking a smile for the first time all night.

“I’m not joking!” Anders insisted, placing a hand on his chest in mock offense. “I would do anything for you, Harry. I would gladly fall off the wagon for you if it really means that much to you.”

Harry took another bite of his salad, his second bite of food all day. “Not happening.”

Anders threw his head back. “Fine, I’ll do it!” He yelled. “Twist my arm, why don’t you!”

Harry let out what could be easily mistaken for a giggle, shaking his head. They both ate quietly for a few more minutes before Anders spoke again.

“No but really… You don’t have to listen to it. If you’re not ready then you’re not ready.”

“I’m never going to be ready.” Harry answered, not meeting his eyes. “And anyway, whatever she has to say, I should hear it. I deserve it, right?”

“You need to stop punishing yourself, Harry.” His friend looked away. “I fucking mean it. You can’t keep doing this to yourself. If it hurts then maybe that means you shouldn’t do it.” Anders paused, waiting to see if he had anything to say. He didn’t. “Go to fuckin’ Miami or some shit. Go enjoy being by yourself. You’re being unfair to yourself right now and I don’t want to fucking hear it.”

“Can’t go to Miami.” Is all Harry took away from that. He twisted the straw in his drink lazily. “Y/N would be pissed if I went to Miami again. I went there with my ex and Y/N was really hurt by it and if I go again she’s just going to think about it again and-“

“So you’re just never going to go back to Miami again?” Anders laughed in disbelief. He met Harry’s eyes, realizing he was dead serious. “Okay… so not Miami. But still. You need to give yourself a break, Harry. You’re a good person and even she thinks so. You’re good, Harry.”

Harry didn’t respond. “The things that hurt us aren’t always a punishment for something, Harry. Sometimes they just happen, even to good people. You know, if the ocean can calm itself-“

“So can I.” Harry finished. He cleared his throat. “I know.”

///

Harry sat in the passenger seat of Anders’ car, heading back to Anders’ apartment. It was 9:37. Two hours and 23 minutes before the album was out.

He closed his eyes, feeling as if he’d swallowed a ton of lead. His stomach grumbled, mostly from nerves and partly from his lack of nutrients for the day. Anders didn’t even try to talk to him as they rode back.

He didn’t even remember walking inside. He was just suddenly on the couch, curled up with a blanket Anders’ mom had apparently hand knitted while he was in rehab. “It’s supposed to feel like a hug.” Anders has told him shyly, tossing it over Harry’s body. “That’s what my mom said. It doesn’t really work but it’s a nice blanket, at least.”

Harry wound the material around his body, waiting to see if he could feel the hug all the way from Chicago. He did, a little bit, the weight of the thick yarn hanging heavy on his form. He felt so small today he nearly felt like he could get swallowed up in the material entirely.

Anders played videos games for a while, still not saying much. He knew Harry didn’t want to talk. Harry just watched him play, letting the guns and explosions on screen distract him along with Anders sporadic curses he’d spit out every few minutes.

“You wanna play?” Anders had asked him a half hour in after being killed for at least the tenth time.

“No.”

Harry desperately wanted a drink, so he supposed it was a good thing he was here tonight. If he was alone he would’ve been drunk by now and Y/N would’ve had at least 40 missed calls already. She’d be out doing whatever, ignoring each one. She’d probably even laugh as she listened to the voicemails, playing them back for Logan as Harry ripped his heart out. “I’m sorry,” he’d say, over and over again. “I’m sorry and I love you and I miss you. I hate your album already and I haven’t even listened to it yet.”

She probably hadn’t even listened to his album. After everything at Margot’s party, she clearly wanted fucking nothing to do with Harry or his music or his life. He felt his lip shake a bit at the memory of that night, Y/N telling him all of the things he already knew. She didn’t want to talk to him. She didn’t want to listen to him talk about his life. She didn’t even want to be near him. Because he was a bad person.

Harry stopped going to therapy for a few weeks after that. What was the point?

So, yes. It was good, he thought, that he was with Anders tonight. Because if he wasn’t alone that meant he couldn’t start crying.

Anders had his own reasons to be grumpy tonight, too. They went as follows:

He sucked at this fucking game, and it was annoying him.

Y/N was out at some label sponsored release party, full of drinks and probably drugs and all the other fun stuff Anders was officially banned from, which meant he couldn’t be there with her to celebrate. It wasn’t her fault, but it was, to put it simply, fucking annoying him.

And lastly, Anders wasn’t even two months sober yet. And it felt like a fucking eternity. Every day was hard, just like they said it was going to be. Every day was, as you might guess, fucking annoying him.

Before he knew it it was 11:55. He looked at Harry, who had been counting down the minutes. His jaw was tight, his features hardened with an expression Anders had never seen on him before. It was un-fucking-settling to say the very fucking least.

“I should call her, shouldn’t I?” Harry asked suddenly, nodding to himself as if answering his own question. “Do you think so? I can jus’ say congratulations and all.”

“I’ve already told you you should call her.”

Harry sat up straighter, his “hug” falling down from where it had been laid across his shoulders. “I can’t just call her! She’s not even going to answer!”

Anders, looked at him out of the corner of his eye. “Then don’t call her.”

“But I want to.”

“So… call her…”

The tension was thick as Harry threw himself back on the couch, covering his face. Anders could tell straight away he was crying, and he wasn’t sure what to do about it. He and Harry had gotten close since December, but he still was uncomfortable seeing him like this. Anders scratched his head, gnawing on his cheek.

“Um…” He started speaking before he had a plan, stuttering useless for a second. What did Harry do when he saw Anders cry at their visits? It happened so often it almost didn’t even feel weird anymore, and yet Anders mind was totally blank when he asked himself what Harry would do in his position. “Do you, uh… Do you want, like, a hug? Or something?”

Harry sniffled, wiping his under eyes. He narrowed his eyes at Anders, as if considering it, before shaking his head. He looked at his phone screen. 11:59. He closed his eyes again.

“I don’t really know what to do here.” Anders said like a fucking moron. He started scooting closer to Harey before deciding that was weird. “How do I help you right now?”

Harry picked at his nail polish, little flakes of paint falling onto the thick knit of the blanket on his lap. “You talked to Y/N today?”

“Um, yeah. Yeah I did, actually.”

Harry nodded, chin quivering. “Is she excited?”

“She’s stoked, man.” Anders answered honestly. “She’s really happy.”

Harry smiled, looking at his phone again. 12:00. “Good.” He whispered to himself. “That’s good.”

“Do you want me to call her? I won’t tell her you’re here.”

Anders was as surprised by his offer as Harry was. Usually he wouldn’t do her like that, betraying her trust like this, but he just felt so bad for Harry.. He didn’t have the foggiest idea what else he could do. Harry looked at him in stunned silence.

“You don’t need to do that.” He choked out, clearing his throat. He stiffened his lip, sitting up a bit straighter. “I’m just being a fuckin’ baby tonight.”

Anders shrugged. “I want to congratulate her anyway. It’s not a big deal.”

Harry stared at him for a second before nodding. “Can I listen?” He barely whispered, embarrassed by his request. Anders gave him a quick “Sure.” so they didn’t need to linger on it.

Harry felt his heart tear straight down the middle. Anders put his phone on speaker, the sound of the dial tone immediately taking up any space Harry had been occupying. He felt the noise all over.

This was pathetic. He avoided looking at Anders, who probably thought he was pathetic, too. Harry fixed his gaze on his hands in his lap as Y/N answered on the second ring. Something she used to do when Harry called, too.

“Anders!!” She screamed. Instantly Harry felt the familiar heat move up his back and onto his neck. His throat felt so tight he literally had to force himself to breathe. “Hi! I miss you!”

“How’s the party?” Anders asked, eyes darting towards Harry. He’d try to make the conversation fast, for his sake. “I’m bummed that I have to miss out.”

“You’re not missing much.” She laughed. Judging by the thrum of music behind her and the slur to her words, that wasn’t at all true. “Me and Logan are just dancing. And my friend Layla is here, too!”

Harry missed Layla, and Max. He felt his chest constrict even more. Her friends used to be his friends, too. They probably hated him now.

“That’s sick.” Anders responded. He tried not to smile but he couldn’t help it, imagining how Y/N was probably acting like an idiot right about now. “I don’t want to hold you up too long, I just wanted to call and say congratulations.”

He could just end it there, Anders thought. End it there and then maybe that would be enough to satisfy Harry and then he wouldn’t even want to listen to the album anymore. But suddenly the music got quieter as Y/N left whatever room she was in.

“I don’t mind. I wanna talk to you, anyway.” She breathed, hiccuping slightly. “What are you doing? Are you having fun?”

“Just-“ He looked at Harry, who shook his head quickly. “Playing video games.”

“Oh, that is fun!” Y/N cried out, a smile in her voice. “Did you beat that level yet?”

Harry tried not to be upset that he hadn’t spoken to Y/N in weeks and yet she knew what fucking level Anders was on in his stupid fucking video game. Anders groaned, not noticing Harry tense.

“Don’t fucking remind me. I’m still stuck on it.” He grumbled. “Hey, I’m gonna let you go now but have fun. And take a shot for me, alright?”

“No! Don’t go yet.” She pouted. Anders looked at Harry again, getting caught this time as Harry’s eyes were already fixed on him. He grinned apologetically. “I… I just want to talk for a minute. I need a second to relax, y’know?”

Anders bit his lip, hoping she wouldn’t hear the lie in his voice. “That’s fine. What’s up?”

“I’m just feeling kind of sad, I guess.” Y/N answered.

Harry and Anders reacted very differently to that statement. Harry, in his quiet brooding, felt his breath catch in his throat. He remembered having a similar conversation with Y/N when the last single came out. He wanted to kick something thinking that, if he hadn’t fucked everything up, he could’ve been the one she called when she was sad.

Anders, on the other hand, just scoffed. “Why?”

Harry knew why. Of course he did. She was probably overwhelmed and in her head thinking about the album. She must have been thinking about all of the stuff that she’s written about, the way she thought about Christian when “Happier” came out. But this time she was sad because she was thinking about him. It was a kick in the face if he’d ever felt one.

“Dunno. I just kind of get like this sometimes, I guess.” She laughed drunkenly. “It’s stupid, though. Don’t listen to me.”

It’s not stupid, Harry wanted to say. Anders just agreed, not pressing at all the way Harry would have.

“Go get another drink, then.” He suggested with a grin. She laughed.

“That’s what I’ve been doing all night. It’s just not working yet.”

It was quiet for a minute. Anders didn’t know what to say, feeling a bit overwhelmed by all of the emotion he was dealing with tonight. It was a lot of pressure being the confidant to both Y/N and Harry, carrying the weight of both of their struggles. They didn’t mean to stress him out, and Anders really did want to be a good friend, but it stressed him out nonetheless.

“I think I’m sad because I miss Harry.” Y/N said suddenly. She, not too many miles away, was feeling that drunken boldness she always did that completely disintegrated her filter. “I can’t stop thinking about him... I just wish he was here.”

Harry and Anders both snapped their heads towards one another, nearly identical expressions on their faces.

Holy shit.

Harry could have died. She missed him. Even if it was only because she was drunk, it was still something.

“Oh, we’ll he’s-“ Harry shook his head profusely again, mouthing a firm no. Anders backtracked quickly.  “He’s, uh, probably missing you, too.” He let out a nervous giggle. “He’s probably jamming out to the album right now.”

Y/N let out a short laugh. “Not likely.” She said. “He probably isn’t even going to listen to it at all.”

“Of course he is.” Anders couldn’t help saying. Harry was shaking his head again, but Anders ignored him.

“No he’s not.”

“He told me he is.” Anders spit out, meeting Harry’s wide eyes. “He was just telling me how excited he is to listen to it. Basically counting down the minutes.”

It was silent. “You talked to him today?”

Harry shook his head again, but Anders just gave him a thumbs up. Harry let his head fall in his hands silently.

“I was just at dinner with him earlier, yeah.” Anders told her. “He said he was really excited.”

“You’re lying.”

“I don’t lie.”

Quiet. Again. Harry couldn’t tell if he should be mortified or flattered or heartbroken. The ache in his chest decided for him as the sound of his sunflower's voice filled the room.

“He’s probably just being nice.” She decided. “If I had to guess, he's probably curled up on his couch right now already asleep.” There was a bit of a day dream in her voice, like her mind was somewhere far away. “He always falls asleep even when he says he’s not tired...”

“I know he does.” Anders giggled. “It’s annoying, right?”

“I always thought it was sweet, actually.” She mused. She must have been at at least a 9 out of 10 tonight because she never talked about Harry this way, even to Anders. As far as Anders could tell, Harry didn’t even exist to her anymore. If it weren’t for the way her cheeks flooded with color at the mention of his name, he wouldn’t have even known she knew who he was. Anders always saw through her mask, though, even when she tried to put on a brave face.

“Why didn’t you invite him, then? If you miss him so much?”

She didn’t say anything for a while. “He wouldn’t have come.”

Harry almost started screaming, literally. He could feel the veins in his neck practically bursting through his skin as he bit his tongue.

“I think you should call-“

Anders was cut off by the sound of someone’s voice on the other end of the phone. It took him a second to recognize who it was, but Harry knew instantly.

“What the fuck are you doing out here?” Logan screamed. She was always so loud when she was drunk, Anders and Harry both thought at the same time. “Get your mopey ass back inside.”

Their conversation was heard easily. Anders eavesdropped on them while Harey continued to eavesdrop on the whole thing. Even in a time like this Logan still managed to walk in at the wrong fucking time, Harry thought. She had some kind of sixth sense that told her just when she should enter a room and ruin Harry’s night. She’s been doing it for nearly two years straight.

“I’m talking to Anders.”

“Why?”

“He called me.”

“Well hang up and come dance with me.”

The next part was hard to make out, like there was a bit of a struggle, and then suddenly Logan had the phone.

“Anders, sweetheart, we miss you buddy!” She sang through the phone. If Y/N was at a 9, then she was easily at a 12. “You doin’ alright?”

Anders shifted. He and Logan were friends, obviously, but they were the kind of friends that wouldn’t ever hang out just one on one. And they certainly didn’t talk on the phone.

“I’m alright.” He said. “Having fun?”

“The most fun ever.” She yelled. “This is the greatest party I’ve ever been to.” She stopped herself, giggling. “Oh, shit, sorry… I’m not trying to make you feel bad or anything. It’s not that fun, you’re not missing out or anything I swear!”

Y/N, in the background, was drunkenly recounting to her how Anders had been to dinner with Harry. Logan gasped, the noise grating on Harry’s nerves for some odd reason. Why should it be so surprising to everyone that Anders enjoyed spending time with him? He tried not to resent the shock in Logan’s voice as she spoke again.

“You were with Harry?”

“Yeah, why?”

She let out a laugh. “Is he, like, totally shitting himself right now? He is, isn’t he?”

“He’s actually really excited-“

“Bullshit!” Logan cackled. “He’s punching the air somewhere right now. He’s probably chewing on glass just to make himself feel better.”

Wonderful. So the album was that bad that Harry would rather chew on glass than listen to it. That’s perfect.

“He’s happy for her.” Anders frowned. He was annoyed too, but he was annoyed by Logan in general. She was just so loud and so happy all the time and it just rubbed him the wrong way.

“I know he is. I still feel bad for him, though.” She sighed. “Tell him I love him if you see him again, okay?” She started whispering as if Y/N wouldn’t hear her. “I really miss him. Don’t tell him I said that, though.”

Anders looked over at Harry, cracking a smile. “I won’t.”

///

Harry had the album pulled up on his phone, which he’d been staring at for at least twenty minutes now.

It wasn’t like ripping off a band-aid, the way he’d told himself. It wasn’t as if he could make it quick, to get the hard part over with then not worry about the hurting anymore. This was different.

Because it wasn’t like he could just do it and just be done. The hurt wasn’t going to stop once it was over, it would only bury itself deeper in him so far it would reach his bones and his brain and all the tendons that were working so hard lately to keep him in one piece. This was more like stabbing himself in the gut. It would get worse once it started, and then he’d bleed out until he died. He knew he would.

It was like those samurais who stabbed themselves in the stomach. Harry bit the inside of his frown, thinking about how those men would plunge their swords into their stomachs and twist when they’d done something dishonorable. Harry most certainly had been dishonorable, so he supposed he was a lot like them. All he had left to do was stab and twist. He deserved it.

He tossed his phone over to Anders, who looked up from his phone. Harry knew he was ruining his night, he could see on his face how uncomfortable he was, but he couldn’t make himself leave. “Will you play it for me?” Harry asked him, copping out. He had the sword in his hand but he couldn’t make himself move it. “I can’t do it.”

Anders picked up his phone. “You want me to start it now?”

“Yeah.” He paused. “Wait! No. Not yet.” He looked at Anders for reassurance. “Aren’t you nervous, too?”

“I’m not sure if I have anything to be nervous about…” His friend mumbled. “I’ve heard it all, anyway. You should just listen to it…”

Harry felt betrayed, even if he shouldn’t have. “You already heard it and you didn’t say anything to me?”

“What was I supposed to say?”

“I don’t know! That it wasn’t that bad?” Anders didn’t agree with him, making Harry let out a whine. “Is it really that bad?”

“I don’t know what to tell you, man. You just need to listen to it.” He sighed, “It's just an album, dude, you’re overthinking it, like, way too much. It’s not going to kill you.”

But it might, Harry thought. If I didn’t make his heart stop beating entirely he knew it would at least tear him up enough on the inside that he’d be better off dead. He decided not to say any of this, knowing Anders would only roll his eyes, putting on a brave face.

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Yeah.”

Anders pressed play, the sound of a jangly guitar immediately swelling around the two of them. “What’s this one called?”

“There’s a Honey.”

Harry distracted himself by paying close attention to the production of the track. He was leaned back into the couch, letting the cushion swallow him as he pulled his “hug” back up his body. He tucked his hands against his chest.

His first thought was that it was painfully obvious that it was Logan playing the guitar. He closed his eyes, trying to picture it, but then she started singing.

The song was good. It was lighthearted and soft and upbeat. Harry even found himself smiling for a second, just enjoying it. He could imagine the way Y/N and Logan would dance to this one. They’d probably danced in the studio while they recorded it.

This one probably wasn’t about him. It could’ve been about anyone.

When it ended, Anders told him the next one was called “Nothing Else I Could Do”.

Harry had been worried that the entire album would be sad songs, but so far he was wrong. This one was even sweeter than the last, the sound of his sunflower's voice as sunny as it always had been.

“I miss the shape of your voice, I miss the nape of your neck. I miss the weight of your words, I miss the bruises they left.”

Maybe he was just in denial, but this one could’ve been about anyone, too. She sang about being helpless and in love, having no choice but to keep coming back to the same person. It definitely felt familiar, but it could’ve happened with anyone.

“I like that one.” Anders said weakly when it ended. He didn’t look at Anders as he said a soft me too, pulling his blanket up to his chin. This wasn’t so bad after all. It was nice to hear her voice, actually.

Man in the Moon was next, which was equally as pleasant. Harry couldn’t help at this point the way his chest was swelling with pride, thinking of how hard Y/N had worked on this album with everything she’d been through the last few months. He was so proud that it hurt.

When Strawberry Wine came on next, Harry had nearly dropped his defenses entirely. He knew Y/N had been writing for this album for a long time, so it was possible that maybe only one or two songs would end up being about him. (He thought to himself it was kind of narcissistic to assume every song would be about him, anyway. Y/N’s life didn’t revolve around him).

But this one was different, even if he couldn’t tell at first. She started to sing about someone who had used her and pretended to love her and lead her on. Harry felt nervous straight away, feeling a bit sensitive to the topic. What did she say before? Harry was “fucking her around”?

But that didn’t mean it was about him, or so he thought.

“You seek while I go and hide, keep me up all night. I have no place better to go…”

The One Direction reference could just be a coincidence. But then she kept singing.

“You wear your fools gold, acting like you’re old school. And I fall for it every time.”

Okay, so it wasn’t a coincidence. And she was making a point to let everyone know that it wasn’t. She was talking about him, and she wanted everyone to know that.

But had he really made her feel like this? Did he really use her up and throw her aside the way she said? Harry hated himself so intensely that he could have evaporated entirely. He wanted to cry, but why should he get to cry when he was the one who had done this to her?

“You couldn’t be bothered but still drink me under. So I wait around while you don’t call me ‘mine’. I’ll let you finish off your glass of strawberry wine…”

The song ended and Harry didn’t even notice when the next one didn’t start. He sat there silently, resisting the urge to pull at the threads Anders’ mom had stitched together. Anders was saying something, but he didn’t hear him.

“Harry? You good?” He repeated, finally snapping Harry out of his daze. Harry looked over at him, wanting to nod but unable to move his head.

“Did she really think that about me?” He whispered, a catch in his voice. He knew if he spoke any louder his words would shatter entirely. “Do you think I made her feel like that?”

“Honestly, Harry, I didn’t ask her.” He joked lightly. “And you like strawberries anyway so I would take it as a compliment.”

Harry didn’t respond. Anders was grasping at straws trying to make him feel better and they both knew it. “Tastes like strawberries…” Anders sang under his breath as if Harry hadn’t gotten his joke the first time.

The next song was called Hide and Seek. And it perfectly summed up, to a t, everything Harry had been feeling.

Y/N always knew what Harry was thinking, even now. Because, just like the song said, he really did find her everywhere.

Harry had spent most of his time lately either working or going out to parties or getting drunk. Basically anything that would keep his mind off of everything. He told himself, after a week or two of unanswered calls after the VMAs, that he just needed to move on. She was better off without him and that was okay. But no matter how hard he tried, she was everywhere. She was in his car, still in the passenger seat. She was still somewhere tangled in his covers. She was behind his eyelids every time he tried to sleep.

“You can wash your skin, you’ll still find me within your darkest dreams…”

In a fucked uo kind of way, Harry liked this song. Because if what she was saying was true, then he was still stuck somewhere inside her, too. Even if she was trying her best not to think about him, he was still there. That had to mean something, at least.

He had to admit, feeling a bit dramatic looking back, that this really wasn’t as bad as he was expecting. As the next few songs played, Parking Lot and Sleep, he felt an ache all over but it wasn’t quite enough to kill him. He felt guilty and stupid and shitty, but he had felt that way every day since October.

Compared to the time he’d heard Carnival for the first time, this was nothing. Even if it was all sad and embarrassing and painful, nothing was nearly as mean yet. He didn’t think anything could compare to the first time he heard that song. He remembered it so clearly, his gut twisting as he realized he’d have to listen to it at some point tonight. At least this time, as he listened to the album, she was expecting to be called an asshole. At least he wasn’t going to be totally blindsided. That’s what had hurt so bad about Carnival in the first place; he just didn’t see it coming.

When (One of Those) Crazy Girls started playing, the little resolve that Harry had left completely crumbled.

If she wanted to see him so badly, why didn’t she ever come to his house? Why didn’t she show up at his door the way she threatened? Why didn’t she break in? Harry imagined it, thinking that he might as well leave his front door unlocked if it meant she might show up. He felt the exact same way, stopping himself from showing up at Bethany’s office or at her house or at Anders’ apartment when he knew she was there.

Harry let out a choked sound, covering his face. Anders looked at him, cheeks heating, deciding not to say anything about it. (Harry didn’t know it, but Anders hated this song. He could still remember the day he’d called Y/N crazy just outside his front door. He remembered the way her face contorted, the way her mouth fell open in shock. Anders went back inside afterwards and felt so bad about it he couldn’t even get hard enough to fuck that girl waiting on his couch. He had to send her away.)

Interlude was clearly about Christian. Harry would’ve been able to guess that without even hearing the words just from the ukulele alone. Harry hoped that Y/N meant what she said when she sang about being over Christian. He wondered if she wrote this song before or after the nightmares started. He felt bile rise in the back of his throat as he thought about it. Why wouldn’t she at least answer the phone and tell him she was okay? She just dropped that bomb on Harry and then left.

He had read over his texts sent to her after that day so many times he almost had them memorized. He was so desperate to hear back from her that he just couldn’t stop, telling her over and over that he would leave her alone as soon as she responded. He tried justifying his actions, telling himself that maybe she wasn’t responding because she didn’t want him to stop. Maybe it helped her, at least a bit, seeing his messages throughout the day. It was a stretch, but Harry decided to reach for it anyway. They’d sounded something like:

Harry: will you please just tell me you’re alright?

Harry: I won’t text you again, just tell me you’re okay. Does Logan know about this? Do you have someone to talk to?

Harry: at least tell me you have someone to talk to I can’t stand this

Harry: idk if you just think I don’t care but I do. I know you don’t want to talk to me and I don’t blame you for that but I can’t just forget about it.

Harry: y/n please

Harry: I know you don’t want anything to do with me, I get it. I won’t contact you again, just tell me you’re okay I’m begging you.

Harry: come on y/n

Harry: I know you hate me but seriously y/n I’m not going to stop until I at least hear that you’re alright. I can’t text Logan and ask her because idk if she knows about what you told me. Otherwise I would just talk to her. Please text me back.

She never did. Eventually Harry came to terms with that, accepting that he had made his bed and now had to lie in it. He didn’t text her again after that.

The next song up was Carnival. Harry considered telling Anders to skip it but he figured if it was on the album then he should have to suffer through it the way she suffered through everything that made her write it.

Was it wrong of him to think, just for the foggiest second, that he would have given anything to feel her one last time, even if it meant her writing another song like this? He didn’t care if everyone thought he was some lowlife piece of shit (because he was), he just wanted to feel her under him again. He cringed as the familiar guitar started, thinking about how their first time having sex had made her feel like this. That was what was most devastating about the entire thing.

When Harry first heard Carnival, he wasn’t even alone. He was sitting in a dressing room in between takes for his music video, getting his hair done as he pulled up the Grimshaw interview on his phone. He had been gushing to everyone all day about how excited he was to hear it, and was literally on the edge of his seat as he started the interview.

He smiled as they exchanged niceties. Harry wondered what Y/N was wearing today. He imagined that it was something blue, or maybe something green. He tapped his fingers on his leg when Nick announced the start of the new song.

And then everything came crashing down around him. He thought he could literally feel the earth shaking under him, ready to split open and swallow him whole. By the time he got to the part about her “giving up voice” he had sprang up out of his chair, telling everyone he needed a moment. He practically ran out of the hair and makeup trailer, letting the door swing shut behind him, leaving several shocked faces behind him.

He turned the song off and went inside his own trailer. He locked the door, pacing back and forth down the narrow walkway with his hand tangled in his hair.

Why would she write this? Why would she put it out?

And if she was going to put it out, why wouldn’t she at least tell him about it?

Things were supposed to be good now. After everything, they were both finally happy. He felt embarrassed and confused and hurt and everything in between. He couldn’t help thinking about the fact that he never would have written a song like this about her, but she had never hurt him bad enough to make him want to. But even if she did, he decided, he wouldn’t have written something like this. He finished the rest of the song, which was mean and nasty and blunt, and not at all discreet. He laid on his sofa, face down, crying for a long time even as Jeff and whoever else banged on the door and told him to “get the fuck outside.”

And Harry did the same thing, now, listening to it again. It was only the second time he’d ever heard it in full without turning it off as soon as he noticed it playing. He sank deeper in his seat, wrapping his arms fully around his face as he cried into his elbow. It hurt everywhere. He cried so hard he started taking those loud, shaking breaths that sounded like choking. Finally, unable to take it anymore, Anders turned it off.

Harry barely noticed, just continuing to hold himself. He couldn’t even be bothered enough to feel embarrassed right now. Anders didn’t ask this time before moving towards Harry and wrapping his arms around him the best he could in Harry’s huddled position. Harry didn’t stop him, leaning into Anders hold.

Anders didn’t know what to say. The intimacy of the moment made his hairs stand on end, his anxiety creeping up as seconds ticked by and he realized he had no way of making this any better. He couldn’t even make a joke right now.

“It’s okay, man.” He settled on saying stupidly, rubbing a hand up and down Harry’s upper arm. “You know people write songs in the heat of the moment sometimes. I wouldn’t take it personally.”

Harry pulled away, shaking his head. “Did she tell you what it’s about?”

“I just assumed it was about a breakup..”

Harry shook his head, pressing his lips into a thin line. “Nope.”

Was Anders supposed to ask him to elaborate? He cleared his throat, crossing his arms. “What is it about then?”

Harry let out a bitter laugh that was only softened by the teariness in his voice. “It’s about that night you kissed her.”

Ander furrowed his brows. It clearly wasn’t about him, so he wasn’t sure where Harry was going with this. “What are you talking about?”

“Remember how you kissed her and I came up and dragged her away? Remember how I told her we needed to talk?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Well I took her upstairs and I fucked her in a strangers bedroom.”

Anders swallowed. He laughed uncomfortably. “That’s what’s up.” He joked. He remembered how Y/N had come back downstairs just before he left that night and how he had kissed her for a second time, cringing inwardly at the thought. She had seemed so unsettled by it, but he always assumed it was because he had taken it too far.

“I had a girlfriend. Me and Y/N hadn’t spoken for weeks at that point, probably. But you were really pissing me off and I just-“

“I mean, people have done worse.” Anders tried to assure him. “It’s not like you guys hadn’t fucked at parties before then. Christian had told me before that she was super into you, which is why I thought it was weird she even kissed me…”

“It was the first time.” Harry mumbled. “It was the first time we ever had sex and I fucked her with my hand over her mouth and then I left. Didn’t say another word to her all night.”

Oh. “Okay… Well…”

“You don’t have to justify it, Andy, I know what I did.” Harry cut him off. He gestured to the phone sitting on the couch. “Everyone knows what I did. She told everyone.”

It was really quiet, painfully quiet, for a long time. Eventually Harry told him to finish the song, and Anders watched as he listened to the rest of it with a stone cold expression on his face. He even nodded along to some parts, as if realizing something.

Because Harry was realizing something, for the hundredth time. He was confirming what he already knew. He was fucked up beyond repair and Y/N was right to ignore his calls. She was right to put out an album like this.

I’ll Still Have Me was just as devastating. Harry didn’t cry anymore, because why should he get to cry over her, just further cementing the idea in his head that if he really had made Y/N feel all of these things, then he wasn’t going to ever call her again. He wouldn’t call or text or like her Instagram posts. He wouldn’t wait for her to show up to parties, planning out in his head what he’d say to her if they ever did see each other. He was letting her go, for good. Right now.

“What's this one called?” He asked Anders, his voice somehow more level now than it had been at the start. He felt a strange kind of peace for some reason having decided on finally stepping back and leaving her alone. It was like a weight was off of his shoulders.

“It’s called…” Anders paused, reading the title a few times and moving his mouth silently. “I Wish I Never Met You.“

Harry let out a bitter laugh, nodding. “Of course it is.”

It was the worst one yet. Because, despite the hurting and then tears and the fights, Harry had never regretted a single second of his time knowing Y/N. He wouldn’t have given it up just so he didn’t have to feel this pain anymore. But, apparently, Y/N did.

“I wish I knew forever would end so soon

I wish I never kissed you in my living room.

Whoever said it’s better to love and lose

Never loved and lost you.

I wish I could replace you with someone new,

But then I’d have to wish I never met them, too.

You wonder how I’m doing, well here’s the truth.

I wish I never met you.”

When Happier Than Ever started playing, Harry knew this one would be the worst. Because even if it wasn’t about him, it still was.

If Harry had never asked Christian to introduce them, then maybe Christian wouldn’t have done what he did. Or maybe if Harry hadn’t started dating that girl and had just been with Y/N instead, it wouldn’t have happened. Maybe if he would’ve told Christian to back the fuck up instead of telling him to make a move, then Y/N wouldn’t be having nightmares and panic attacks. He could’ve stopped it, one way or another. He could’ve kept her safe from all of that if he had just done everything differently.

Anders hated this song, too. Because just like Harry, he blamed himself. He had listened to Christian talk about Y/N, about making his move on her. Anders knew, before anyone, what Christian had planned. And he didn’t do anything to stop it.

When the guitar fizzled out, Harry assumed the album was over. He sighed, wiping the silent tears he hadn’t noticed staining his cheeks, and sat up.

“Is that it, then?” He whispered. “That’s all she has to say?”

He hoped desperately that it was. He couldn’t take any more tonight. But Anders shook his head.

“There’s two more.”

Harry groaned. “Okay.. What's the next one called?”

“Lullaby.”

Harry froze.

Lullaby. As in…

“It’s just called Lullaby?”

Anders squinted. “Yeah?”

“Oh.” Harry nodded, biting his lip. “Okay.”

Anders pressed play, and Harry instantly knew it was his song. He’d memorized the words.

Or at least he thought it was his song. It could’ve been about fucking Hudson, but he’d always thought that maybe…

He was awestruck. His entire being felt heavy and leaden, even his lungs growing solid as they tried to expand to take in air.

Harry listened to the song that he’d fantasized about for so long, letting his eyes flutter closed. It felt warm and soft and nice and sweet and everything else he wanted it to feel like. It felt like her. He didn’t try to stop himself from crying.

It was that hard, silently kind of crying, where you just shake noiselessly. Anders came over, giving him another hug. Harry didn’t move a muscle to accept it because his body was so tight with sobs he couldn’t manage it. Anders landed a peck on the top of his head before scooting away just as quickly.

Harry used the 4 minutes and 49 seconds to imagine a world where Y/N had written an album full of songs like this. He imagined going back in time to the day he found this song written in her notebook, fingers tracing over the heart and flowers doodled in the margins, thinking that if he could he would’ve kissed her right then. He would’ve kissed her and held her and told her that he felt the same way and then they could’ve been happy. They could’ve been happy this whole time.

“That one is really nice.” Anders said when it ended, wiping his nose on his sleeve. Anders didn’t know why he had started crying, too, but he thought it was probably because he always got so overwhelmed seeing other people upset that it made him upset, too. He slapped a hand on Harry’s shoulder, trying to lighten the mood a bit. “You wanna hear the last one? It’s the one I wrote for her so I promise it’s not about you.”

Harry just nodded numbly. “Sure.” He whispered.

The song started, a soft guitar riff filling every square foot of Anders’ tiny apartment. Anders couldn’t help beaming at himself a little, even knowing Harry was upset, because it sounded really good.

(Anders had ended up going into the studio to re-record the backing vocals and guitar part after all, not at all pleased with the way Logan had recorded the guitar part in his absence. It had been the very last thing they’d added to the album, Anders deciding the day he’d gone in that this would be his very last time recording anything. It was sometime in December, he thought, not too long before he’d ended up in the hospital. He had every intention that day of having that song be the very last one he’d ever play.)

So even as Anders was beaming with pride, he couldn’t help the way his guts twisted when he listened to the song. It didn’t remind him of anything good. He honestly couldn’t even remember the night that he’d written that song… It had just seemingly come out of nowhere, from somewhere so deep inside of him that it stung and clawed at his organs and ripped him up in every direction. He wouldn’t have been able to record it for his own album even if he wanted to, because it was just a little bit too painful. He supposed he’d never had an intention of singing it himself, though, finding the note typed in his phone under the title “frog song”. He must have written it for her, he figured, even if he had no recollection of it.

Harry could tell Anders had written this one, he was all over it. He seethed quietly, thinking that he should have been the one who was writing songs with or for Y/N. He couldn’t have written a song like this, he admitted, but he could have written something.

“That’s you playing?” Harry asked in a frozen voice, listening to the guitar solo towards the middle. Anders straightened up a bit, forcing a proud smile.

“Sounds good, doesn’t it?” He smirked, giving a shrug he didn’t mean. “I kinda went off on this one, I gotta be honest.”

“Yeah, totally.” Harry agreed hollowly, “You killed it.”

It did sound good, and even if Y/N hadn’t written it herself Harry was certain she’d been thinking about him when she sang it. Please don’t say you love me….

Once the song was done, and the entire album with it, neither of them said anything. Harry cried for a long time, so long that Anders was a little bit impressed and a little bit concerned. Surely he had a killer headache by now.

“Do you want to stay here tonight?” Anders asked when Harry finally caught his breath. He nodded wordlessly as Anders slapped his palms on his thighs the way midwestern people always do when they don’t know how to say goodbye. “I’ll just, uh… leave you to it, then. You can let me know if you need anything.”

“Wait-“ Harry stopped him, his voice coming out a bit crumpled. “Can I watch you play some more of that game for a bit? I’m not really tired.”

Anders looked back and forth between the TV and Harry before agreeing. Harry might not have been tired, but Anders was absolutely exhausted. He was a bit overwhelmed and his fingers felt fuzzy and he just wanted to fall asleep before he started thinking too much about that song he wrote for Y/N or Jena or how badly he wished he could at least have a drink or something.

He definitely wasn’t in the mood to play anymore of that game, but he would take one for the team though. For Harry.

So he played some more of his game, almost throwing the controller when he died yet again. He was never going to pass this level. He was about to offer the controller to Harry, thinking that ability to pull off anything would somehow translate into video games, when he noticed Harry asleep. He was curled up, hands tucked between his cheek and shoulder, lips barely parted. Anders tried not to laugh at how silly he looked, leaning over and giving his friend a little pat-pat on top of the head. Harry’s nose was still a bit red and raw, his eyelashes sticking to each other in wet clumps. He must have been fucking exhausted after all of that.

Anders pulled out his phone, snickering to himself a bit as he did so, snapping a quick picture of Harry’s crumpled up form at the end of his couch. He wanted to send the picture to Y/N, but he knew he shouldn’t, especially when she was out trying to have a good time. The last thing she probably wanted was a picture of Harry looking adorable and sleepy popping up on her phone.

So he sent it to Y/N’s mom, instead. (He had gotten quite a few phone calls from Anna while he was in rehab, who spent most of their time talking about how much she had heard about him and how badly she wanted to meet him. She never said anything about the drugs or what had happened and she never tried to make Anders feel guilty, she just talked and talked and talked about random shit like how much it was snowing in Missouri and how she bought a new crockpot. Anders looked forward to those phone calls almost as much as he looked forward to seeing Harry, wishing in the very rare pauses in Anna’s rambling that his mom was more like her. Since he’d been home Anna had texted him pretty regularly, sometimes asking about Harry but usually to ask for pictures of the latest thing Anders had painted or tried to crochet or cook or draw. She was one of the only people Anders ever actually told the truth to when he was asked how he was feeling.)

Anders: we just stayed up to listen to y/n’s new album. little guy is all tuckered out <3

Anna: Oh my goodness. My little rockstar! ❤️❤️❤️ Tell him I love him to the moon!!!

Anna: Is he alright? Y/N was worried he was going to be upset. She’s been telling me all day how worried she was.

Anders: he’ll survive hahah. he’s pretty torn up but I think he liked it.

Anna: Poor thing. He’s such a sweet boy. I love him love him love him.

Anna: And Y/N does, too. I’ll call him soon. Don’t let him be so hard on himself, okay? And give him a cuddle for me. He’s such a good boy. ❤️❤️

Anders: the best boy

Anna: The best ❤️ How are you doing sweetheart?

Anders: I’m okay. I’ve been thinking about going to see my parents but I just don’t know if I should. My mom is going to lose her fucking mind if she sees me.

Anna: Your mom loves you endlessly. She only acts crazy because she cares, I promise. You can go back home whenever you’re ready, there’s no rush to do it now.

Anna: And if you go and you’re miserable, St. Louis isn’t very far from Chicago. We have a spare bedroom here you can use if you don’t mind the Harry Styles posters all over the walls 😉

Anders: LMAO ill just replace them all with pictures of me hahahah. Thanks Anna <3

Anna: No need to thank me pumpkin. Now go to bed!❤️

Anders took Anna’s advice as always, standing up and deciding to go to his bedroom finally, before changing his mind and sitting back down. He would just sleep here, he thought, just in case. He didn’t want Harry to wake up and need something. And so he laid back into the cushions, feet propped on the coffee table, and fell asleep.

[anabsolutetrainwreck]

just let me adore you || h. styles

warnings: swearing, kissing, briefly proofread

word count: 2.3k

summary: a holiday in italy involves an unusual amount of shampoo and lusting...

The villa was somewhat quiet. The sound of solitary piano notes echoed through the halls. Harry’s hair was dishevelled from his heavy night’s sleep prior to the warm morning he found himself emersed in. While his fingers were busy working away at the grand piano, his eyes were preoccupied with following your form around the backyard of the villa. 

You were sat by the pool, your book long forgotten. Your sunglasses were shielding your eyes from the unrelenting Italian sun. Your hair was pinned up, your skin exposed to the heat of the morning. 

Harry’s attention was suddenly pulled away by the sound of your father emerging from the kitchen. “Morning, Haz,” he grinned, clapping Harry on the shoulder. “Any plans for today?”

He shrugged, “Might just, you know, work on some music.”

“A man committed to his career, that’s what I like to see,” your father said. 

Harry nodded awkwardly, offering the older man a quick smile. Once your father disappeared into the lounge, Harry found his eyes wandering back to you. But you’d vanished. Had there not been wet footprints staining the concrete poolside, there would be no trace you’d been there at all. 

Focusing on the lone notes the piano had no trouble emitting became an increasingly difficult task. All he could seem to focus on was you and the obnoxiously loud laughter of your mother and his own in the kitchen. He huffed loudly, pulling his jacket around himself tightly. He clambered up from the piano stool, stalking through to the kitchen to kindly ask if the two women could lower to volume slightly. However, he was soon silenced by the sight of you sat on the countertop of the island, your legs swinging beneath you, a peeled tangerine in your delicate hands. You were smiling slightly as the women couldn’t help but laugh at something Anne had said. 

A bundle of nerves unravelled itself inside of Harry’s stomach when you looked up and locked eyes with him. Your mother and Anne quickly quietened down at Harry’s sudden presence in the doorway. “Morning, darling,” Anne smiled. 

“Morning, Mum,” he replied, breaking his gaze away from your own. “Do you, uh, do you mind if you can keep it down a bit? I’m trying to work.”

“Work?” your mum asked. “Harry, dear, we’re in Italy! Why don’t you wait to work when you get home.”

“I know, but I feel most inspired when I’m away from my house,” he tried to explain. 

“Just take a break, Harry. Relax… you know, unwind,” Anne said softly. 

He sighed, “Okay. Fine. I’m going to shower.”

And with that, he spun on his heel and left the kitchen. You’d been silent throughout the entire exchange, glancing between Harry and your half-eaten tangerine. As you watched him leave, you averted your attention back to your book that was being held open by a mug you’d quickly put down so as not to lose your place.  

Harry found himself running his hands through his dark hair, which was now coated in mango-scented shampoo. He’d just grabbed it off the shelf in the shower, assuming it came as a complimentary luxury with the villa. As the hot water trickled down his body, he allowed his muscles to relax. He knew his mum was right: he needed to separate himself from his music for a few days. But he was only working away tirelessly at the grand piano because it kept his mind off you. If it wasn’t music, it was you. If it wasn’t you, it was music. 

These yearly holidays used to be enjoyable for Harry. Right up until he was fourteen and he realised he liked you. Then they became almost torturous. As soon as he began to see you in this different light, your presence and whereabouts became apparent to his senses. Before, you always seemed to swim in the pool with Gemma or play in her room. He’d occupy himself with your brother by going down to the beach or playing tag in the extensive gardens of the Italian villa. But you suddenly seemed to be everywhere. He’d go down to the beach and there you’d be with your parents or Gemma. He’d be running through the gardens trying to find your brother after an afternoon of hide and seek, and yet he’d discover you reading or gossiping with his sister. All of this, but the summer you didn’t come with your family because you were going away to Scotland with your then-boyfriend instead was utterly dreadful for him.

When he was finished in the shower, he wasted the rest of the day by the pool in hopes you’d venture out with your books and tangerines. But alas, you did not. It was only when the sun was dipping below the horizon did he next lay eyes on you. He was sat at the dining table, his plate before him. You grinned at him, sitting down opposite him. You kept quiet as your parents chatted away mindlessly with Anne, only sharing a brief and quiet conversation with your brother, who you were sat beside. 

Gemma hadn’t come this year, leaving Harry and Anne alone with your family. Anne didn’t seem to have a problem with that at all. After all, she and your mother were such good friends and always had been. You had always been content in your own company. And your brother seemed to spend all his time with your father, something about inheriting the family business. So, Harry had found a companion in the villa’s grand piano, which had now been stripped away from him courtesy of his mother. 

It wasn’t as if you were deliberately being cold to Harry. You actually quite admired him and you knew you always had. And it wasn’t as if you weren’t aware of his eyes following you everywhere you went. But you liked the attention. You wanted to know just what you could do to him. So, when your foot accidentally grazed his leg beneath the table, you didn’t even look at him. After all, it was a mere accident. 

When, at last, your father was finished with his meal, you helped Anne clear away the dishes and your mother as she washed up. While your father and brother ventured through to the lounge to watch a football game, Harry went straight to his room. 

An hour passed and he was too busy on his phone to notice you enter his room. When you cleared your throat, he finally looked up. His eyes were wide like he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t. He hurriedly shut off his phone, blackness overtaking the screen that had once presented your Instagram profile to him. “Oh, hi, Y/N,” he said as you sat yourself down at the foot of his bed. 

“Oh? Didn’t realise you were expecting someone else,” you smirked. 

“No, no, no. I, uh, I wasn’t. I was just surprised to see you,” he said quickly. 

“Right,” you grinned. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

He watched your face screw up suddenly. You leaned forward towards him, before laughing. “What?” he asked. “What’s funny?”

“Is that my shampoo?” you questioned. 

“Shit. I just thought it was a, you know, freebie. I didn’t realise it was yours. Shit. I wouldn’t have used it if I knew it was yours. Shit. I’m so sorry, Y/N.”

As he rambled, he remembered that the two of you shared the same bathroom. It was between your respective bedrooms, doors leading to both. Of course it was your shampoo. You chuckled at his ramblings, “It’s okay Harry. It’s just shampoo. You can use it whenever.”

“Oh,” he let out a sigh of relief. “Well, for what it’s worth, I thought it smelt wonderful.”

You smiled, “Thanks. I have a pomegranate one in my suitcase that I think you’d love.”

“Really? Why did you bring two shampoos?” he asked. 

You shrugged, “So I have options depending on my mood. Sometimes I’m feeling like a pomegranate, sometimes I’m feeling like a mango.”

He couldn’t help but smile, his eyes wandering up your bare legs that were only sporting a pair of silky shorts. Obviously, this didn’t go unnoticed by you. “The only thing is,” you started, “you’re going to smell like me now.”

He shifted slightly. You smiled to yourself. 

“What if people, you know, get the wrong idea?” you asked innocently. 

He swallowed the lump in his throat, “I guess you’ll just have to use your pomegranate shampoo tomorrow instead, won’t you?”

You leaned back, somewhat satisfied with his answer. His cheeks were flushed and you knew your job for the evening was done. “Fair play, Styles. See you in the morning,” you made a point of touching his shoulder as you left via the shared bathroom. 

The following morning, Harry awoke, finding himself peacefully content for a moment before he recalled the prior night’s events. He was yet to decide if you were actually making a move on him or not. Or perhaps you were genuinely concerned that your families would smell your signature mango scent on Harry and get the wrong impression of the entire thing. 

He dragged himself out of the soft sheets, getting dressed. He listened silently to the running shower. He could hear you humming along to Then He Kissed Me by The Crystals. And after the shower he stopped, he gave it five minutes before going in to brush his teeth. He couldn’t help but look over to see your bottle of pomegranate shampoo making its place beside your mango one. The red bottle was the one soaked in droplets of water, while the yellow bottle remained dry. You’d done as he’d said. In a way, Harry almost wished you’d used the mango shampoo. He almost liked the thought of people thinking he and you had been so close that he’d absorbed your tropical scent. 

As he wandered into the kitchen, preparing himself some toast, he noticed the unusual silence of the villa. It was unnerving. He felt like the protagonists of those books and movies where they wake up and everyone’s gone or been evacuated. It felt apocalyptic. But, as his mind churned out immediate actions to take in this case of an unprecedented apocalypse, you walked into the kitchen just as his toast popped out of the toaster. “Morning,” you smiled, sitting down at one of the island’s stools. 

“Did you sleep okay?” he asked, spreading butter onto the crisp toast. 

You shrugged, “It was alright. You?”

“I slept wonderfully.”

“Good,” you said. 

“Where is everyone?” he asked, sitting down opposite you. 

“They left for the beach,” you explained. “I didn’t want to go and they didn’t want to wait around for you to get out of bed. Anne told me to tell you that if you want to go down, they’re the ones with the pink deckchairs.”

He nodded slowly, “I think I’ll pass. Not a fan of sand.”

“Right? Why do people enjoy playing in minuscule rocks, which end up in your clothes for the next two weeks? Sounds like hell to me,” you said. 

He smiled at your aggravated tone, “Wow, and I thought I hated sand.” 

“You haven’t seen anything yet, pal,” you joked, smiling. 

Before a blanket of silence could fall on top of the two of you, Harry quickly said, “I saw you used the pomegranate shampoo.”

You raised an eyebrow, glancing up at him, “Yeah… I mean, you told me to, right?”

“Right,” he nodded quickly. “Of course. Well, at least we both smell nice now.”

You frowned, “If you say so. Anyway, I’m going for a swim. See you later.”

Harry watched you leave. His eyes roamed your figure with your legs exposed in a pair of shorts. You looked back at him over your shoulder, grinning to yourself at his longing look. He watched through the large kitchen windows as you rid yourself of your shorts and t-shirt, revealing your swimsuit beneath. He tried desperately to peel his gaze away from you as you settled yourself comfortably on one of the sun loungers by the pool. You placed your sunglasses over your eyes, opening your book. 

As soon as he’d finished his toast, he wandered outside. At the sound of his footsteps, you looked up. “Hi, Harry,” you smiled. 

“Hello,” he said softly, sitting down opposite you. You slid your sunglasses up over your head, settling them on your hair. You sat up, never allowing your eyes to leave his. “How can I help you?” you grinned. 

He was fiddling with his fingers, his gaze alternating between them and you. Finally, you reached out and placed your hand over his shaky ones. You stood, pulling him up with you. You were so close. You could hear each other breathing. You could practically hear his heart thumping against his ribs. You reached up to whisper in his ear, “I know you adore me.”

You smirked, allowing him to revel in your confidence. Call it cockiness. Same thing, really. You slowly pulled away from his ear, pressing your lips to the tip of his nose. And yet it was him who finally connected your lips to his own. He didn’t make any effort to pull away either. You smiled into the kiss, burying your fingers in his hair. And when he finally did pull away, he stared down at you, cheeks red, “Depends if you adore me too.”

You grinned, “I do.”

And, with that, he dove back in. You grinned as he wrapped his arms around your waist, picking you up. He lay you down gently on the sun lounger, leaning over you. As you pulled his shirt over his head, he leaned back slightly. “I thought you didn’t want people to get the wrong idea,” he whispered. 

You shrugged, “I guess we’ll just have to see what pomegranate and mango smell like together.”

[carrotmakar]

here’s to us

Pairing: Harry Styles x Reader

Genre: Enemies To Lovers (with a twist)

Word Count: 5.3k

Summary: You hate Harry more than you’ve ever hated anyone else, and he feels the same (or does he?). The people around you see the interactions that the two of you have and believe that you’re a match made in heaven, but you can’t see it, and you doubt he can either. When he’s the last option to help you with a project that you’re working on, things are either going to go very well, or they're going to crash and burn.

Warning(s): alcohol, cursing, kink talk, angst, sadness, innuendos, tension, a set of lovers trying to convince two people that they’re meant for one another, fluff

A/N: this was originally a piece written for a writing challenge but that’s been cancelled (i love u liv take your time i will still participate in any and every wc you ever do bb) so this is now just another piece haha!! Thank you to @tbslenthusiast​ and @harrysclementines​ for letting me know that this piece wasn’t as bad as i thought it was (literally forever ago like.... i wrote this a long time ago lmao)!!! Also thank you to @kiwismoon​ for letting me send you parts of the fic and scream about how much i hate myself for writing things like i did!!!

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*

Relaxing.

That’s what you were supposed to be doing tonight. You’ve been stressed out about the article that was due in less than a week and you were in need of a night out with your friends. No matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t find the inspiration to write the piece. Plus, you had been completely swamped with your school work. Even though you were still in college, you had gotten a job as a writer and chosen to take online classes. 

Sarah had suggested that you and her go out and have a few drinks. That had quickly developed into you, her, and Mitch. Then your ‘friend’ Michelle was added into the mix.

Now, you’re standing at the bar, waiting for your next shot of tequila and wondering how you let Sarah talk you into this. You hate bars. In all honesty, you only hate them because someone always seemed to mess up your nights when they were drunk. Luckily, that someone isn’t here tonight. You had made it abundantly clear to Sarah that if she were to invite anyone, it better not include him. 

As the bartender hands you your shot, you down it and place the glass down on the bar. You wait for him to retrieve it before turning to walk back to the table that Sarah, Mitch, and Michelle are occupying. Right before you sit down next to Sarah, you catch a glimpse of a very particular head of curls. Your stomach drops at the sight, and you immediately feel the urge to exit the building. There’s no way that you could mistake that for anyone else but Harry. He’s the only person that has curls as seemingly perfect as that. Plus, he’s the only broad shouldered, muscular, tattooed man that you’d ever seen around here with hair that’s grown out to the point where it passes his shoulders. 

Fighting the instinct to be as far away from him as possible, you sit down next to Sarah and do your best to ignore his presence.

That lasts all of three seconds. It’s as if something is pulling your focus towards him, and you can’t stand that, so you quickly tell Sarah that you’re going to head out. Grabbing your coat, you give her a story about suddenly having inspiration and not wanting to lose it before offering to take her almost empty cup back to the bar. She nods, wishing you a farewell.

As you’re making your way over to the bar, someone knocks into you and the small amount of liquid left in Sarah’s cup splashes onto your chest. You scoff, turning to tell whoever bumped into you to watch where they’re going. You’re met with a pair of piercing green eyes, and suddenly your words get caught in your throat. All you manage is a scoff and a quick “fuck you” before handing him the cup and walking out. 

You stand outside of the bar, leaning up against the brick wall of the building as you order an Uber for the ride home. The stench of alcohol is radiating from your shirt, and you almost gag at the smell. Beer has never been your favorite, and you have absolutely no clue how Sarah can drink it.

You place the order and go to stand on the sidewalk to wait for the car to pull up. 

“Fancy seeing you here.” The voice seems to carry through the entire street.

“What the fuck do you want, Harry?” you snap. The chuckle that he releases at your words makes your blood boil.

“Just wondering why you’re avoiding me, love.” You don’t have to turn to know that he has a smirk plastered on his face.

“Do you have a degradation kink or something?” Your words have their desired effect as he all but chokes on the air. 

“Um, no. Why? You trying to turn me on, darling?” You roll your eyes.

“Absolutely not.” How can he be so fucking annoying all the time? “I’m just wondering why you continuously pester me after I tell you how much of a dick you are and that I absolutely cannot fucking stand you.”

“Because normally when you do that, you find some way to compliment me. And I think it’s funny how flustered you get when you realize what you said.” You hear him walk closer to you, but you keep your eyes locked straight ahead of you.

“So you have a praise kink.”

When he speaks, his breath hits your ear. Fuck, you didn’t know he had gotten that close. You have to fight the shiver that’s threatening to run down your spine. You can’t give him the satisfaction of knowing that he’s having any kind of effect on you. “Do you want to test it out?”

You scoff, stepping away from him. “You fucking wish, Harry.”

He hums. “Maybe, maybe not.”

You finally turn to him. After seeing him, though, you begin to regret your decision. Seeing him like this, in a white t-shirt and black skinny jeans, hair forming his face in the most perfect way, isn’t doing you any good.

“I’m not going to be your temporary fix, Harry. Go find someone else to give you a good time.” He puts on an exaggerated pout. “I don’t even like you as a friend, so stop fucking around like that. It pisses me off.”

Before he can say anything else, your Uber arrives and you check the plates before getting in the backseat and shutting the door, effectively blocking him out.

What he would have said if your Uber hadn’t pulled up, though, is something that Harry decides you’ll never get to know. Because just when he was about to say, “I’d want you to be more than temporary,” you found a way to break his heart yet again.

*

The Uber driver has continuously given you looks since you got into the car. His nose scrunched up the moment that you closed the door, and honestly, you can’t blame him. You smell like cheap beer and probably look like an absolute mess. He’s most likely just checking to make sure that you don’t look like you’re about to throw up all over his backseat. 

You roll your eyes, trying your best to ignore him. It’s not even your fault that you’re like this right now, it’s Harry’s.

Harry, who you absolutely despise with every bit of your being. He’s been an arrogant, selfish dick since the very day that you met. He only cares about things when they include them,  constantly dropping comments about his success, and always finding a way to insert himself into any and every situation. You can’t seem to get away from him. He seems to be around no matter what you try (at first, you thought it was a coincidence, but now you’re convinced that he just does it to get on your nerves).

Harry, who’s so fucking annoying and unbearable but also so hot that he makes your mouth all but water. He can draw a reaction from you without even trying. Harry, who you’re so fucking attracted to despite hating him, and that fact makes you hate him even more.

It shouldn’t be like this. You shouldn’t be attracted to someone that makes your blood boil. 

I’m just drunk, you repeat to yourself as you push the thought of Harry as far out of your mind as you possibly can.

*

You groan as you walk out of the kitchen. 

“Y/N you know I’m right!” Sarah yells after you. “Stop trying to avoid it.”

Plopping down on Sarah’s black faux leather couch, you roll your eyes even though she can’t see it. “You’re delusional, Sarah!”

She doesn’t say anything until she comes into the living room and sits on the couch next to you. She has a bowl of chips in her hands. When you go to grab one, she pulls the bowl from your reach. 

“Admit it, you and Harry would be absolutely great together.” You could scream. She’s so adamant about the idea, but there’s no way that she could be right.

“Dude, we hate each other. What do you mean? What do you expect from us in a relationship if we can’t even be in the same room together for more than a few minutes without arguing.” She sighs, running a hand through her hair.

“I know, I know! But Y/N, come on. The two of you are so compatible.” You laugh at her words. How could she possibly think that when she sees the way the two of you interact.

“How so?” you ask, just to entertain her theory and let her get her thoughts out.

“Okay, hear me out. You both like music, right? He sings, you write songs. That’s literally perfect right there, even if you were just friends.” You nod, not saying anything. “You’re always talking about how you want to do hair and nails and stuff for your friends and I know that he’d let you paint his nails and play with his hair.” You had in fact been telling her these things, but you weren’t aware that she would choose to use them to try and set you up with Harry. “You’re both really funny and smart. You guys talk about a lot of the same things, too. It’s just never when you’re around each other.”

“Alright, yeah, that makes some sense.” She perks up slightly but you hold a finger up, motioning for her to wait a moment before getting her hopes up. “It makes sense, but you’re forgetting a few things. I couldn’t write songs for, or even with, Harry. He’d find something wrong with him just like he does now. He’d nitpick them until there was nothing that I could find about the song that he didn’t hate.” You sigh, thinking back to what she had just said. “We’d have to be too close to each other for me to mess around with his hair or nails and you know that every time we get within a few feet of each other, there’s some kind of fight that always gets started,” you trail off, giving her a chance to speak.

“Are you going to give me a reason why the last example of why you’re perfect for each other is incorrect?” She groans when you nod.

“Yeah, actually. We may like the same things and be funny and smart or whatever, but there’s no way that we’d be able to talk to each other.” 

“Why?” 

“His communication issues.” She throws her head back and obnoxiously groans.

“He doesn’t have communication issues.”

You burst out laughing. “He’s an Aquarius. Of course he does, right on top of those commitment issues.”

She rolls her eyes at you. “Whatever, Y/N. One of these days you’re going to understand that the two of you are quite literally a match made in Heaven.”

“Not likely,” you mumble before reaching for the remote and finding a movie to put on.

*

“Wait, what?” Mitch is looking at Harry like he’s grown a second head.

“You guys were right. Always have been, really, I just couldn’t say it before now.” Harry gulps, waiting for the ‘I told you so.’ It doesn’t come, though.

“Fuck, dude, I’m so sorry.” Harry shrugs it off.

“Not letting it get to me anymore. I’m tired of letting her break my heart.” He curses himself when tears begin to line his eyes.

“If I had known you really felt that way I would have backed off.” Harry nods at his words. “Sarah would’ve too.”

“It’s fine, Mitch, really. I just, I’m just tired, you know? It’s like there’s a magnetic force pulling me to her but every time I try to get close she shows me, yet again, that she can’t stand me.” He’s never been ashamed to show his feelings, and right now isn’t when he’s going to start. He lets his tears fall down his face as he leans back against the chair he’s sitting in.

“I really didn’t know, H. Normally I can tell when you like someone but it wasn’t like that this time.” Harry nods at him.

“You get pretty good at hiding your feelings when you’re hiding heartbreak after heartbreak.” He’s silent for a moment. “Should I cut off my hair?”

“If you want. But don’t do it just because you’re sad or you’ll regret it.” Harry closes his eyes as he debates the decision. A part of him wants to do it anyway, make the sadness go away for a moment as the exhilaration of a new haircut sinks in, but the rational part of him knows that Mitch is right.

As he sits there with tear stained cheeks, new droplets wetting his face every few seconds, he really wishes that he could hate you. He wishes that he could find anything to hate about you. But when he searches his brain for a reason to dislike you, he comes up empty. It’s frustrating, really. You seem to hate everything about him while he can’t hate a single thing when it comes to you.

He hears Mitch get up, presumably to go get something to eat, but he doesn’t open his eyes. There are a million memories with you flashing through his mind and it hurts him even more to know that every single one of them have been bad.

*

“What do you mean you can’t do it?” Your voice is high pitched, some would even say a little whiny. “Sarah, you promised me that you’d sing the song for me.”

“I know, Y/N. But something urgent came up with Mitch’s family and I have to be there.” Even over the phone, you can hear how worried that she is, so you can’t really bring yourself to be upset with her.

“It’s fine, Sarah. Really, I understand.” You hear her sigh of relief and a small smile graces your face, glad that she now has one less thing to worry about. “I’ll just find someone else to do it.”

“Ask Harry.” She suggests.

“Why would I do that?” The way your mood changed was immediate and it’s almost sad, how fast he gets you worked up.

“Because, Y/N, this project is due in like two days and he’s available.” She says in her duh voice. “Plus, he can sing really well, so just ask him. The worst thing he can say is no.”

“That’s a lie. The worst thing he can say is yes.” Sarah laughs before wishing you good luck and hanging up.

You groan, thinking about what Sarah said. She’s right, honestly. There’s nobody else that you’re going to find on such short notice, especially not one that can sing as good as Harry can. Admitting to yourself that you need him (which is something you never thought you’d say), you pick up your phone and click on his contact.

“Y/N?” His voice sounds deeper than usual, a little raspier, too. Almost like he just got out of bed. You’d be lying if you said it didn’t have an effect on you, the way your name sounds coming out of his mouth when he sounds like that.

“I need your help.” You grimace at the words.

“Alright. What do you need.” Your mind races, trying to figure out why he didn’t have a sarcastic comment or a snarky remark to throw at you. You ignore it for now, though.

“I need you to sing a song that I wrote for a project.” He hums, and you can picture him pulling his bottom lip between his fingers and then running his hand through his curls.

“Okay, when do you need me?” 

“Does tomorrow work? Around noon?” You hold your breath as you hope for the best.

“Yeah, I’ll be at your place then.”

You thank him and hang up, letting your phone fall from your hand down onto the couch. Harry Styles, the man that you swear you hate, is coming to your house tomorrow. 

*

When he arrives the next day, you almost immediately hand him the song and let him read over it, not necessarily wanting to spend any more time with him than needed. When he says he has a few suggestions, you’re terrified that he’s going to tell you how awful he is, but he actually only has a few suggestions to help with the flow of things. Besides that, he promises that it’s a really good song. 

You go to grab your camera and set it up while he strums on the guitar that he brought. Once you’re ready to begin filming, he sets the paper with the lyrics on it to the side and nods.

He begins singing after the camera has started recording and you get entranced by him almost immediately. His eyes close as soon as the first word leaves him mouth and with them shut you feel much more comfortable while looking at him. His hair is flowing all around him and you have the intense urge to tuck the strands behind his ears. There’s a small crease between his brows, that of which she wants to smooth out with a kiss to his forehead. He seems so concentrated, and something about it pulls at her heartstrings.

You shake your head. He’s your enemy, remember? you think to yourself as you divert your eyes to somewhere else in the room. 

After you’ve looked away you find yourself wondering why. Why do you hate Harry so much, really? Yeah he can be arrogant and cocky and rude but who isn’t? Yeah he talks about his famous life and his awards and chart placements a lot, but you would do the same in his shoes.

Plus, he really is pretty funny now that you stop to really think about it. He’s all the things that Sarah had told you over the past few months, and you can’t believe that you didn’t realize until now. You don’t hate Harry, you’ve been convincing yourself that you do to hide the way that you really feel about him.

You’re broken from your thoughts when he clears his throat. Once you turn to him, there’s a smirk on his face. “Could feel you watching me, love.”

Your cheeks burn at the statement. Regardless of the truth in it, you’re still not very keen on admitting that you were ogling him only minutes prior. 

“It’s alright, I find myself looking at you sometimes, too.” You don’t say anything to that, and the room falls quiet. 

With that stupid smirk, that’s way too hot for it to natural and fair, he picks up his keys and his coat and walks to your front door. “See you later, sweetheart.”

You raise your hand in a pathetic half wave goodbye and try your best to smile. As he opens the door, cold air sweeps through the room and you can see the snowflakes falling outside. “Great, there’s a storm.” He groans, but still continues to walk out the door.

“Harry, wait!” He stops, turning to face you. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“Um… leaving?” He gestures towards his car that’s most likely covered in snow by now.

“Not in this weather you’re not.” Your voice grows hard as you glare at him. You know that he’d most likely rather not be around you, but there’s not a chance in hell that you’re going to allow him to risk his life by driving home.

Surprisingly, he doesn’t put up a fight, he just shuts the door and shrugs his coat back off. He hesitantly comes back over to take a seat on the couch. You stay silent, struggling to find the words to say.

“So, um, do you want to watch something?” He asks after a few minutes of nearly unbearable silence.

“Yeah, I’ve been watching Lucifer on Netflix, but if you don’t want to watch that, we can watch a movie or something.” You offer, looking over at him.

“Yeah, we can watch that.” You grab the remote from the table and walk over to sit next to him on the couch. 

Pulling up Netflix and starting Lucifer, you let your eyes wander to Harry for a split second before noticing that he’s already looking at you. You immediately divert your gaze. Your cheeks begin to heat up, but you try your best to ignore it.

*

After watching almost an entire season of Lucifer, you’re just about ready to go to bed. You’ve gotten increasingly more comfortable beside Harry and you’ve even started to lean into him slightly. Not a single part of your body is touching yours, but you can tell that you’ve gotten closer.

You’re about to get up and brush your teeth when the lights go out. You groan, throwing your head back against the back of the couch. “Great, power’s out.”

He doesn’t say anything, just hums in response. 

“Stay where you are. I know where the candles and the flashlight is, and I don’t want you to hurt yourself trying to get around.” You stand up, feeling your way through the living room towards the kitchen. Opening the cabinet closest to the wall, you pull out the three candles and the flashlight. Fuck, you forgot that there are only two candles. That’s not enough for there to be one in the hallway on the table, in the bathroom, and in the living room for Harry. And fuck, your extra blankets are in the washer.

You shake your head, lighting the candles and walking to the bathroom to place one down, and then through to the hallway to do the same. Making your way back to the kitchen, you pick up the flashlight and switch it on.

Once you reach the living room again, you clear your throat. “Okay, bad news. There were only two candles, and they need to be in the hallway and the bathroom.” You cough awkwardly. “Also, my extra blankets are dirty and I don’t want you to lay out here in the dark and freeze to death so,” your voice gets quieter, “do you maybe wanna come lay with me?”

He chokes on his spit and then clears his throat. “Um, yeah, yeah, sure. If that’s okay with you, of course. Remember, I can always go home.” You shake your head as his words.

“Nonsense, come on.”

Once the two of you are in your room, you climb into your bed and wait for Harry to do the same. Neither of you say a word as you get comfortable as you try to get to sleep. Without the heater working and there only being one blanket, though, it’s a little hard to stay warm and comfortable. “Um, Harry, I- can I- you- can we maybe… fuck I don’t know.”

You feel him turn towards you. “Are you cold, love?”

“Yeah.”

He wraps his arm around your waist and pulls you closer to him, letting you lay your head on his chest and wrap yourself up in his embrace. His arms come to wrap around you and one hand finds its way to your hair as the other rests on your hip.

As you bask in his warmth, you try your best to not let yourself think about the way that you feel so perfectly comfortable in his arms. About how he smells so divine and he’s so warm that you’d be content with never leaving his embrace. About how, without even realizing it, you’ve been letting yourself believe that you hate Harry when really you’re in love with him. However, you’ll never tell him that. Not a chance. If there’s one thing that you absolutely will not do, it’s let Harry Styles break your heart.

*

When you open your eyes the next morning, you’re still in Harry’s arms. He isn’t awake yet, so you let yourself appreciate the way that his hair is tickling your face and the way that his arms are holding you tightly to his body. You let yourself enjoy the way that he’s got ahold of you like he can’t bear to lose you. 

You know that when he opens his eyes, everything is going to go back to normal. You’ll have to hate him again and he’ll pretend that none of this ever happened. That thought shouldn’t hurt you as much as it does.

You’re broken out of your thoughts by his voice. “Mornin’, love. Did you sleep well?”

You nod, all but entranced in the way that his voice is so much raspier when he first wakes up. “Sorry for being all over you, it was cold last night.” 

You go to move away from him, but he keeps you hugged to him. “Don’t apologize, like having you here, dove.” The words confuse you, but you don’t question them. Instead, you let yourself relax back into him.

Everything is silent for a few minutes, but the air is comfortable this time. “Do you wanna go get some coffee if the roads aren’t bad?” Harry whispers.

“Yeah, sure.”

The two of you climb out of bed and get ready for the day. You let him use an extra toothbrush and once you brush through your hair, you hand the tool to him. He gives a small “thanks” and gets to work on taming his hair as you walk out of the bathroom.

A few minutes later, he’s walking towards the living room with his keys and then he’s leading you out the door to his car.

The ride to the coffee shop is silent besides the hum of the radio, neither of you really knowing what to say.

Once the two of you slide into a booth at the little diner that he drove you to, you order a coffee and something as he does the same.

“So, tell me about yourself, Y/N. I don’t really know much about you.”

You hesitate for a moment, trying to figure out what to tell him.

“I write. My job is to write articles for this company. But I’m still in school technically, so I’m taking online classes to finish getting my degree. I like songwriting. Um, I think that’s about it.” Your cheeks heat up as you tell him about yourself, although none of the things that you’re listing are embarrassing.

“Why haven’t you ever talked about your songwriting before?” He ponders, placing his elbow on the table and resting his chin on his hand.

“Um, you hate me. Or.. hated me? I don’t know. I don’t want you to tear it apart just because you’re some hotshot writer. Or because you hate me.”

He pulls back, looking down. “Never hated you.”

“What?” You had to have heard that wrong.

“Ever stop to think why I was only rude when you got rude first?”

Your jaw drops as you think it over. “No, um, I didn’t.”

“Yeah, well. I never hated you.”

“So, you’re telling me that I hated you and you just… never hated me?” He grimaces.

“Yeah.”

“Fuck, I’m sorry.”

He offers you a soft smile. “It’s fine.”

Throughout the next few hours, you sit there with Harry and talk about any and everything that comes to your mind. He pays for the bill, although you insist on letting you help. As you’re walking out to his car and he’s about to drive you home, he stops. “Um, hey would you maybe want to hang out some more?”

The question takes you by surprise, but you agree nonetheless. “Yeah, I actually would really like that.”

He nods, climbing into the car as you smile to yourself.

*

It’s been six months since you made Harry stay over at your house because of that pesky snowstorm, and you’ve never been more thankful for the weather.

You’ve spent the majority of your time together, going out to eat when possible and staying over at your house most nights. His is too big, as you’ve always said, so for the simple sleepovers, you insisted that he came over to yours. You’ve grown closer and closer to him, and now you can confidently say that he’s your best friend.

Along with the growing friendship, your feelings have gotten deeper. There’s not a single part of you can deny that you’re absolutely, head over heels in love with Harry. And you don’t want to anymore. You still don’t want to tell him, but you’re no longer lying to yourself in the slightest.

Today is the only day thus far that you’ve even slightly regretted how close that you’ve become with Harry. And that’s because you’re currently standing at the airport, head buried into his chest as you try to find a way to say goodbye for the next six months. 

“Don’t want you to go.” You whine as you hold him as close as you possibly can.

He murmurs a “fuck it” before pulling away from you.

“Come with me.” Your eyebrows raise in surprise. “I know, it sounds crazy. Absolutely ridiculous. But listen, we’ll go home, back to your place and we’ll pack your bags and then we’ll go. I’ll reschedule my flight. I- I can’t do this without you, Y/N.” He reaches up and runs a hand through his curls (which you’d begged him to let you braid, but he said it was easier to have it down for flights). “Listen, you’re my rock. I- I feel like I can breathe when you’re around me. Fuck, Y/N, I’m in love with you.” 

You freeze, completely shocked by the words that fell from his mouth.

“Fuck, I didn’t mean to say that. That was stupid. Forget I ever said anything.” He’s rambling because he thinks there’s no way that you can feel the same but you do.

“I’m in love with you, H. Have been for a long time.” Before he can respond, you surge forward and grab his face in your hands. Bringing his face closer, you slot your lips with his and allow the kiss to envelop you. After a few moments, you pull back. “Let’s go home and get my bags packed.”

*

[all-things-fic]

Spoilin’ for a Fight

A/N: Happy Sunday loves! Hope you’ve all had a lovely and restful weekend. No, your eyes aren’t deceiving you... I have indeed (finally) posted another piece of writing. Here’s 6.7k of Harry riling up his partner all because of a bloody vest.

Thank you as always for all the love and patience everyone has given me. Especially @waitingfortwilight, @haute-romance-quotidienne and @harryfeatgaga. Hopefully this lives up to any hype the sneak peek created! I’m going to disappear again .x 

***

You rolled your lips into your mouth as you watched him walk his way around your master bedroom. His movements were confidently familiar as he tucked his vest into the waistband of his white boxer-briefs and kept his eyes down to the dress shirt and trousers he had laid out across your bedspread, sitting next to choice accessories. 

He was running late. Both you and he knew it. Yet the leisurely motions he undertook would never have told you that if you didn’t already know. The way he had taken longer in the shower, carelessly stepped out of the towel (and stepped over it too, meaning the item was now damp and in a bunched up pile closer to Harry’s side of the bed waiting for someone to put it in the laundry basket) and meandered his way through getting ready. 

Boxers first, then black ankle socks. Then the bloody vest. 

You exhaled through your nose, trying not to release a breath that would catch his attention and let him know that you were becoming slightly vexed by how lackadaisical he was choosing to be.

The vest had to go.

Not even in a sexual way either. 

And it wasn’t the fact that it just wasn’t doing it for you - on the contrary it was quite the opposite, the tight item clearly letting you ogle and appreciate the fine specimen you were proud to call your partner - but it was just how much of grandad-move it was.

You understood how having some sort of undershirt kept his actual shirt looking pristine acting as a defensive layer between his body and his clothing.

But, the vest had to go. 

It just had to.

Blindly reaching down to your dresser for your tube of mascara, you unscrewed the gold lid and coated the wand with product. 

Mouth slightly fallen, you washed your lashes with the High Density Black mascara and quickly made the switch to the other eye making sure to get your bottom lashes too. 

Looking at Harry through the mirror, you wondered what he could be debating as he stood silently in the middle of the room. A soft frown traced his brow, his eyes looking down at the bed. His hands were digging into his waist, as his lips jutted slightly in thought. 

Your conclusion was that he was debating his outfit choice for the evening. 

Lid gently screwed back on, you placed your mascara into your cosmetic vanity, before then reaching out for your brow gel. A quick brush through each side and you were done with that step.

You happened to quite like his outfit choice. It was a little less formal than usual for one of your dinners. Classic houndstooth patterned trousers and smart black shirt. The kind of material that made a scratching noise which was music to your ears as you clawed at your man, wanting him closer. Whether that was in the booth of a restaurant, on the car ride home while you were sat at a red traffic light, or when he had you pinned against the locked door for your house. 

Eyes dropping, you watched as your hands - with freshly lacquered nails - gently drew the opening of your silky-satin dressing gown together as it started to gape. 

From your fidgeting, Harry’s attention was stolen by the movement he had seen in his peripherals and when you next looked up at him in the mirror you were met by his already awaiting gaze.

His face looked worn, as his still slightly damp hair fell across his forehead. Lines lingered in his skin from the way his head was tilted and his arms were bent as his hands faffed around with what appeared to be a trinket box. He must’ve reached for it at some point while you were otherwise occupied. 

Gold cross dipping underneath the neckline of the vest, the width of his chest seemed to be getting wider the longer you kept your eyes on his reflection. In moments like this you always became hyper aware of the amount of tattoos that were scattered across his body - arms, shoulders and chest. If you were able to let your eyes drop lower, you were sure the ones of his legs would be just as vivid.

But while everything else about him just seemed content in the moment, his eyes were different. They were strong as they held yours. Waiting for something. 

And you knew you couldn’t keep his gaze as you let your words leave your throat, albeit with less conviction than you originally thought them.

If you were after a bicker before dinner then he was absolutely going to bite and give you what you wanted. You just knew it. 

“You’re not going out in that, are you?”

“‘S there a problem ‘f I am?”

A charged pause.

Harry’s remark was shot out instantly, on yours as fast as a predator was on their prey. 

Inhaling deeply through your nose, you looked back at him through the mirror. A slant to his lips as he waited once more.

Gentle raise of his eyebrows. Faint but definitely there. Goading. Knowing you would be so aware of every moment, every twitch with your eye for detail. His eyes shone in a way that he was daring you.

Oh, he was spoiling for a fight. Most definitely. 

See, this wasn’t new territory for you and Harry. He knew that it sometimes got on your last nerve in how he opted for a vest to cover his top half as an undershirt but especially when he only wore that as the item of choice and simply slung a suit jacket over the top to complete the outfit. 

Like that one time when he attended The Store X The Vinyl Factory's Transformer exhibition and swung by your then rented London townhouse after said event in the small hours only for you to chastise him on the doorstep for how he hadn’t even put on a proper shirt for the evening. 

That night he had teased you - “‘least let me in the door before you start dressing me down, darling. Especially considering ‘m halfway there with not putting on a clean shirt an’ everythin’” - in that slow draw that maddeningly managed to warm you through even when you were irritated with it’s orator. 

Blinking, you knew you needed to respond but you weren’t sure which route you wanted to take with your tact. 

“Not a problem, ‘s just not my favourite.”

“Didn’t realise we’d become tha’ sorta couple,” he paused, his sentence obviously not finished. When your eyes met his again, he continued, “The kind that tells the other what they can and can’t wear, can and can’t do.”

Sighing, you fiddled with your diamond earrings and spoke, “Forget I said anything.” 

“No, no,” he spoke clearly, ringless hands rising in defeat. “You don’t like the vest, ‘s fine. Allowed an opinion.”

“Nice to know.”

A suppressed laugh spluttered from Harry’s lips as he pressed them together. 

Looking at him again, you watched him wrinkle his nose up at you through the mirror. By now your gaze was flat and you were far from impressed with his taunting.

“Come on,” he encouraged, eyes alight.  “‘S have a row.” 

“I’d rather not.”

“‘S healthy to tell me to piss off every once in a while, y’know tha’?”

“So, piss off.”

“Ouch,” he dragged the word, playing offended. “Could say it wi’a bit less conviction next time.”

“That’s if we make it to a next time,” you muttered, seeing his smirk. “‘M not doing this.”

He watched the way you snatched at your other earring, your hands quick to try and place it gently to your lobe but in your haste you fell foul of losing the item. 

“Shit,” you hissed when the dainty jewellery slipped from your grip and to the wooden floor below with a dull clink. 

“Hang on-“

“It’s fine,” you rebutted any chance of his offering to help, swiping for the earring and managing to make good the second time around. 

There was tension in the air now as Harry remained quiet while you continued busying yourself, ignoring the bubble of annoyance and unexplained upset simmering within you.

Gently scooping at your necklace next, you fiddled with the clasp of the fine chain and tilted your neck down as you raised your hands and arms to place the necklace onto yourself. 

From behind you, Harry nervously chewed at his bottom lip. He knew the outcome wasn’t going to go well as he looked on at your slightly shaking hands struggling to successfully bring the two sides together. 

Rather than point out the possibility of ruining the nails that you had endlessly chewed his ear about all afternoon and constantly stuck under his nose to show off; he waited with baited breath, more than willing to step in if required.

It was when he heard the small and soft growl omit from your mouth with sheer frustration that he decided to change tact.

Gone was the trinket box, tossed aimlessly back onto the bed with a soft bounce. His hands gently placed to rest against taut shoulders, Harry leaned down to press his lips to the top of your head. Nose tickled by your hair he muttered into the silky strands, “Let me, darling.”

You froze as you sat in your seat, eyes still slightly lowered from the way you had dropped your head. Frantically blinking as you mulled over how you were going to play your next move. 

Harry hummed, noticing that you had gone quiet on him, knowing you wouldn’t want to engage with him just yet considering how soon he had previously provoked. He just had to wait it out a little more. 

A slump came to your shoulders at his words, partially irked at how he had been the one to coil your spring - pushing and pressing and prodding - and now he thought he could be the one to so easily offer you release. 

“Let me just-,” he spoke more so to himself, cutting himself off, as he scooped your hair into his hands and mumbled soft apologies considering he knew you had spent some time on styling. 

When he was happy that your neck was open enough and there wasn’t going to be anything to hinder him with your tresses over one shoulder, he reached for the item. 

Harry’s right hand met yours first, his thumb and forefinger easily pinching at the delicate chain that he knew so well having been the person to pick and purchase the item. 

Surprised at how easily you gave up the treasure, Harry darted his eyes to your left side and reached for the other side of the fine chain. 

“Have you got it?” You were reluctant to let the one side of the necklace go, in fear of losing the pendant that was currently bouncing against your chest from the way you held the jewellery item. 

Again, a throaty hum vibrated through Harry’s chest. 

“Which idiot chose the finicky clasp?”

“You did,” you outright answered him.

He chuckled in concentration, eyes zoned in on the way his thumbnail pressed at the clasp to hold it down, and his left hand fed itself to the right. “‘S right, I did. Fucking big idiot over ‘ere.”

You then felt the chain gently tickle the back of your neck as Harry let the item go. “But he’s only gone an’ bloody done it.”

Lightly sighing, you pressed your hand to your chest and felt the necklace sitting cooly against your hotter than usual skin. A soft smile at Harry’s choice of words to let you know he had successfully put on the necklace. 

Slightly inside your own head as you raised it to sit up straight, you quickly busied yourself with returning items that you had been using to get ready, to their rightful spots.

Behind you, you heard Harry chuckle as he gently dropped himself down to sit on the edge of your side of the bed. He was clearly amused at how you still couldn’t bring yourself to look at him. 

“Ignoring me now? Not even gonna gi’me a thank you?”

If you hadn’t been so stubborn, and focused on the task at hand you would have heard his question and thanked him. However, given your own bloody-mindedness, you never stood a chance. 

Learning forward, Harry’s hand reached down to one of the four legs that made up your dressing table pouffe - the one closest to him - and swiftly pulled. 

Of course, you squealed. The quick change in motion was enough to cause anyone to omit a noise fit only to dogs hearing due to its pitch. 

“‘Ve got yer,” he spoke around a chuckle, enlightened by your reaction as the chair scraped against the flooring and made it so you were virtually sat in his lap. “If the mountain won’t come to Mohammed...”

Sharply, you turned to look at him and pushed at his shoulder. “Hope you’re not implying-“

“Wha’,” his expression was boyishly cheeky as he cut you off with his question, his hand keeping hold of yours that had pushed his shoulder. “What am I implying?”

Nostrils flared as you looked at him, feeling your arm slowly wrap around his neck as he tried to pull you closer once more on the chair. Legs man spread, he managed to slot you in between his thighs and enjoyed the way your soft knees squashed into his inner thigh from how close you now were. 

“I’m implying what the proverb is implying,” he smarmily responded, forever having an answer for everything.

“Is that so?”

“It is,” he turned, noting the way your arm was still draped around his neck.

“Shame that,” you commented. “Cause if you were alluding to the other thing then you would’ve really gotten the fight you were looking for.”

Harry’s eyes cut to you from the corner of his vision, his lips now pressed gently against your forearm. “Would I? If that’s the case, I take it back.”

Again your nostrils flared, as you mumbled a veiled threat of, “Swear to god, Harry.”

“So, so easy to wind up-“

Harry’s voice was abruptly cut off when your fingers came into contact with the hair at the nape of his neck and pulled as hard as you could. His only response was to gently graze his teeth to the skin of your arm and the silk of the gown in the tiniest of nips as he ascended to your neck.  

“D’yeh know how much I love fighting with you?” He mumbled against your skin, “How much I love doing anything and everything with you?”

“Have a feeling you’re going to tell me,” you swallowed around your dry response, feeling his lips quirk against the shoulder of your silk gown as he gently brushed your hair away once more.

With it falling down your back, you became all too aware of the gape to your coverup, revealing your clavicle and the top of your breast, as Harry’s lips rubbed against where your neck and shoulder met. 

Growl-like hum heard from your suitor, you gently pushed your finger through his drying hair. Forcing it in haphazard directions before bringing it back and smoothing it down. 

When he showered you with affection like he was currently doing, it was hard to stay mad at him. Which is why you found the direction of conversation so intriguing. What was he trying to achieve here? Whatever it was, he really was going the wrong way about it. 

“Know why I love fighting?” He felt you shake your head lightly as he brought you back to him with the question. The rustle of your hair against his was heard prominently in your ears as he now lightly rested his forehead to your temple. “Yea’, you do,” he disagreed with your non-verbal response, tone gritty as he tried to rouse once more. 

“‘S cause I love shagging when we’re angry,” he heavily pressed his nose into your cheek, knowing you were watching him through the hooded eyelids regardless of how you wouldn’t fully let your gaze meet his long enough to be suckered in. “How you really dig your nails into my back an’ shoulders when I properly get going - not to mention my arse cheeks - and how it feels when I step under the shower the next morning and wince like a little wuss.”

You laughed breathily, stopping your feelings of joy by biting down on your bottom lip. Laughter however played on your lips, lingering in a soft smile that danced along and up the corners of your mouth.

“Fight me, darling.” 

Amused didn’t even cover it as you pulled your head back in a slightly uncomfortable way to look at him. The smoulder of his dilated eyes that were clearly set on what he wanted, they jarred so evidently against his messy hair that looked fit for a toddler who had woken from a heavy nap.

He seemed awfully whiny for a man who was confident with what he wanted. Supposed to be the instigator of an exchange of diverging or opposite views, creating most likely a heated happening. Then again, maybe he was onto something.

Soft frown set in the middle of his brows, his eyes dropped so brazenly down to your lips. A quick swipe of your tongue had them glistening enticingly for him as saliva lingered and caused his groan to get caught in his throat. 

Hand against the back of your head, he tilted your face down to his once more and let his mouth sit at the corner of your lips. Your breathing and his had started to become staccato, as anticipation bubbled within you both from your shared close proximity. 

“‘M waiting,” you challenged knowing he would rise up to the provocation, as his hand turned you face a tiny amount more so when he stuck his nose against yours, so they would slot perfectly together.

Harry’s vision blurred as he felt your warm breath bounce against his face, licking his own lips now and rolling them into his mouth to take away any dryness. 

Hand drawing you to him and mouth about to take your bottom lip, he felt the soft draw back of your head causing his lips to tweak as his breathy laugh mixed within his short and sharp exhalations. 

“‘S tha’ how it’s gonna be?“

You fought the way your hooded eyes wanted to close at the gruff tone that laced his question, wanting to marvel in the glow that had started to coat the skin of his face. 

“Said you wanted a fight.”

No sooner had the words left your mouth were his lips abruptly upon yours. His hand spread across your entire cheek as your free hand reached for his wrist and tightly gripped. Noses squashed from the force; desperate to have each other. 

Harry's lips were fierce and bruising, his body feeling heavier against yours as he rested his other hand against your chair and gave you more of his weight. 

For him your smell was everywhere, as your other arm wrapped around his neck and clawed at the fabric of that bloody vest. The sweet of your hair care juxtaposed against the woody florals of your perfume that sensually drew and tied him to you.

Knees knocking together, you felt the way his hand stumbled as it peeled away from the chair and clawed at the silky fabric of your gown. Fingers quickly became frantic as his concentration moved to his hands that lifted fabric and slipped underneath craving the feel of your warm, soft skin.

With his mouth slightly slower and fallen as he was pulled elsewhere, you tried to take the lead as his hands wandered and he explored.

His hands were softer than usual, time away from music and instruments meaning the callouses had faded. Short nails were dull as they clawed, fingertips dancing against your plush thighs as they flattened to the seat and then upwards along your hip, scooping around your back and confidently spreading out just shy of the top of your bum.

God, he loved knowing you were completely naked underneath. How with a quick and sharp tug of his hand, he would have you bare to him.

Small press against your lower back had Harry silently asking you to raise and fall into his lap. You ignored him at first, far too wrapped up in the way he gave you his tongue around his quivering lips that were trying not to smile at the way the two of you were shamelessly necking on and he was managing to get his own way. 

Pressing your toes into the patterned antique Persian rug which sat underneath your bed, your body created a break between your thighs and their seat. Harry took advantage of the space without any need for a nudge, his hands curling against the clammier, warm skin as he urged you once more to come to him.

Your knees hit the side of your mattress first, lifting and mounting Harry’s lap and he moaned as he enjoyed your full weight against him. Fingers digging into the skin of your thighs, you felt him squeeze as he started to lower himself down to the bed.

Body laying atop an outfit priced easily in the early thousands, Harry hummed clearly letting you know how pleased he was with himself. This was only solidified by the crack of his hand, as it slapped against you bare bum cheek now on show. 

“Can’t believe you’ve got your arse in the air like this,” he rasped, head lifted so he could leave lingering kisses to the hinge of your jaw. 

Mouth slightly dropped, you could feel the way his right hand danced against the curve of your cheek and the way it dipped as it met the back of your thigh. 

His eyes were on your face, chin soft as he tilted his head down to his chest. You admired him, somehow able to find a stillness woven within a intoxicated, sensual love between the lewdish comments and suggestive wandering hands. 

Lips melding to the skin of your cheek, he asked,  “Who’re you showing it off to?”

“You, ‘f you want it like that.”

The coolness of the room hit your bare skin even more as Harry roughly pushed up the fabric of your gown up as he palmed your cheeks once more, skin massaged and squeezed between his digits.

Raw groan, he found his voice, “Turn over for me.” 

Harry slid himself closer to the side of bed, hands making light work of his socks and his briefs before he turned to throw you a glance over his shoulder.

You had removed your gown, item somewhere now on the floor revealing yourself to him proudly. 

As you lay gently on your stomach, the expanse of your bare back on show for him. He greedily let his eyes wander, the curvature of your shoulders and the indentation of your spine line. 

The way your right leg was slightly bent creating a crease to your hip and your left leg a little straighter. You certainly gave him plenty to devour with his sight. 

He didn’t give it much thought when he joined you back on the bed, his hands pressing into the mattress closer to your head.

Bare fingers caught your attention as you watched his hands scrunch around his expensive dress shirt, the familiar scratching sound music to your ears as it caught against his nails and not yours for once while he threw it to the floor at the bottom end of the bed.

“Doesn’t look like we’re going to make it to tha’ dinner,” he spoke, his words not really warranting an answer. Beside your hips, you could feel his knees as he leaned for the trousers on the other side of you and pushed them out of the way too.

He continued with, “Already late. ‘S no point.”

From the way he spoke you wondered if this was what he had been aiming for all along. To scrap dinner and have his way with you. It wouldn’t have been the first time and definitely not the last. 

Eyes already heavy from the deep lull of Harry’s voice, they closed when you felt his lips hit your back, making light work of inhaling you in. His mouth was wet as he reacquainted his lips with your skin, suckling the lower he got.

Nose gently sweeping down, you found yourself dropping your forehead to your forearm giggling from the light tickle, only to sharply cry out as his teeth sunk into the top of your cheek and your head lifted once more. 

Your hand reached behind you pressing against his forehead, “Don’t you dare leave a love bite on my bum.”

His lips twitched at your squealed but breathy chastise, tongue laving against the startings of a mark. “Always begrudging me of eating, darling.”

A devilish grin laced his features as you dared to look over your shoulder at him and take in his gaze that owlishly looked at you from behind your curved hip. All you could see were his eyes as your hand gently pushed his head while he pulled your hips upwards with him, lips skimming the backs of your thighs. 

“Mm,” he started. “Not everything though, ‘s tha’ right?”

The man simply didn’t want to part from his meal.

“You always did like dessert better.” 

There was nothing more Harry loved than when you let him put his face between your legs. But when you let him do it from behind, he couldn’t even explain the difference yet there was one.

Maybe it was the way he could grab and smack your arse, fingers digging into your hips as he got to pull you onto his face when things started to get hot and heavy. That animalistic grab to your hip bone, loins pulled onto his face as he went to town.

Even better when you would push back against him. So caught up in the way he felt that you couldn’t wait any longer. He could talk to you easier this way too, really coax you not only with the feel of his tongue but the words that dripped off it too. 

And then there was the possible anticipation of assplay. Tongue always ready and willing to stimulate if it were desired and communicated. 

The way his hands massaged you, softly pulling apart your rounded cheeks and opening you to the cool air of your bedroom almost stunned. Your body quickly gathered itself with a warm moan when you felt his warm salvia drip messily down onto your ass and your middle. 

Then he was leaning forward - lapping at your skin - lapping you up. Tongue greedy at your cheeks and folds, building his own desires before he actually ate. 

This was his starter. 

The most feminine gasp exited your open mouth when you felt his mouth land where you needed him the most, somewhat too cautiously for your liking at first but you knew he sometimes liked to play this game. You found yourself wiggling back, Harry’s hands wrapping around and squeezing into your thick thighs welcomingly when he knew you’d caught on. 

He hummed, pleased that you had fallen from his meek offerings and gave you more of his mouth. 

“There’s my girl.”

“H,” you panted, pressing your forehead onto your forearm. 

“Fuck,” he muttered against you, enjoying how you were letting him have a taste. Your sweetness quenching his starved fancy. 

You were wet, but he wanted you wetter. Just wet enough so that you were tacky when he tapped himself against you teasingly. 

With his eyes closed, Harry opened his mouth wider as he pulled your hips back to his lips. His nails dig into your skin as your hands clenched into the sheets beneath.

He worked slowly against you, tongue licking at your wetness and saliva mixing with your early arousal. Nose buried inside of you as he devoured you in a way that had you thinking he had been wanting you this way for weeks. A little bit rougher, grabbing you to him and not in the way that quickies usually brought. In a way that sex selfishly commanded sometimes. 

“God, baby-“ how was it always so- gratifying? 

With his eyes closed now as he tried to focus, Harry felt your body shuffle and his own limbs followed after you without restraint. Your bum became slightly raised as you pressed your arms deeper into the mattress due to the way you began to play with yourself.

Your fingers swiped upwards in gentle pulls against your clit, Harry’s mouth barely letting up. He must’ve figured out what you were doing though from your slight change in position as he hummed against your heat, light mutterings that you couldn’t make out. 

“‘S tha’ feel good?” he asked, voice hot as he pulled back to bring his focus onto the glide of your fingers against your wet and neglected clit. “Couldn’t wait, wanted to play.”

You knew you were slick, you could feel it but rather than feel embarrassed you found yourself without a care as you pushed yourself back again. His chuckle made you feel on fire, “Not done with me? Still need some more?”

His lips and tongue dove straight back in rather than wait for a verbal answer, feeling the way your legs widened further when he licked in a particular way. The smell and taste of you was everywhere, gleaming against him with a tackiness that was the perfect piece of free memorabilia. 

Breathing heavier, you both listened to every small gasp and light moan that was drawn from you. The sound of his lips pulling at you making a heat spread across your chest and down to your core.

Harry knew your reactions like the back of his hand, and was waiting for that one sound that was so sweet and enough to get him to cheekily pull away. 

The thought alone had his lips curving into a smile against you, as he felt you starting to clench against his tongue from your joint efforts of pleasure. 

“Harry,” you whispered, rushed. The slow burning feeling starting to form in the pit of your stomach as your fingers began to move with that little bit more fervour. “Want you.”

His mouth was away from you and against the skin of your bum cheek not long after, lips messily wiping as he moved them up your back leaving a trail of arousal in his wake as you felt yourself fall flat to the mattress as he mounted you. 

Hands pinched into the skin of your back, Harry pressed his pelvis against you. 

Feeling him nestled between the cheeks of your bum, caused your eyes to close. He was so full and hard for you, you couldn’t contain the throaty moan that accompanied his grind into the dip of your bum.

“‘M gonna fuck you,” he panted, hands sweeping your hair to one shoulder so his lips can find your skin again. “Want that, hm?”

Your fingers wove into the hair at the nape of his neck, as he craned his head to look at you. His left hand pressed into the bed, holding his entire weight as his right hand reached down for his leaking cock. 

“‘S this what you want- how you want it?” He goaded in question again, gently tapping himself against the skin of your bum before he slid himself down and watched as you slightly raised your own hips for him and started to reach behind you to encourage him to press his weight on top of you.

Harry lined himself up, pushing forward and shifting his eyes from his sinking cock and up your back to see your head dipping forward to fall between your shoulders. He knew he’d never grow tired of the welcomed blissful moan of ‘yes’ that always left your lips when he finally gave it to you.

Humming deeply, Harry bit around his smile as he started with shallow, teasing thrusts. A series of strokes that you found frustratingly sexy but knew as ones he wouldn’t be able to keep up due to his own insatiable desires. 

He swore, in the least teenage boy way possible, you were always tighter to him like this. Especially if you crossed your legs at your ankles behind him while he pushed into you. 

It was usually the position you adopted when you’d let him take you this way, however in the dusk evening he could feel that you had lifted your legs up so your calves were resting against his bum and holding him to you; cutting his shallow thrusting short to press and hold him deeper inside. 

As his pelvis flattened against your bum, he gritted his teeth and released a deep noise from the very back of his throat. The sound had you giggling, slightly wiggling your hips from beneath him, the moment quickly halted by one of his hands cupping at your skin.

“Darling, steady,” he warned.

“Come on,” you wiggled again. “Fuck me then.”

Pulling back, Harry nudged forward just as smooth, the intent behind his thrust obvious. Eyes dropped down he enjoyed the bounce of your cheeks from the force of his pelvis.

A content hum left your smiling lips as you jolted from each push of his hips; his grunts of exertion delightfully pleasurable as his hands pressed into the mattress next to your waist. 

Thrust measured - slow, hard and deep - knowing what they wanted and needed. How to get it too. Undulating and determined.

Harry’s eyes closed as he felt you squeeze him, your legs dropping away from the cheeks of his clenching arse and down to the bed with a soft bounce. You moved again and he followed, legs opening wider against the mattress beneath you both. 

The way your face was now half buried into the sheets, muffling your moans that were usually hot against his ear and coaxing him to places he was still dumbfounded he was able reach let alone find. 

Teeth gritted once more, he could feel the tightness in his limbs and lower back. The work of his hips was unyielding but you were opening up to him, only making him want to continue the steady rhythm. To push and pull. To chase.

And it was enough. It was nice. Simmering. And if you opened your legs just that little bit wider you could rub yourself against the sheets but you wanted to give as good as you could get. Being engulfed wasn’t going to give you that. 

“Give it to me,” you requested, “Harder, baby.”

“Yeah,” he agreed. “Really need it, don’t yer?”

He pulled you upwards, hands at the curve of your waist so his fingers indented and left lighter marks against your skin from the pressure.

Now on your knees he could really have his way with you. 

Soon the sound of your skin slapping together only started to add to the growing fire in the pit of his stomach and yours. The sound of it so obscene but so welcomed to both your ears. 

Harry’s eyes raked over your naked body, the pert cheeks of your arse bouncing enticingly against his hips, to the tops of your fingers that were fisting tightly into your bedsheets. Knuckles so prominent due to the unrelenting grip.

He had noticed that your body was on its way to folding in on itself, arms stretching above your head and hands finding purchase on your plush bed pillows closer to the top of the bed that had been reached and pulled for by your own lack of knowing what to do with your hands.

“D’ya love me?”

His question was so gritty. Throat dry from his heavy breathing. You found yourself collapsing again. 

Your body, in its lethargy, started to curl up into itself with hands pressed down and your legs bent as your arse begins to bob more against him rather than thrust itself back.

“Said d’ya love me.”

He was sharp with his thrust.

“So much-“

It was wet and it was gasped. Low moan as he cracked his hand against your cheek.

“‘S tha’ the sex talkin’,” he heaved goadingly, and you knew he was smiling. It wasn’t the sex talking, but it could be. Both so taken by the waves of pleasure that could easily sway even the most sound of minds.

You whined into your arm from his smarmy laugh, a writhe to your hips as Harry licked at his thumb and pressed it enticing against your arse. Gentle rubs had you gasping his name and pressing back, as his thumb slid down to collect your arousal that was sat coating your outer walls and his cock each time he retreated.

As you became more excited, his thumb pressed against you with a bit more pressure, gently popping inside and sitting there. 

“Harry,” you whined, the loudest you could around biting your lips, a soft frown forming against your brow at the pleasurable intrusion. 

“You fuckin’ love it,” he growled, watching as you pushed back against his next thrust. “You dirty mare.” 

Heavy frown against your brow, you dropped your head onto your forearm once more and felt yourself start to clench around him. “Yea’,” he muttered to himself, “You’re coming.” 

Nodding your head against your forearm, you felt his free hand rest onto yours that was pushed above your head. He pressed down, fingers slotting through yours as he grunted in time with his harder thrusts into you.

With shaking thighs and aching knees, you feel your mouth fall as his teeth grazed over your ear and his heavy pants warmed your already perspiring cheeks. 

“Don’t fight me,” he pleaded. “‘S nice to give in.”

His head was heavy against your temple, your hair messily in your face. You felt your expression fall as you teetered, starting to lean slightly more to one side. He was nodding, you didn’t know who to but you knew what about and you found yourself craving his narration of whispered ‘yeses’ but instead you were both overcome and the best he can do was huskily groan to encourage you.

Suddenly it tipped and your limbs started to shake as you pressed back against him both in want of more but more so to ground yourself so you didn’t collapse. He stuttered from your vigour but held you there, feeling you helplessly writhe and mercilessly squeeze around him. His cock grinding and dipping into you, drawing out each tremor, desperately seeking its own sexual gratification.

Your other hand was wrapped around his face, fingers digging into the back of his neck and whispering begs for him to come inside of you. Pleas of how you want him to give it to you. Fill you up.

And you were lewd because sometimes that was how he liked it.

Such a pretty face and pretty mouth - yours - speaking to him in such a way. Admonishment was forgotten. Who needed or cared for it when his balls were pulling up tight with each slap against you. 

And then he collapsed against you. His thighs roughly spread you as he clenched and groaned deeply - guttural - giving you everything he had. 

Blood rushed around his ears as he shuddered and shook, the force of his orgasm causing his hips to continue with little pushes just to be sure he was done. Lost to himself, the silence and his sensitivity. 

He roused to your dirty snicker, one of disbelief. Right hand wrapping behind to feel for his arse cheek and digging your nails there, wanting to keep him deep inside, or just behind you for long enough to feel him pressed flaccid and wet against your cheeks. 

The filthy reminder caused you to flush, as Harry shuffled behind you, lips seeking out your clammy skin. 

“Make you mad more often, ‘f tha’s my private penance.”

His words were muffled, spoken into your shoulder as his hands soothed and massaged over your joints in preparation for the aching reminders tomorrow. 

And the vest was still on. 

[l0vegl0wsinthedark]

Sparkle

Here's a little ficlet I wrote based on a random scene that popped into my head and wouldn't leave. Unbeta’ed.

Tags: implied/attempted noncon, alcohol consumption, eighth year fic. Pairing: Draco/Harry

-------

Draco Malfoy came back to Hogwarts after the War.

He was quiet and was nearly always seen in the company of his books. He talked to people, but not unless they addressed him first. He was always in plain sight, and always seemed to be in the middle of the most banal, tedious tasks, and Harry had no reason to be suspicious.

But Harry watched him anyway.

How was he to help it? Malfoy didn't look anything like the Malfoy he was used to warching.

Yes, he was still deathly pale and tall and reed-thin - but he held himself differently now. He didn't swagger around like he owned the school, but still had an air of aristocratic grace about him that made people hurry out of his way.

He didn't wear his hair combed to slick perfection; he had it buzzed down to the scalp on one side, the rest of his sleek, platinum hair pulled over to the other side in an artfully tousled sweep that sometimes fell over his eyes and caught on his long lashes.

He didn't wear his shirt sleeves down to his wrists to hide the Mark. Instead he had them rolled up to his elbows to reveal the pretty little pink and orange blossoms he had tattooed over the ugly, faded skull and snake.

He always had nail paint on - black, green, ruby red, purple.

He wore eyeliner, stark black against the paper-white skin of his translucent eyelids and blond eyelashes.

During the weekends, he wore soft jumpers over crisp white shirts, often in pastel shades that made him appear delicate and almost ethereal.

Draco Malfoy came back to Hogwarts after the War and Harry was obsessed all over again.

*

It was Christmas in a week. The eighth year common room was in full tumult, the Wireless charmed to blare music loud enough to be heard clearly over the cacophony of dozens of chattering students. Decorated extravagantly by the elves, two tables groaning under food and drink (spiked with an indecent amount of alcohol), and housing every eighth year, over half of the seventh years and a few bold sixth years, the room threatened to burst at the seams.

Harry was pleasantly tipsy, which was very mild compared to the state of some of his classmates. At least he wasn't trying to climb up into the mantel to attempt to jump off of it and land on an overstuffed armchair that was twelve feet away.

He really had to pee, though, and both the toilets attached to the common room were occupied, and when he went up to the dorm bathrooms, he found those occupied too - as well as issuing sounds made by the students inside engaged in various kinds of 'activities'.

Bladder uncomfortably full, Harry jogged back down to the common room and, with a wave at Ron and Hermione, exited the party so he could use one of the school loos. His mind was buzzing very softly and he wasn't worried about homework or, you know, dying, for the first time in a while.

Sighing in relief after having taken a long piss, Harry strolled slowly back towards the common room. It was well past midnight and he knew the seventh and sixth years would be in trouble if caught at the party. He also knew that every teacher was likely aware and chose to let it go. It'd been that way this term after the War.

He was about to pause and take a moment to admire the snow covered grounds and Forest out the nearest window when he heard a sound from the classroom in front of him. There was a soft thud and a garbled human voice.

Frowning, he crossed the corridor and halted outside the classroom, hesitant to walk in on students who likely didn't want to be disturbed. But then he heard, clearly:

"Stop. No."

"Incarcerous."

"No, no, no, I don't want--"

But Harry had already drawn his wand and kicked open the door.

He vaguely recognised the seventh year, tall and slightly plump with a mop of sandy blond hair. He was struggling to contain the thrashing student he had bent over a desk and looked around with a jump, panting softly, when Harry burst in.

"What the f--?" the seventh year began.

"Get out," barked Harry, indicating to the door pointedly with his wand.

The seventh year stepped away and the student he'd been pinning fell to the floor with a thump, his wrists bound at the small of his back, his ankles tied together with the same gleaming, silvery rope. And then Harry started in shock, because-

"Please," panted Malfoy, writhing on the floor as he tried to free himself.

"Go," Harry said in a low, dangerous voice to the seventh year, and there must have been something in his voice or face because the student quite literally pelted out of the room. Harry heard him running all the way down the corridor.

Harry walked forward slowly. "Malfoy?"

Malfoy thrashed again, out of breath and emitting little sounds of desperation. "Pl-- Just let me go!"

Harry quickly bent down and undid the ropes with a wave of his wand. Then he helped Malfoy sit up and lean back against the desk, still panting.

His face was clammy and his eyes bloodshot, eyeliner smudged, his face abnormally pale, likely with fear.

He was also clearly very, very drunk.

Harry suddenly remembered seeing him at the party earlier, flitting back and forth to and from the table of refreshments. And then he'd disappeared altogether.

Apparently, not with his consent.

"You okay?" Harry asked, hesitantly placing a hand on Malfoy's shoulder.

"I don't want to!" Malfoy declared, jerking off his hand.

Harry immediately held both hands up and away. "Okay, absolutely, yes," he babbled. "I'm not gonna-- nobody's gonna..." He didn't know what to say so he left it unsaid.

Malfoy just sat there, still panting quietly, eyes unfocused and rolling around a bit.

"Do... Do you need to be sick? Do you...need to use the bathroom?" Harry asked after long stretch of silence. Malfoy shook his head, hair flopping into his face. There was some colour in his cheeks now, and when he reached up to messily tuck his hair behind his ear, Harry noticed he was wearing sparkly blue nail polish.

"Bed," Malfoy said suddenly, voice hoarse. Harry nodded and stood up. Malfoy looked up at him in bewilderment. "I don't want to," he repeated, slightly plaintively.

The way he looked in that moment, as though pleading for his life, helpless and incapacitated, Harry's chest tightened.

"Nobody is going to touch you," he promised in a low, steady voice. "I'm just going to see you up to your dorm room. Do you need help standing up or are you good?"

Malfoy looked up at him blankly and then looked away with a sigh, uncrossing his legs and making to stand up. "I need help," he mumbled after a beat.

Harry helped him up and then immediately stepped away. "Come on," he said softly, indicating to the door. "This way."

*

Despite having gone to bed only well after 3am after the party, Harry was up by 8. He found Ron awake with Hermione and the three of them went on a walk after breakfast. In the afternoon, Seamus invited them to a snowball fight with the others. After he'd changed out of his sopping clothes later, Harry found himself entrusted with the task of going down to the kitchens to bring up snacks for everybody.

One flight of stairs away from the Entrance Hall, Harry was stopped by a soft voice addressing him.

"Potter."

Harry turned. Sat on the nearest windowsill was Draco Malfoy.

Harry, for some reason, felt his face heat, and absurdly found himself worrying that Malfoy knew that Harry had spent all day thinking of him.

"Hey," Harry replied, nodding. "Alright?"

Malfoy nodded back, expression neutral. Suddenly, Harry wondered if Malfoy even remembered the events of the previous night.

"Where are you going?" Malfoy asked softly, and there was nothing threatening or malicious about the way he spoke.

"Down to the kitchen to nick food," Harry replied honestly, shoving his hands in his pockets. And then, after a moment of hesitation, "How are you...you know, how're you feeling?"

"I feel fine," said Malfoy, a small line appearing between his brows. "Any reason I wouldn't?"

Yeah, he doesn't remember, Harry decided. Then he wondered why he's talking to Harry at all.

"No," Harry said, mouth curving into a crooked smile. "Well, I guess I'd better-" He indicated to the stairs with his head.

Malfoy nodded and said nothing.

Harry was halfway down the stairs when, "Potter."

Harry turned. Malfoy stood at the top of the stairs.

"Yeah?"

"I-- I just--" Malfoy was very pink in the face. Harry thought him very pretty at that moment. "I'm really grateful for your help last night," Malfoy blurted.

Now Harry went pink. Oh, so you remember, he wants to shout hysterically.

"It was no problem, Malfoy," he said instead. "I'm glad I was there to help." Malfoy just looked blankly at him. "Hermione's always going on about consent," Harry blabbers suddenly. "And you know... You weren't... You didn't...consent."

Malfoy nodded, throat bobbing as he swallowed, his hands fidgeting with the hem of his baby blue jumper. "Well, thank you," he said after a few seconds of silently nodding.

"You're welcome."

They stared at one another. Harry was aware of the seconds stretching on and on but he couldn't look away from Malfoy's artfully styled hair and rosy cheeks and sparkly nails and carefully lined eyes.

Then with an awkward and atrociously stupid wave, Harry turned away.

"D'you want to go to Hogsmeade with me later?"

Harry turned, almost slipping off the step and tumbling down the stairs.

"What?" he spluttered at Malfoy who was now scarlet in the face.

"I... I asked if you--" Then Malfoy abruptly seemed to deflate. "Never mind, Potter. Sorry. And thanks again for last night."

Malfoy disappeared around the banister and Harry heard him climbing the stairs while he himself just stood there.

Then, as though jerked into motion by an electric shock, Harry flew back up the stairs.

"Malfoy!" he gasped as he rounded the banister. Malfoy turned, looking surprised. "I-- I'd love to," Harry said, sounding a bit winded.

"What?" Malfoy asked, tilting his head, glossy hair sliding over his eyes.

"Go to Hogsmeade with you," Harry explained. "I'll-- I'd love to go."

Malfoy went brick red but he smiled as he did so, a small, shy smile that made Harry's heart skip a beat.

"Okay," Malfoy nodded, "Six? I'll meet you in the common room," he added, pointing up the stairs with one finger.

Harry grinned. "Cool."

Malfoy grinned back. And then, just as Harry was about to go back down, "Hey, Potter?"

Harry looked back up. "Yeah?"

Malfoy, still scarlet in the face, seemed to be making a physical effort to gather courage. "You... You have my consent."

Speechless and almost faint, Harry just watched him hurry away. Consent for what, he wanted to bellow after him.

Then he decided he'd rather let Malfoy show him what later.

***

[stephspurs]

ONLY ANGEL - A John Stones Fanfiction

STEPHSPURS. - THE MASTERLIST ONLY ANGEL - FANFICTION MASTERLIST

The lights go down, the room turns dark, a murmur of people still trying to find their seats settles into the otherwise silence. The floor to ceiling screen behind the runway awakens to show a video montage of arguably the most famous supermodels in the world. “It’s difficult being a woman, and other women understand that...but it’s also fun to be a woman and I think we should be able to own that”

The Victoria’s Secret Fashion Show is unlike any other in the world, it is the equivalent of the SuperBowl for supermodels. Bodies like Gisele Bundchen, Heidi Klum, Tyra Banks, grace the runway year in year out for the most-celebrated lingerie event in the runway calendar. A change of scenery for the traditionally American-based fashion show saw the glittery stage set up and a plethora of beautiful women touch down in London town.

Josephine Andersen, a 25 year old Danish-born supermodel found herself sitting backstage in hair and makeup, in a scantily-clad lingerie set with the iconic barely-there silk wrap adorned with the famous branding across the back of her shoulders and ‘Angel Josephine’ across her left side, right above her beating heart. Make no mistake, Josephine was meant to be here. She had worked hard every single day since the last runway event that she was fortunate enough to have walked in for the lingerie brand, to prove her rightful place as an Angel.

Yes, success is the direct result of hard work - and there was no denying that Josephine was a hard worker. She knew that she wasn’t special, and like most, she would have to work for what she wanted out of her life. What she didn’t know before going into the modelling industry at the ripe old age of 13, was that it was as mentally challenging as it was physical. Everyday was a constant battle between her head, her heart, and her agent. Nevertheless, she was aware of how difficult it was to be a woman, but she was also aware of just how fun it could be too.

John Stones, a 27 year old Barnsley-born (although his mate Kyle Walker would argue the point that his postcode says Sheffield but that's a story for another time) footballer for Manchester City Football Club, found himself sitting front row of the Victoria’s Secret Fashion Show in London. He had never attended an event quite like it before, his mates sat either side of him ready to enjoy the spectacle that he didn’t think he would ever have the pleasure of attending. With the current season underway and the fact that his home club was a whole 4 hour drive away from his current location, it was a small miracle that the group of lads from Manchester were allowed to attend at all. These boys were down for a night of beautiful women, lingerie and getting up to no good.

The music started, the screen went black, the crowd erupted in applause for the first model through the parting screen - Angel Josephine. Strutting down the runway to Harry Styles' live version of Only Angel, John was mesmerised by the woman before him. She was working the crowd, sensual glances, little smirks, a cheeky grin here and there. Standing at the end of the runway, facing the abundance of cameras, Josephine gave her best smile and a confident wink to the camera before tossing her hair over her shoulder and proceeding to walk back up the runway.

John hadn’t been able to take his eyes off of the girl, he wasn’t sure he had blinked since she stepped foot out on the runway - if he closed his eyes for just a millisecond he would miss too much. He was addicted to her beauty, never having seen something so ethereal in his life. Maybe it was the atmosphere, maybe it was the champagne, but he honestly believed that there was an angel before him. Following her with his eyes as she walked back towards where he was seated, he made eye contact with her and she held it. Sending him a wink, and blowing him a kiss before smirking to herself and exiting the stage. She had no idea the effect that she had on the otherwise cocky man, she had reduced him to a puddle of mush, too intimidated by her beauty. The moment she was out of his sight, it was like he could breathe again, the sound that was previously muted around him returned to its full volume and his tunnel vision had widened to take in the whole show. Taking another sip of his champagne, he caught the eye of his best friend Kyle (yes, the same Kyle from earlier) who smirked and gave him a pat on the shoulder. Kyle had seen the whole interaction, albeit limited and largely one sided, and knew exactly what kind of trouble his friend could get himself into here.

Backstage Josephine was being ushered from the runway to the small curtain that was hanging from a clothes rack, providing a make-shift dressing room for her to strip off of the current segments undergarments and into the next set that had been so kindly draped over the top rail by one of the wardrobe assistants. Normally she would be thriving under the fast paced nature of the evening, the adrenaline pumping through her veins like a drug, however she was encumbered by her own thoughts of the devilishly handsome man in the front row. His eyes were engraved in the back of her mind, when she shut her own eyes she could see the intensity of his stare - it was numbing her, slowing her down. She was desperate for another glance at him, being brought back into the moment by the yell of a backstage hand asking for her to hurry and get into her next wings, she stripped and redressed. Was she lightheaded from the pressure that she had placed on herself to prepare for the evening, or was it because he seemed to take up all of the air in the room and space in her brain? She could argue that she was fulfilling her role as an Angel by winking at him and blowing him a little kiss. It was her job to flirt with the crowd and put on a show after all, but she knew exactly what her intentions were and they were nothing but devilish.

Perhaps the only event more iconic than the fashion show itself, the afterparty was what most people involved in the show looked forward to. The humans, even with their celebrity status, had the opportunity to mix with the angels - who, for one night only, let go of their halos and swapped them for horns. For one night, the beautiful women of the Victoria’s Secret Fashion show in all of their angelic glory; could be as bad as they dared to. This was the unspoken truth of the after party, and if you had the fortune of being able to attend, it was not an event easily passed up.

John found himself once again surrounded by his mates, mingling with the models and his celebrity pals alike. Not once had he forgotten about the first angel he had ever laid eyes on, he didn’t even know her name but by God did he know her body. It was as though the 30-odd seconds she was before him his eyes scanned her from head to toe, every curve of her body engraved into his memory. He could remember how the light reflected off of the body shimmer she had bathed in before walking the runway, how the curve of her waist continued at the perfect degree to complete her perfectly-sized derriere. Before long, he felt the room get smaller and smaller, the air was thicker and his hearing had started to muffle. She was standing in his direct line of sight - not that it would matter if she was standing on the other side of the room, behind a crowd of people, John’s eyes would find and fixate on her.

John watched as she worked the room, obligatory pleasantries flowing from her lips as she double kissed the cheeks of men who were old enough to be her grandfather. He watched their leather-like hands wrap themselves around her lower back, too low for his liking. He watched her smile and pretend that she was comfortable, but he could see the look behind her eyes scream that she shouldn’t trust their words - that they didn’t want to just buy her a drink. Without realising, his hands started to curl around his scotch glass until he had to put it down on the table before him and excuse himself from the company of his friends and the new company they had invited to their table. Weaving his way through the crowd, eyes never leaving the side of her face, he began to make his way towards her. No plan of action, nothing to say, anything would be good enough in an attempt to rescue her from what is looking to be her own personal version of hell. As though the universe had willed it, she looked into the crowd and locked onto the gaze of the tall man who was currently striding towards her. The look on his face told everyone around them that they weren’t to get in his way, to mess with him.

Reaching her, she held her breath and waited for his next steps. Josephine didn’t know what to expect, but the handsome smile that erupted from his previously pursed lips and filled up his face had sent her heart into a frenzy. For just that moment, she chose to believe that that smile was reserved for her and only her. Reaching forward and coincidentally knocking the older man’s arm from around her waist and replacing it with his own, he leant forward and planted a loud kiss to her cheek before wrapping her in a hug that warmed her soul. Her whole body pushed into his, she was unable to see his face but she could hear his heart and it told her that she was safe.

“I’m so proud of you, babe. I reckon I'm the luckiest guy in the room to be able to call you my girlfriend” He said into her ear, loud enough for the group of older men to hear and begin to talk amongst themselves after realising they had no chance with the Danish beauty, not that she ever gave them that impression to begin with.

Pulling away from the tall man, she looked up at him and gave him her best smile, a sincere smile. She ran her hands down from his back and found his hands that were placed on her waist, lacing their fingers together and pulling him off into the crowd to the bar.

“So, boyfriend, do you have a name?” She spoke whilst picking up the vodka on the rocks - not her favourite drink but it had little to no calories and anything that had a calorie count lower than her weight, which was difficult enough to find in the first place, was a win in her eyes.

“John, but I prefer to be called your boyfriend, even if it's only for one night” John spoke back to her, looking down at the angel who had covered herself up a bit more since the last time he had the pleasure of looking at her. However, the outfit she was currently wearing still allowed John’s mind, and eyes, to wander. A secret moment shared between the two in an overcrowded room.

PART 2. (smut warning)

[adashofniallandasprinkleoflunacy]

you’re someone i just want around: III

“You can have me tonight or never

I thought you understood

Baby, some people are meant to be loved and others just naked

So take what I’m willing to give, love it or hate it.”

—Wrong, Zayn and Kehlani

A/N: alright SO!!!! the original part 3 ended up being at the cusp of 50k words (because i have no self control) and that is a LOT to read in one go so it’s getting split into parts 3 and 4! which means!! double update laidese and germs!!!! part 4 will be posted this SUNDAY, AUGUST 16th at 5PM PST/8PM EST :D we hope you enjoy this chapter, feedback is greatly appreciated, and please please PLEASE!!! if you like it, reblog it!!! and if you want, go nuts in the tags!! every single one is read!!! it keeps content creators motivated 💌leyla @sunflowervolvimp3​ took the liberty of making an incredible playlist to go along with our story, so feel free to check it out and see if you can find any clues as to what’s in store for the characters 👀without further delay, here she is...buckle up 👁👁this is gonna be quite the ride

ysijwa masterlist : andrea’s masterlist : leyla’s masterlist : ysijwa playlist

word count: 24.2k

content/warnings: cheeky banter over texts, The Crew dragging Niall to shit, more banter over a glass of cheap wine, vampire!harry showing up to “interior design” sessions looking like a runway model, some fwb smut, degradation kink, very mild mentions of blood, and some ugly tapestries that somehow lead to sexting

///

Y/N definitely puts Harry’s number to good use. Very good use.

In fact, during the span of the next month or so, Harry reckons that she pulls up his contact on her phone so often that she probably has him listed on speed dial. The assumption is dramatic and probably incorrect, on behalf of his arrogance, but with how much time they start spending together, it’s hardly a stretch.  

It all begins exactly a week after their first time meeting. 

Harry still hates clubs. 

He hates them more than he did last week. He hates them more than he did yesterday, more than he did this morning, and even more than he did a minute ago. He fucking despises them. 

And yet, as Harry stands here before the mirror in his enormous double-sink bathroom, fiddling with his damp hair as his flouncy dress shirt hangs unbuttoned from his broad shoulders, he’s absolutely positive he has never hated clubs more than right now. 

Niall got to pick the venue this time. He’d texted his choice in the groupchat (which is respectfully named Dinner Plans) about four hours ago, making sure to get the word out decently early so that everyone could start making their preparations, all in order for the crew to be on the move by nine P.M. 

It’s now nine thirty-seven, and everyone is fully set to leave at the agreed upon hour. Everyone except Harry. 

This, however, is not uncommon. He’s always the one that takes the longest to get ready, no matter how soon he starts. No one can remember an instance where Harry has ever been ready on time— which says a lot, considering most of the gang has years of memories from which they can pull. Mitch especially. With almost a century of friendship behind them, not once has the older vampire ever seen Harry stick to a deadline. His flare for being fashionably late is less a flare, and moreso an irritating burn. It always throws off their game a bit, but at this point, everyone has gotten used to the seemingly young vampire’s theatrics. 

So on this Friday night, there isn’t much more to do other than mold to his habits; Harry answers to no one except himself and it’s been that way for decades now, for a reason he’d rather not reminisce. He doesn’t owe anything to anyone, especially since he’s the one that always takes charge of getting them where they need to go, as well as getting them inside said destination. Complaining about their leader wouldn’t do the gang any good for a number of reasons, especially because Harry rarely ever listens. It is what it is— he’s just the way he is, and they’ve all learned to live with and respect that.

The funny thing? Harry does it on purpose, though his friends aren’t aware of it. He drags out the process of getting prepared simply so he can put off having to step inside one of those circus acts people refer to as clubs. He goes as slow as possible and does as much as possible, spreading seconds into minutes, and maybe— if he’s insistent enough and feeling particularly pesky— an hour. His record is an hour and twenty-eight minutes, which he wears with pride, much to his group’s unamusement. 

Harry knows no one will ever say anything about his annoying tendencies, unless they’re willing to volunteer themselves to take the reins for the night. Vampires are alert and productive, but only when they want to be— which is usually only when it benefits them— and only if they can muster up the patience for it. And frankly, none of the creatures he associates with have the patience required to deal with security, driving, and other obstacles the way Harry does. He’s indispensable, and therefore, everyone puts up with his shit. Quid pro quo has never been more effective. 

So here Harry stands, now thirty-eight minutes past the original time sorted for departure, carefully combing volumizing mousse into his slightly wet curls and spinning each ringlet around his index finger to give them the definition and bounce he’s so well-known for. Here he is, finishing up his post-shower routine as all of his friends mill around downstairs in his living room, waiting for him to come down so they can pack into his car and head out for the weekly hunt at whatever establishment has been deemed fit for the night. And here he is, taking his sweet time so he can be the signature pain in the ass that everyone hates to love. 

Once Harry has thoroughly coated all of his hair with the fluffy white cream, he pulls out his hair-dryer from the cabinet below his sink, snapping its accompanying diffuser into place and flipping his head upside down. He carefully scrunches his curls to his roots with the attachment, moving in thoughtful circles as he hums to the rhythm of a song he can’t be bothered to remember the name of. Staring down at his polished jet black heeled boots, he absentmindedly taps against the porcelain ground to the beat of the music, sighing wistfully as warm air circulates its way across his scalp. 

Harry turns his shoes to the side, admiring the detailing along the back of the heel. Across the curved surface is the word SUCKER, bedazzled onto the article with multicolored jewels, glitzing beautifully under the fluorescent lighting of his bathroom. The shoes had been a gift from a friend with connections in high places; more specifically, connections to the man who sits on the throne of the Gucci brand. Harry hadn’t questioned the present when he’d received it— only an idiot would bat a cautious eye at such a luxury. He’d fallen in love with them the second they landed in his palms, decked out in a gorgeous satin box and wrapped with sparkly black tissue paper. The only words that had dared leave his lips were, “Fuck, I think I just got hard.”

The shoes had fit like a charm, and he had wanted to save them for a special occasion. But given that he has hundreds of years worth of special occasions lined up for his future, he’d shrugged off his pickiness and yanked them out the back of his closet for tonight. What better way to show them off than at an overhyped disco hall? 

Harry flips his head right-side up once again, ruffling his fingers through his soft, shiny curls to check for any wet patches or stringiness. He rolls up the wire to his styling tool and puts it back in its designated spot, grabbing his favorite paddle brush and attentively filtering it through his hair until he gets the tousled waves that he’s grown so fond of sporting. He musses them until he’s satisfied with his appearance, nodding at himself casually in the mirror as he proceeds to wrap up the last few necessities he has left. 

Harry buttons his blouse, admiring it in the fogged mirror. It’s a flowy sheer black piece with holographic threads sewn through its expanse, the fabric continuously shimmering with every shift of his muscles from underneath. He leaves the last three holes empty to better show off the dark butterfly inking on his lean chest and the swallows suspended in flight along his collarbones. He doesn’t really have to leave the shirt open, given that the material is see-through to the point where it leaves very little to the imagination, obvious in how all the tattoos along his arms are clearly visible. But he does it either way— he likes it when people stare. He’s got the assets, he might as well flaunt them.

Harry loosely tucks the hem of the shirt along the brim of his high-waisted beige slacks, which he’d ironed with precision to an ideal fold. He opts out of a belt tonight, wanting to display the array of elegant buttons that line the front of his pleated trousers. The pants hang slightly flared around his ankles, and if someone’s interests were intent enough, they might catch a glimpse of his favorite socks underneath the cusps, the words FUCK IT printed across the dark cotton fabric. He always makes sure to have an aspect in his outfit that could make for neat conversation.  

The vampire pulls out one of his drawers, ghosting his fingers over his collection of jewelry before picking out a pearl necklace and his father’s gold-plated cross necklace, as well as a colorful array of rings. He makes sure to retrieve the most significant two, as always— his lionhead amethyst daylight ring and his mother’s opal. He never goes anywhere without them. 

After he’s slipped on those accessories, bending and stretching his fingers for good measure and feeling everything settle into place, he picks out the gold cross earring that matches his necklace. It used to be part of a pair that belonged to his sister. As he watches the gold twinkle in the artificial light, he briefly wonders what happened to its twin, but pushes the thought away before it leads him down a path of pessimistic speculations. 

Harry loops the dangly piece through his earlobe, sighing through his nose as his gaze jets around his entire look, searching for any possible faults he could tend to that would prolong the inevitable— another night of drunken morons and thick synthetic smoke. 

Harry decides to fold the cuffs of his shirt up to his elbows, knowing that it makes his veiny forearms look appealing. He rummages through his selection of colognes before deciding to go with his trusty Tom Ford Tobacco Vanille, spritzing a bit along specific pressure points on his neck where a pulse would otherwise be present, following along with the insides of his wrists. The scent of cloves, sugar-frosted vanilla, and cedar wood envelope him in a warm ambiance. After that task is complete, he fusses with his necklaces for a minute or so, settling the cross between his pectorals and resting the rosey pearls across his clavicle, fingering at their smooth surface in thought. Much to his defeat, everything seems to be in order, down to his freshly lacquered black nails. It’s not his fault he’s nearly flawless. His long— and unfortunate— extension on life had given him a plethora of years to work himself into a state of physical perfection. There’s only so much one can do to their appearance before it becomes superiorly stagnant. 

Harry tunes his heightened hearing for a second, listening in to the conversation his friends are entertaining on the first level of his condo. Niall’s voice is the first one that comes through, unsurprisingly. He’s always the loudest and has zero filter, present in how he’s freely ranting about Harry’s exaggerated mannerisms as he paces back and forth across the floor, footsteps heavy. No one seems to be paying him any mind— As usual, Harry thinks to himself, snorting softly— because everyone appears to be caught up in their own personal lives, too lost in gossip and exchanging opinions to give the Irish vampire any thought. 

None of his gang seem bothered by his lack of rush, but Harry knows he can’t keep them waiting forever. Fridays are the day they’d all collectively agreed to hunt together and it had been as so for almost twenty years. Being the leader, Harry can’t let his childish distaste for nightlife get in the way of what’s best for the group. He needs to hunker down on his selfish inclinations and be a responsible friend, or else a human might not be the only person Niall sinks his fangs into tonight.

With one final lingering stare at his reflection, Harry goes to retrieve his phone from its face-down position on the dark marble counter, simultaneously reaching for the light switch to begin powering down his apartment for the next couple of hours until he returns. Hopefully with a pretty girl hanging off his arm and less of a burn in the back of his throat. Although Harry may be cynical, he’s also practical; if he’s going to have to spend eternity on this planet, he may as well try to conserve enough energy to make it bearable. After decades of adjusting to electricity, the last thing Harry wants is to return to candlelit rooms and going to bed in time with the sun. 

The sudden chime that shrieks from his device causes him to jump a tad, brows furrowing in mild confusion for a few reasons. First, because it’s such an odd coincidence that right as he went to grasp it, his smartphone had gone off; it’s almost spooky. Second, because anyone who would normally dare message him at this hour is currently sequestered downstairs on the cushions of his sectional sofa, waiting for him to emerge from his room. Who else could possibly need to contact him this late, especially at the beginning of the weekend? 

Harry flips his red iPhone curiously (yes, he’d bought it in red for the purpose of irony), peering down at the unknown number shining back up at him from the screen. 

The text is simple enough: Hey, accompanied by three disco ball emojis. 

After a few seconds of blank blinking and adamantly searching through his mind for a clue as to who this could be, the answer smacks him square between the eyes. The memories come to him in quick flashes. 

A bald bouncer with a stupid name. A two-story room with seven foot tall speakers and a bar nuzzled in the corner. A group of loud, tipsy girls in stilettos and glittery dresses. One girl, sitting amidst the ruckus looking alone and indifferent while everyone around her gave into inebriated chaos. Mitch urging him to go talk to her. The overwhelming smell of honey and lavender. Gentle caresses placed across the tattoos painting his arms. Pretty lips the color of fresh blood, drained glasses of liquor, and witty banter exchanged between suggestive glances and cheeky grins. Shouldering through a crowded dance floor with the young woman in tow. Settling her into the passenger’s seat of his Cadillac and feeling heat explode across his cold cheeks when she’d yanked him down by his collar, kissing him like his lips were her only source of air. 

A quaint apartment complex, flickering lights in a corridor, and a worn couch. A warm mouth, smudged lipstick, teary eyes, and the gentle, shaky echo of, “I want to make you feel good.” High-waisted silk pants discarded on the floor, a cream lace blouse, and pastel pink lingerie. Thighs squeezing his head as her sweet taste spilled across his tongue. The mortal’s bare back pressed to his chest as he worked his hips roughly into her, mumbling dirty promises against her ear. Sugary whimpers and needy pleads. The warm, tangy flavor of her blood filling his mouth and sedating the burning in his throat. Childish giggles shared in a tiny flat, her warm fingers sewing between his icy own and tugging him into her room. A sleepless night full of steady breaths and only one heartbeat. A stupid tapestry and an ugly popcorn ceiling. A late morning strewn with sarcastic jokes mumbled over the rim of a coffee mug. Pulling his favorite t-shirt over his head and inhaling the sweet smell that had been glued to every thread. 

Making a drastic decision and typing his information into her phone. 

Harry doesn’t mean to speak aloud, but the name slips down his tongue as easily as he’d drawn moans from hers. “Y/N.”

It’s not like he didn’t remember her, because he did. And it’s not like he hadn’t thought of her since, because he had. But it’d been in passing and barely relevant— faint recollections in the form of fleeting seconds. 

He’d thought of her a couple days ago, when he’d been wandering around the mall with his friends. They’d passed by a candle shop where, among all the mixed scents, there had been the unmistakable aroma of lavender and honey somewhere inside, smelling vaguely like her. She’d unwillingly made her way to the forefront of his mind when he’d gone to do laundry, picking out his baby blue Marc Jacobs t-shirt from his hamper and feeling his eyes dilate and fangs protrude— a result of animalistic instinct. As it turns out, she had left a bloodstain along the inside of the yellow collar of his tee. It was dried and crusted over by the time he found it, but the effect it had on him remained the same as the night he’d drawn it fresh from one of her arteries. He’d chucked the garment into the wash carelessly with hardly any hesitation. 

The girl had even elbowed into his brain during an important self-care session. He’d been sitting in his glorified bathtub— which, in shallow honesty, is just a jacuzzi— with his cock twitching in his palm while his head hung over the edge, an orgasm teetering along the trench of his stomach as he’d repeatedly thumbed over his tip. When he’d finally coaxed himself into a climax, moans running freely across the empty halls of his home, the image he saw in those short moments of pure bliss was of her. It was Y/N, sitting in front of him with her hands clasped between her bare thighs obediently, his prick running along the length of her warm tongue as her eyes pleaded for him to cum. 

But, as he’d stated before, the picture had only lasted a handful of seconds. As soon as his high had died down, it had disintegrated to ash, and he’d been left with a slightly startled mental imprint in its wake, which had faded away within minutes. He hadn’t thought of her since. 

That is, until now. Until the surface of his jade eyes are reflecting the message his phone had just received at nearly ten P.M., her identity obvious in her choice of emojis. 

A disco ball. The exact same character he’d assigned himself beside his name in her contact list. It was an inside joke; a result of the hatred they both shared for clubs, juxtaposed by the fact that they had met in one. It was a cute determining factor in their minimal acquaintanceship, and he’s always a sucker for a good paradox. 

Harry continues to stare down at the text message, trying to conjure up some type of answer. She couldn’t have caught him at a better time, quite literally. She could be his saving grace tonight, if he plays his cards right. Maybe if he swoons her enough, she’ll invite him over again, and he can avoid another night full of shit-faced idiots and blinding strobe lights. 

After careful consideration, he swipes open into their new text conversation and taps back a reply he deems appropriate, satisfied with how it shows his personality— the same one the mortal girl had been so taken with upon their first encounter. 

Well, this is awkward. I don’t remember giving my number to a disco ball.

The vampire waits idly for a response, watching as the message delivers and is immediately marked by a read receipt. He doesn’t know why, but he likes that she has them on. 

A swift pause follows— in which he has no doubt she’s probably attempting to come up with some type of witty remark to his— and then the three grey bouncing bubbles pop up, signifying that she’s typing back. His device bloops with her response, vibrating in his large palms.

Funny as ever, I see. It’s Y/N, from the club last Friday. 

Harry’s slightly disappointed by her humor-lacking answer, but he’ll keep the interaction going for curiosity’s sake. Some people are fun in person and just not that bright virtually. Can’t always have it all.

Oh, hey, Y/N! So are you translating on behalf of the disco ball that wanted to talk to me or…?

He can practically see her eye rolling up at the grungy ceiling of her room and that notion makes his lips twitch. 

Ha. Ha. Hilarious! But no, I’M the one who wants to talk to you, actually.

Harry can feel her sarcastic tone through this specific message and that gives him hope. Maybe she does have social networking skills. 

Oh. Well, give the disco ball my best regards then, will you? Don’t want it to think I’m being rude and casting it aside.

The creature can’t see it, but now Y/N’s lips are the ones jolting as she sits on her bed in nothing but a towel, damp hair beading water down her naked shoulders and back.

How caring of you! I’ll pass on the message.

A full grin begins to edge across Harry’s cheeks as she returns his banter just as easily as she would face to face, dimples threatening to indent into place. That’s more like it. 

His fingers poise over the keyboard, mind flicking through the different scenarios he could steer this conversation towards. He has to be perceptive and respectful, but also keep her entertained. He figures asking about her intentions is the best route to take, but he’ll do it subtly. Being too direct could come off pushy. 

So...what gives me the honor of basking in your presence tonight, hm?

He adds a thinking face emoji to the end of the text as an afterthought. He rarely uses emoticons, but now is as good a time as any to start, especially because he has to seem like someone who belongs to her generation, rather than a Victorian era immortal.

Well, you said if I wanted more interior design advice to shoot you a text so...here I am, seeking your expertise.

Harry allows himself to break into a wide simper at the shrouded compliment. It goes right to his ego, just as he likes it. She’s smart. 

My expertise, huh? I take it that my taste in wallpaper left you pretty satisfied last time, then?

A similar grin buckles Y/N’s face at his playful smugness and she bites into the side of her index finger to try and suppress it. After a moment of thought, she releases her digit from between her teeth and taps back. 

Very satisfied, yeah. Your help was greatly appreciated.

Harry scoffs coyly, leaning his shoulder against the lightly fogged black marble wall of his bathroom, his friends and plans for the night all but forgotten. He’s having too much fun flirting to pay anything else much mind. 

My pleasure, love. I’d be more than happy to give it again, anytime you need it. Just make sure to fill out the customer service survey my boss emailed you. I’m shooting for a raise and could really use the brownie points. 

“Cute.” Y/N murmurs to herself in amusement, her chest fluttering as a result of the pet name, alongside how well they’re getting on. It’s almost like no time has passed at all. Almost as if they’re friends. 

She’d been nervous to reach out, fearing that he’d see it and ignore her— or worse, leave her on read. Needless to say, this is going way better than she could’ve hoped

Already filled that out. Gave you five stars and everything. Would’ve given you six if it was allowed. 

Harry shifts his weight against the surface he’s using for support, chuckling softly as he gnaws along the inside of his cheek. He feels like a teenager with all of this borderline childish back-and-forth. He’s not mad about it, though. It’s pretty enjoyable. 

Thank you so much for your input! It’s taken into deep consideration. VERY deep consideration, if I recall correctly.  

Warmth pours into Y/N’s cheeks at his innuendo, and she somewhat hates that he can get her all flustered without actually being present. He’s really good at this. A true lucky strike, to put it in his own words.

I’m glad my standards are held so highly, especially since I’m trying to book another advising appointment with you. 

Is that so?

Very much so. How about tonight, if you’re free? I’ve got a dire situation with some wood paneling that I just can’t handle alone.

The vampire’s irises flare crimson red in triumph. It looks like he won't have to put himself through another mortifying ordeal tonight, after all. 

I’m on a tight schedule, Y/N. These expertise are highly sought after, yanno?

Y/N snorts at his pompous joke. “Moron.”

Another text comes in from Harry before she can even think of a response.

However, I think I might be able to squeeze you in for a help session today. Say in about 10 to 15 minutes? 

With newly brightened eyes, Y/N gives the message five repasses to make sure she’d interpreted it correctly. She can’t believe he’d agreed, especially at an hour when most people already have weekend plans cemented for the night. And by the length of time he’d given her to prepare, she’s extremely thankful she’d decided to shower prior to attempting a booty-call. 

Sounds perfect. Do you need me to send you my address or do you remember, by some miracle?

Don’t worry about it, pet. I have a pretty good memory of that night. You made it hard to forget. 

Another layer of heat crawls up her neck and into her ears. She knows this is a casual thing, at best, but for some reason, the idea that he had deemed her unforgettable makes her entire body feel like it’s glowing. She tries to brush it off, chalking up his compliment to how they’d seen each other barely a week ago so of course he remembered. It was fairly fresh in both their minds. 

But Y/N is from an area where she was just another face in the crowd— another timid girl in an ocean of a hundred small-town carbon copies— and she’d certainly never referred to herself as anything particularly special. To have Harry, who is such a refined and attractive person, who most likely has dozens of hook-ups under his belt, call her that? Of all people? It just hits differently. 

She shakes herself out of her head, remembering that a very interesting boy is waiting for a response on the other end of her phone.

Alright, then. See you in 10 to 15 minutes, Mr…? 

Y/N comes to the realization that she doesn’t even know his last name. She doesn’t know the last name of the guy she’d let into her house and between her legs. God, if her parents could see her now...They’d blow California into a crater. 

The name’s Styles. Harry Styles. 

She immediately recognizes the reference, chewing at her bottom lip to keep a tab on a girly giggle. It’s probably not healthy how easily he reduces her into such a dopey puddle. 

Alright, then, Mr. Harry Styles. See you soon?

Very soon. Can’t wait to show you the wood samples I just found.

With a sly smirk dimpling his cheeks, Harry pushes off the elegant stone wall of his luxury bathroom, locking his device and absentmindedly tapping it along his palm as he does a quick mind-sweep of the interaction he’d just had. He’s going to get his needs taken care of—both intimate and carnal— by a girl with whom he meshes with so well, no less. This night has taken an unexpected turn for the better, and he’s never been more thankful for making such a rash decision the morning after a one night stand. 

The shrill boom of an Irish accent breaks Harry out of his flirty stupor, the sound bounding up the stairs of his flat and echoing off the tiles in his bathroom. “Harry, did you fucking desicate up there, you prick?!”

The vampire’s head snaps to the side towards where the sudden intrusion is originating, clearing his throat softly before answering, mostly to anchor himself back into the present. He’d been too busy floating in a daydream bubble to give his friends any proper attention. “I’m on my way down!”

Harry flicks off the light switch to his master bathroom, heading into his dimly lit bedroom and scooping up his wallet from its usual spot on top of the dresser. He tucks it into the wide front pocket of his slacks along with his cell phone, rounding the king-sized mattress at the center of his space, footsteps muffled by the thick maroon carpeting across the ground. He stops under the doorframe, giving his room one last calculating glance to make sure he isn’t leaving anything important behind. Once the creature is sure he’s set, he reaches over and slides the switch meter all the way down until the hanging lamps on the ceiling fade to black. 

Harry clambers down the glass and metal staircase, passing the collection of original paintings organized across the expanse of the largest wall in his home. His friends spot him from the huge couch once he’s halfway down the steps, and of course Niall is the first to make his presence audible.

“Fucking finally.” The blue-eyed vampire groans in exasperation, shooting up from his seat beside Xander, arms falling across his lean chest. “I thought you’d died. Really died.”

Harry dismounts the last stair carefully, heeled boots making a soft clicking sound against the polished light-wash wood of his floorboards. He pushes a few rogue curls out of his eyes, the corners of his mouth jilting upwards teasingly as he regards the fellow immortal. “If I have to keep staring at that shitty paisley button-up you’re wearing, I just might.”  

Niall’s irritated expression shatters into one of sheer hurt, hands fumbling with the silk fabric of his shirt, lips melting into a pained pout as he contemplates it sadly. His tone comes out whiney and defensive. “Hey! I really like this one!”

Harry side-steps the boy, giving him a sympathetic pat on the shoulder. “Your fashion sense makes me question my friendship with you.”

Niall’s face pinches with anger, thick brows furrowing as he roughly swats the brunette’s wrist away. “And your dickhead attitude makes me question mine.” 

Harry’s jade eyes dance with evil glee as he returns his palm to where it had been resting before to give a curt squeeze, his rings playfully digging into the muscle beneath Niall’s top. “And yet here you are, sitting on my couch, waiting to get into my car. Funny how that works, innit? We benefit from one another. Mutualism at its finest.”

The Irish man shrugs himself free of his friend’s hold once again, glaring at him with darkening eyes, but there’s no true malice behind it. “More like parasitism.” 

“So are you two gonna kiss now or what?” Mitch’s soft, mocking voice butts in as he drifts up beside Niall, hands tucked into the pockets of his dark denim straight jeans and his long hair tied back into a low ponytail. He’s wearing a light-wash Rolling Stones t-shirt he’d gotten at a concert he and Harry had attended back in the eighties, along with a pair of scuffed up sneakers. Pretty casual for a club— too casual, in Harry’s opinion. “The sexual tension is killing the audience.” 

The green-eyed boy cranes his sight back onto Niall, raising his eyebrows in question and puckering his lips. “What d’you say, Ni? Wanna kiss this little disagreement better? I’m down.”

The pale young man makes a gagging noise, stepping away. “Don’t know where your mouth’s been. But if your bed fellows have anything to say about it, it’s nowhere good. I’m going to respectfully decline.” 

“There was absolutely nothing respectful in that response.” Adam chimes in, chuckling as he bumps Niall’s shoulder with his own, hands clasped casually behind his back. “You need to work on your people skills.”

“My people skills are fine.” Niall quips back sarcastically. “Harry just isn’t a person, he’s a demon.” 

“Technically, we all are.” The curly-haired vampire points out, walking over to his matte leather couch and retrieving a pin-striped, grey-black fitted blazer from its backrest. He tosses the jacket over his shoulders, shrugging it on and fixing the material over his torso, the curves of the piece accentuating the strong muscles of his back and the dip of his slender waist. “I just don’t care to hide it, really. Especially not when it comes to Niall’s taste in clothes. Which is rubbish, by the way. If that wasn’t clear before.”

“It was.” Niall deadpans, gaze half-lidded and petty.

Harry fixes the sleeves of his coat around his forearms, smoothing out any wrinkles and buttoning the cuffs. He momentarily ducks into the kitchen, his enhanced eyesight spotting the small digital time-stamp of the oven even from across the room. He has less than thirteen minutes before he has to be at Y/N’s flat. He should’ve suggested a longer time span.

Harry turns back around to fully face his crew, situating his collar into place by folding it along the back of his neck, appraising their expectant appearances. They’re all waiting for him. He’s the one driving, after all. 

The immortal clears his throat, hands dropping to pat at his blazer pocket, making sure that his keys are in his possession. He sighs lightly through his nose, a knowing grin trying to force its way onto his lips but he keeps it at bay, wanting to maintain a straight expression to garner less backlash for the news he’s about to break. 

“I’m not going.”

The pause that fills the atmosphere and the blank faces his friends dote are almost comical. Harry bats his eyelashes at them without a single twitch or jerk of his features. He wants them to understand he’s being serious.

After at least ten heartbeats— a guess, considering no one in the room has one to provide an accurate measurement— a raging exclamation explodes from behind the other three vampires in front of him. 

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me!”

Harry watches in mild amusement as Xander stomps up from behind the group, shouldering between Mitch and Adam and sticking him with a glower dark enough to instill fear in any living being. But Harry is hardly living, and he’s definitely not scared of a vampire who’s practically a newborn. Xander’s the youngest of them in terms of the immortality scale— he’d transitioned back in nineteen ninety-six when he was thirty, which gives the illusion that he’s older when in reality, he isn’t— so Harry’s strength easily outmatches his. Xander is basically the puppy of the circle, and he’s certainly yappy and annoying enough to support that title. His lack of age and wisdom is also probably why he’s the most explosive. 

Harry kinks an eyebrow up at the taller, tanned man, looping only one button through its designated hole in the middle of his jacket. That will allow him to show off what lies beneath it while also making sure the article won’t be a pest in the windy California night. “I’m not kidding. Something else came up that...peaked my interest.”

Xander’s fists momentarily clench by his sides and he then folds his arms across his lightly heaving chest, trying to hide his anger away along the insides of his elbows. He spits his words through gritted teeth, attempting to keep his cadence level. “What could have possibly come up so late that you only let use know after we waited for you for over an hour?”

Harry can’t stop himself from smirking this time around, the corners of his mouth tugging upwards with condescension. The statement that he produces is all too familiar to Xander, given that it mirrors the reply he had used on Harry exactly a week ago, when the leader of the group had asked him what his intentions were once they’d gotten inside their club for the night. “I have a date.”  

Xander’s entire face flushes a faint shade of cherry red. His forearms tighten across his body, tone more strained than before as he actively wills himself to remain calm. “A date?”

The shorter vampire smiles at him with fake innocence, working his every nerve like it’s his job. Harry doesn’t know why, but pissing Xander off is always such a delectable pastime. “Yup. With a girl I met last week, actually.”

“You don’t go on dates.” Niall pipes up, looking around at the other men in the room in confusion, almost as if his comment should be obvious. “You rarely even spend the night. Said so yourself.” 

Harry shrugs one shoulder indifferently, checking his reflection in the closest section of the glass wall that overlooks the city skyline, the lights of the cars and buildings below twinkling otherworldly. “I guess it’s less a date and more a booty-call, to be honest. I only agreed ‘cause it’s easier than having to drag my ass to that horrid club you chose to spend hours trying to find someone. This meal’s already prim, proper, and served. And I know for a fact I’ll enjoy it, so there’s no real harm.” 

He turns back to Xander, the man’s peeved reaction tickling him more than he thought it would. “What was that you said last time, Xanny?”

“I told you to stop calling me that.”

“Oh, yeah! I'm just grabbing a to-go box for my already prepped meal.”

Harry’s friend’s cheeks dye a deeper shade of crimson, dark veins webbing across the iridescent whites of his eyes for a flickering second. “You’re a fucking asshole.”

Harry counters the angry expression with a bright smile, his dialect dripping with arrogance. “Girls dig it. And you seemed to dig it, too, if I recall correctly. Remember? You might not. Post-orgasm amnesia and all that.” 

Xander takes a measured inhale, releasing it slowly and allowing his anger to ebb away gradually, ignoring Harry’s blast from the past. His next question is physically directed towards their ex-chauffeur, but is truly aimed at the gang as a whole. “Who’s going to take us, then?”

The curly-haired vampire shrugs his shoulders once again, uninterested in the topic that is quickly growing old. “You could take Niall’s car. Problem solved.”

The whole clique lives in the same condo complex, mostly due to convenience. It’s already tricky for vampires to find others of their kind, so it’s a miracle that they’d all managed to end up together in the first place. And it’s an even bigger miracle that they got along well enough to form a tight-knit coven, which is the closest thing any of them now have to family. Living in close proximity is the ideal way of maintaining that rare bond, plus it allows them to help each other in staying safe and keeping their urges in line. 

Since they all live in the same building, Niall’s car is in the garage right beside Harry’s, so transportation shouldn’t be an issue. They just always take his vehicle because he’s the only one that actually enjoys driving. 

“Are you mental? Like actually, genuinely insane?” Xander sputters in appalled shock. “Niall drives like a lunatic!” 

“Oi, piss off! Maybe you should learn to drive then, huh? Instead of having all those guys you shag take you everywhere.”

Xander ignores Niall’s insult, putting his palms up in disgust, backing away. “I refuse to get in a car with him behind the wheel. Dying once was good enough for me.”

“Did I miss the memo?” Niall snaps, glimpsing around at all the monsters standing around him, attitude tight with annoyance. “Y’know, the one where you all just decided to shit on me tonight?”

Harry bursts into an airy cackle, listing his head to the side as he gives Niall a humorous once-over, his dangly cross earring dabbing across the crisp cut of his coat’s shoulder blade. “You don’t necessarily make it hard, love.” 

Niall’s jaw clenches as he narrows his icy blue eyes. “Xander’s right— you are an asshole.”

“Yeah, well, he’s also right about you driving like you’re on tranquilizers.” Adam sighs, running a palm up his face, using his index finger and thumb to massage either of his temples, despite the fact that they lack a pulse. “I guess I could drive? I hate it, but Mitch hates it more, so I’m our best bet. Better than Road Runner over here.” 

“Yeah, just keep talking about me like I’m not present. That’s fine. I’m spitting venom in all your drinks tonight.” 

“Well,” Harry boasts abruptly, interrupting the game of verbal ping-pong happening in front of him, taking a quick peek at his phone for the time. As much as he loves causing some good-natured chaos between his friends, he has less than ten minutes to make it to Y/N’s apartment on time and traffic’s a bitch at this hour. “I have nothing to do with this anymore, so I’m just gonna take my leave. You lot have fun figuring this out.” 

He swivels around on his heel, striding away with his usual haughty air straightening his back, heading towards the corridor that leads to the front entrance of the apartment. The softly lit hallway swallows his silhouette and for the first time since he’d left the secluded confines of his bathroom, he allows a giddy smile of excitement to tweak his lips. Just for a second and not a moment longer. If his friends had seen it, they would’ve taken the piss.

Niall’s accent cuts through the air, prickling at his ears as the glossy, cold doorknob comes into contact with his even colder fingers. “I can’t believe you’d abandon us just to get laid!”

“Lock the door on your way out!” 

///

When a sharp knock echoes across Y/N’s flat, she nearly screams. 

Her nerves have been on edge since the last text she’d received; only after reading that final cheeky message had the reality of the situation hit. 

This isn’t her. This isn’t her at all.

Inviting a total stranger into her home and into her bed was something she’d never experienced before last week. One night stands were very few and very far for her— she could count all the ones she’d had on a single hand, and even then they had been with people she had known to some extent— and it was due to the fact that this type of situation is slathered in mystery and unsureness. Giving herself up in such an intimate manner to someone she wasn’t acquainted to in some shape or form…It comes with a certain amount of risk, both physically and emotionally, which is why she hardly ever engaged in such activities before Harry.

It’s not that there’s anything wrong with having that type of exhilarating fun in your life— she praises the women who can go around so confidently and express their sexuality however they please— but she herself had been raised under a roof that was moderate and conservative, and that environment had molded her into the person she had grown up to be. Those traditional concepts ran through the core of her being, and no matter how hard she tried to shake them, they refused to break loose. They weighed on her shoulders, constantly making her second-guess her motives and desires, most of which go against the status quo that had been implemented into her brain from a young age. This— whatever this is— is a huge step for her; it’s the first attempt she’s made to take over her own life and go against the grain she’d been accustomed to her whole existence. 

From the second Y/N had arrived here in Los Angeles and set a foot off the plane, she had been alone. Everyone who cared for her was miles and miles away and she was starting a new chapter on a completely blank page, with no one to guide her hand as she wrote. For the two months she’d spent settling in and trying to meld into her new environment, she had gone at it with a sense of emptiness hollowing the pit of her stomach. No one was there to comfort her during the rough patches, and no one cared enough yet to assure her that things would turn out alright. No one had bothered to tell her she was safe and that nothing would hurt her. No one made themselves available the way people did back home. 

That is, until she met Harry seven days ago. 

Their encounter had been purely for sexual gratification, but during that short time they shared, she vividly remembered him telling her that she could trust him. It was a preposterous statement to make— asking someone to trust you when you didn’t even know their last name— but the gaze in his emerald eyes had seemed so genuine and encouraging, and his voice had been so gentle and soothing, and his touch had been so delicate and consoling...That strange young man— with the pretty curls, intriguing tattoos, and dazzling smile— had somehow managed to untie the knot of unease that had been sitting in her belly for the last couple of weeks. She’s stumped on how he’d managed to wriggle it free; the only thing she can effectively say took a part in it was his eyes. There was just such a glass-like quality to them that reminded her of a mirror. It was like they were reflecting all her emotions back at her, using their familiarity to compel her into a state of mental peace. She’d appreciated it more than she’d let on. 

Something tells Y/N that this is the reason she had contacted him. She wanted to feel that safety net he had provided her with once again. She didn’t need an emotional connection from Harry, she just needed a bit of mental relief. She wanted something to take her mind off all her troubles. Something to distract her, even if it was only for a few hours. And with the way Harry had handled her last time, she knows he’s more than capable of helping her reach those goals. 

Y/N doesn’t think anyone has ever made her feel how Harry had that semi-drunken Friday night. She’d been with a few other people before, and had even been in a long-term relationship with someone she had once thought would end up being her husband, but none of those men came close to this peculiar stranger. 

In the town she was from, it was typical for people to marry their high school sweethearts. It was a small region where everyone either knew one another or knew of one another, so it wasn’t difficult to find someone that could fit into the role that needed to be filled. The person she had found was a boy by the name of Bradley, who she had begun to date their freshman year of high school. 

They’d met through mutual friends and he’d invited her to their first ever homecoming dance, where she had felt like everything was falling into place almost like in a movie. He was cute, with hazel eyes, sun-bleached hair, and freckles that jolted every time he laughed. He was polite, funny, and treated her with enough respect and dignity to keep her hooked for a while. Things had gone pretty well the four years they were together in high school; their relationship wasn’t bad, but it wasn’t exciting either. It was just...secure. He was there, and he was willing to give her his attention, and that’s all that really mattered to her at the time. She thought that was all she needed. 

Then graduation came and went, and so did Bradley. He left for college, set on the intention that they would make long distance work somehow. To keep a long story short, it hadn’t worked out how they expected. As the months passed, she noticed he started to separate himself from her more and more. The video chats are what disappeared first; what used to be a daily FaceTime call turned into a weekly one and then, if she was lucky, a monthly one. Phone calls followed the same fate. Texting became a chore rather than something to look forward to and she could feel him slipping, which left her feeling helpless because he was in another state, far away and too out of reach to appropriately solve anything. Energized conversations slowly faltered into five-word messages, which eventually teetered into barely any communication at all. 

When Y/N heard the news that he’d cheated on her, it didn’t even come from him. It came from his roommate. Things ended swiftly after that, which was the saddest thing of all. Almost five years of her life, completely gone to waste. Handling the pain was a whole other misery she’d had to shoulder, alongside the embarrassment and humiliation, which stemmed from the fact that she was aware her peers had heard about the whole ordeal. With the help of her family and friends, she’d eventually gotten over the heartbreak. The weird thing is, she doesn’t think she loved him. She loved the idea of him— loved that he represented everything she had been raised to seek in a relationship. They’d grown up together, their families knew one another, they shared the same friends, they had common hobbies. It was like a match made in heaven, though after it broke off, she quickly came to the realization that it hadn’t been made in heaven at all. Made in a test tube was a more fitting analogy. 

Y/N’s love life after that painfully slow cliche disaster consisted of random boys around town she recognized from school and work. The hook-ups were fleeting and hardly satisfying, but at least they were something. She soon found out that she could do better on her own, but whenever she craved someone else’s touch, she was grateful to have anyone she could get. She’d mainly stuck to the same guys for the sake of consistency; it was easier having people she already knew how to please and vice versa, though she’ll admit it was mostly a one way street. Men can be so clueless sometimes that it’d be funny if it wasn’t so irritating. 

Then Y/N had skipped town and closed off sexually for a while. She had stayed shut down until Harry had walked into her life with that stupid sly smirk and his unorthodox— yet surprisingly attractive—fashion sense, sipping straight tequila like a fucking psycho from the cup in his jeweled fingers. He’d waltzed right onto the stool beside her at the bar, right out of the club with her hand in his, and then right past the doorframe of her apartment, kindly gifting her the best sex of her entire life. He’d worked her every desire with a certain skill and awareness she had never experienced (not from any of her past lovers, and definitely not from Bradley’s vanilla tendencies), dismantling her body as if he’d known her for decades, leaving her sore and aching in a way she didn’t know was humanly possible.

And now here Y/N is, pacing back and forth from her small living room to her even smaller kitchen, chewing along the knuckle of her forefinger as she tries to tie down the jitters running amuck in her belly. 

She repeatedly smooths down the dress she’s wearing, claiming that it’s to get rid of the wrinkles, but in truth, it’s to wipe the dampness from her palms. The outfit had been a birthday present from her cousin the year before and she’s rarely worn it since the move, which is a direct result of her lack of socializing. She only ever really leaves her home for groceries and to attend work, neither of which call for a pretty sundress and strappy tan sandals. Despite having gone out to the club a few times, the dress doesn’t fit that scene either. LA gets a bit chilly at night and she has yet to grow accustomed to the city’s weather. Wearing this after-hours would surely end with her acquiring a mild case of hypothermia. 

The garment is a light blue baby doll design, littered with tiny daffodil prints of varying shapes and colors. It stops about three-fourths down her thigh, fluttering outwards in layered flares, its bandeau-style top held in place by thin straps of the same fabric. She figured she’d deck herself out nicely; from the one interaction she’d had with Harry, she can tell he’s a person of refined taste. It was evident in his expensive clothing and his wide variety of precious rings. She doesn’t know why, but there’s a toiling in the pit of her tummy urging to impress him. 

Y/N’s hair has been freshly washed and blow-dried, her legs thoroughly shaved into silk, and she’d applied a light layer of makeup, done in anticipation that anything heavier would likely end up smeared across her face— a result of sweat and Harry’s dominant persona. Simply reflecting on his commanding sensual presence makes her self-pedicured toes curl in her sandals. 

Y/N hadn’t been sure on how to prepare for his arrival. She wasn’t versed in advanced hook-up culture— her raunchiest experience was in the backseat of someone's 2004 Toyota Corolla. She doesn’t want to get this wrong. Going overboard would make him feel smothered and awkward, but underselling would give him the impression that she doesn’t have any respect for him, save for what lies between his legs. Those are the last two things she wants him to gather from this. 

She’d settled for pulling out a bottle of red wine that had been a house-warming present from the landlord. Not too shabby, but not too loud. And who doesn’t enjoy a cup of half-decent wine on a Friday evening, right?

Y/N had just finished arranging two glasses— which she’d found at the thrift shop down the street for a steal— onto the counter of her kitchen when that swift rapping sound had broken through the tense air of her home, echoing from the front door and causing a yelp to lodge in her throat. 

Ice shoots through her veins. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

She takes a handful of penetrating breaths, concentrating on how the cool air feels expanding her lungs. The technique aids in calming some of her nerves, grounding her just enough that she can will herself to move without her knees giving out. Y/N tentatively makes her way down the corridor that leads to her front door, heart hammering against her ribs. She shouldn’t be this riled up— he’s literally already been inside her. There’s pretty much nothing she can hide from him at this point. 

On the other side of the door, Harry is blissfully ignorant to the panic attack threatening to overcome Y/N. 

The vampire leans his shoulder against the frame of the somewhat raggedy door, arms crossed over his thick chest as his gaze bounces judgmentally around all the patches of peeling paint. He chews at a piece of gum— which he’d popped into his mouth on the drive over to make sure he tastes as delectable as always— in slow, lazy motions, jaw flexing as he unconsciously pops an array of tiny bubbles with his teeth, waiting for Y/N to emerge. 

Harry glances up at the flickering light bulb in the hallway of the complex, nose scrunching in distaste at the annoying flashing. She really needs to get a better place, he thinks, reaching up and dragging the pad of his middle finger along the curve of his bottom lip, absentmindedly wiping off a bit of extra chapstick that had colored outside the lines when he’d applied it. He always tries to keep his mouth soft, especially when he knows he’s going to be using it. Plus, the vanilla bean flavor pairs well with mint. 

The sound of a seal cracking open yanks his attention, the door before him slowly swinging inwards. Cool air pours from inside, bathing him in a scent that his frenzied instincts had been subconsciously craving the last couple of days. Harry cranes his neck over his shoulder, spitting his gum out and not bothering to watch where it lands. He turns back just as Y/N’s familiar figure comes into view.

The first thing he notices is the dress. 

Fuck, the dress. 

It’s nothing too fancy, just a casual sundress, but it fits her like it was made specifically for the purpose of testing his restraint. He rakes his gaze up and down her body shamelessly, much like he had on the night they met. 

The light blue background and rainbow miniature floral print compliments her skin tone nicely, making it stand out below the dingy light hanging above their heads. The piece lands about halfway down her thigh, fanning around her legs slightly in frilly folds, tempting him with that bit of innocent exposure. An image of him ripping the dress up her thighs races across the forefront of his mind and he can feel his fangs momentarily break through his gums.  

As Harry draws his sight upwards, the minimal throbbing between his legs only amplifies. The dress cinches just below her bust, accentuating her chest, and he comes to the painful realization that she’s not wearing a bra underneath; she doesn’t need it due to the bralette-like top. One simple tug of his index finger would leave her completely bare and that conclusion causes a sweltering itch to erupt along the back of his throat.

Harry’s irises finally come to rest on her face, finding that the rest of the human girl’s look appears just as it had last week. Minimal makeup, no accessories, and the smell of chamomile shampoo strung through her hair, though it’s easily smothered by her natural scent of flowers and sugar. He also finds that while he had been blatantly undressing her with his eyes, she had delighted herself in doing the same. Watching her gawk at him hungrily caresses his ego immensely, evident in how the edges of his mouth kink. 

Y/N doesn’t mean to ogle, she really doesn’t. But from the instant he’d come into view, standing there propped against her threshold with his ankles crossed and his lean arms folded over his strong chest, she couldn’t control it. He just looks so fucking good— better than last time, which she didn’t think was plausible— and she gets the feeling that he knows he looks borderline godly. 

Harry’s clad in what appears to be a sheer mesh flouncy button-up with holographic threads speckled through the material, shimmering under the dim atmosphere of the hallway. The last three holes of the shirt are left open, exposing his tanned pectorals and thoroughly inked chest. Last time they had been together, she’d been too distracted by the aching between her thighs to properly notice the swallow tattoos along his collarbones and the giant butterfly at the crest of his stomach. But now, she stares at them freely as they expand and contract with his easy breaths, her mouth beginning to water. 

The blouse is covered by a dark pinstriped blazer, the crisp shoulder blades of the jacket complimenting his broad frame as the curves dip along his waist alluringly. The loose top is tucked in along the brim of yet another pair of high-waisted trousers, though they are creme-colored instead of copper. The ironed pants give way to a pair of glossy black heeled boots, which are bedazzled along the back of the two-inch elevation, the jewels twinkling in the shape of a word that she can’t make out at this angle. 

Harry’s collection of luxurious rings and necklaces adorn their usual spots and she gets the impression that he never leaves home without them. His gold cross earring sways back and forth lightly, her warped reflection cast across its surface and staring back at her numbly. 

Harry breaks through the haze his physique had cast on her brain.

“Nice to see you again, Disco Ball.” 

A shiver slithers down her spine at the deep baritone of his voice, English accent slathered across every syllable and dripping with suggestive teasing. She’d forgotten how sultry he sounds, even when he’s not actively striving for it. 

Y/N’s attention jets up from where it had been pasted to his body, the expression across his handsome features one of snarky self-assurance, which tells her she’d been caught. Indents cave into his cheeks, twitching with glee as he bats his lashes slowly, eyes going half-lidded in amusement. He looks so sinful with those shiny ringlets curling around his small ears, framing his sharp jaw and kissing the nape of his neck, alongside those raspberry red lips and the emerald hue sparkling around his pupils. She can’t tear herself away.

After an elongated second of silence on her part, Harry raises one of his sculpted brows expectantly, letting her know he’s waiting for a response. Heat overflows Y/N’s cheeks and buzzes across the shells of her ears.

“H-Hi. Uh— Nice to see you. Too. Nice to see you, too.”

An odd sense of déjà vu flags in the back of her skull and she’s reminded that this is exactly how they’d met the first time around— with her making an utter fool of herself, much to his entertainment.

The crescent above his top lip curves upwards as a result of his grin widening. He taps the tip of his elegant shoe patiently against the cement ground, arms shifting against his chest and she can see the way his biceps strain the fabric of his coat. He’s just so fit.  

Harry’s tone comes out playful and lighthearted. He doesn’t need to be invited in again since she’s already explicitly allowed him in before, but he asks anyways, out of courtesy. “Can I come in? Or are you planning on taking me dancing or summat?”

The laugh that escapes Y/N is dense with a nervous edge, but it’s better than a stuttering jumble of incoherent words. She moves out of the way, flushing her back to the wall of the tiny entrance corridor and leaving just enough room for him to squeeze by. “Yes, come on in! Sorry.” 

“You’re alright, darling.” The tall vampire steps forward into the mortal’s home, turning sideways as he does so, chest pressing against her own. He glances down at her lips for a flash of a moment, then back to her eyes. “Thank you.”

Y/N’s grip on her doorknob tightens. She looks up at him through her lashes, bottom lip barely trembling. “No problem. Thanks for coming over on such short notice.” 

Harry runs his tongue across his teeth, pressing it to the inside of cheek as he absorbs the mildly erotic image of Y/N decked out in a frilly dress, glancing up at him shyly as her chest heaves slightly against his own. “Well, I couldn’t leave you to handle that pesky wood paneling all on your own, now could I?”

A smile ghosts over her delicate lips as she shuts the door and locks it, not breaking eye contact. “How generous of you. My hero.” 

Far from it, love.

Y/N slips out from where Harry had wedged her to the wall, beckoning him after her with a gentle turn of her head. The creature tucks his hands into his front pockets, following her down the narrow stretch. They drift past her room (he makes sure not to look in and spare himself the horror of seeing that dumb tapestry) and past her bathroom, into the expanse of her living area. It’s just as small and cozy as he remembers it and he can’t stop himself from scoffing lightly as his sight drifts over the couch. Good memories. 

“Would you like some wine?” Y/N’s question carries softly from inside her kitchen. She’s already gripping the glass bottle in her hand, attempting to pull out the cork, and she hadn’t thought of needing a wine-opener until now. Fuck. 

Harry makes his way to join her, passing underneath the archway and taking the spot across from the girl. He leans his lower back on the counter, hands remaining perched casually in his slacks. “I’d love some.”

“Great.” She huffs, twisting stubbornly at the spongy cap with all the might she can muster, the rough surface scratching her palm. “Let me just— just get this open.”

Harry’s head lists sideways as he wards off a chuckle. “Want some help?” 

Y/N releases an irritated grunt, shoulders slumping a tad as she fails to get the top loose. She holds out the bottle towards her visitor, titling it from side to side in surrender. “Be my guest.” 

The immortal pulls his hands out from his pockets, taking the container from her grasp and the human notices how they dwarf the bottle. It shouldn’t be hot, but it is. 

Harry wraps his ring-clad digits around the cork, giving it one easy twist and Y/N’s jaw nearly falls off as she hears a pop tinge the air. Harry offers her the wine and cap in return, licking his lips to avoid laughing in her face. Supernatural strength always delivers. 

“How…?” Y/N’s owlish eyes flicker back and forth between Harry’s cocky expression and the object in his hands. “How did you even...?”

The brunette gives her a nonchalant shrug. “Guess you loosened it up for me, Thor.” 

She gingerly takes the beverage and its accompaniment from his outstretched palms, blinking at him in mild shock. Her slight unease is swiftly phased out, however; a result of his cute banter. It was probably just a lucky coincidence. “I guess so.”

Y/N pours out two glasses of the dark red liquid, handing one to Harry, feeling her heart skip a beat when he wraps his hold around the stout flute and their fingers brush. He stays like that for a heartbeat, with his icy digits sifted between hers, the amber specks in his irises glittering like diamonds. Then, the moment is over and he pulls away slowly, guiding his drink up to his plush lips. She hates how he can leave her so breathless without a single hitch. 

The girl watches as Harry takes a leisurely sip of the alcohol, his gaze dancing around her kitchen curiously as she finishes recapping the bottle and scooting it into the corner of the counter. 

A thought dawns on her as soon as she focuses back onto the boy before her. Harry looks weird. He looks so weird standing in her small, dingy kitchen with its worn wooden cabinets and fake marble tabletop. He looks so out of place, dressed head to toe in designer brands and fancy fabrics, hands and neck decorated with posh jewelry, and the unmistakable smell of an expensive cologne wafting from his masculine throat. And he most certainly is out of place when it comes to who he’s associating with. He’s out of Y/N’s league, not only physically, but in his behaviors, as well. It’s so obvious it almost hurts. 

Yet here Harry is, looking polished and stylish, while she’s sporting a mere sundress that was probably bought off the clearance rack at Kohl’s. It just doesn’t mix, and she finds herself wondering why he’d chosen her in the first place. When she had voiced similar concerns the day they’d slept together, he had told her it was because she was timid and he wanted to see if he could break through that. But Y/N isn’t stupid. There has to be some other reason. Why else would a rich bachelor pay attention to a small-town runaway in a measly floral—

“I like your dress.”

Y/N glances up at Harry from where her mind had fallen, startled by the sudden interference in her dark thoughts. She’d been tracing across the slope of his structured jaw, mesmerized by how it would grow taut every time he swallowed down a gulp of his beverage. 

She had ambled so deep in her head, she barely manages to mutter a passable answer. “Oh, thank you! I’ve had it for a bit, but I barely wear it.”

The edges of the vampire’s mouth quirk around the rim of his glass, creases wrinkling along the corners of his bright eyes. “It suits you nicely. A beautiful dress on a beautiful girl.” 

Y/N’s belly somersaults, a sheepish giggle running along the undercurrent of her next mumble, so low it’s hardly audible. “Thank you. Again. Thought I’d bring it out for a special occasion.” 

Harry’s eyebrows jump upwards at her comment. He draws his wine glass from between his lips, resting it against his hard stomach and gifting the human a cheeky once-over. “So I’m a special occasion, now, am I?”

Y/N looks down at the straps of her sandals, fighting off a grin. She shrugs one shoulder offhandedly, bringing her cup to her mouth and taking a long drag of the sweet liquor, feeling it wash across her tongue and leave a warm glow in her tummy. “Maybe.” 

Harry hums teasingly in his throat, tapping his pinky pensively along the bottom of his glass, opal ring clinking against the crystalline surface. The color of his drink makes the black polish on his nails stand out almost artistically. “I’ll take any compliment I can get, especially from those pretty lips.”

Another wave of heat flushes across the apples of Y/N’s cheeks. “You really know how to flatter a girl, don’t you?”

The monster tips back another swig of wine, savoring the notes of wild cherry and pomegranate in its palate. Not bad, especially for what he can tell is a ten dollar bottle. 

He cocks his head to the side, irises glitzing knowingly amidst his long lashes. “I think we’re both aware that I most certainly know how to flatter a girl.” 

Y/N’s stare snaps up to lock with his, the faintest whimper stringing her vocal chords. If it wasn’t for Harry’s heightened hearing, he would have never known it’d happened. But he does, and he can feel the throb between his thighs spike as a result. The sounds she makes are just as wonderful as he remembers.

The sexual tension suspending in the room is practically palpable. After a bundle of her heartbeats— which is gradually rising in intensity— echo in his ears, he decides to speak up again. 

“I’ve been thinking about you.” 

The statement can be taken into so many different contexts and that’s why Harry chose it. She could interpret it as innocent admiration on behalf of a smitten lover, or as another layer of sensual praise. It’s versatile, successful either way. 

Y/N blinks at him exactly three times in surprise. “You have?”

She’d been thinking about him, too. Non-stop. And now that she knows it’s mutual, she doesn’t feel so nervous anymore. It reassures her that they’re on the same page of this messy novel written about their undefined association. Or that they are at least within the same chapter.  

Harry bobs his head in confirmation, indulging another sip of wine, letting it filter through his taste buds slowly. His glass is almost empty. “Mmhm. Walked past this candle store at the mall the other day and they had one burning that smelled just like you.”

His confession is sweet and it makes the tips of her fingers tingle. Y/N copies his action, taking another gulp of her beverage, attitude airy and inquisitive. “Is that so? And what do I smell like?”

Harry’s response is immediate and confident, almost as if he’s spent time thinking on the subject prior to today. “Honey and lavender.” 

Y/N nods her head in wonder, laughing gently. “That’s oddly specific.” 

Harry feels like he’s been smacked between the eyes with an iron rod. That was an idiot move. Absolutely moronic. 

He just now comes to terms with how intimate the comment he’d made had been. It suggests that he’s pondered on this topic, which gives the impression that he could be more interested in her than he actually is. He doesn’t need this loose connection turning into some type of cliche romantic comedy; he doesn’t have the space, patience, or emotional stability for it. And certainly not with someone he’s only fucked once. 

The vampire clears his throat, figuring that he can clean up this metaphorical spill by throwing a bit of crudeness at it. “Then yesterday I had a donut, yeah? One of those cream-filled ones. And when I took a bite of it, all the cream just came oozing out and I was like, ‘hm, this reminds me of someone…’”

The slightly endeared expression on Y/N’s face crumbles to dust, voice shrill and indignant at his lewd analogy. “You fucking perv!” 

Harry sputters into a round of boyish cackling, nearly wheezing when her foot reaches over and strikes him on the shin. He clasps over his stomach with his free hand, head falling back in glee as her features pinch in embarrassed disgust. He manages to speak between bursts of giggles, water gathering along his tear ducts due to how hard he’s laughing. “I’m just being honest!”  

“No, you’re being a gross little fourteen year old asshole!” Y/N exclaims incredulously, but she can’t keep herself from joining in on his boasts of amusement. 

His laughter is contagious. It’s loud and unapologetic in a manner she rarely sees in anyone and he just looks really fucking cute with his dimples jolting and smile lines creasing. It’s hard to stay mad at him, though it’s not like she’d truly been upset in the first place. 

Harry reigns himself in, inhaling deep breaths and wiping at his tears with the back of his large hand as a joyful groan rumbles in his chest. A few more giggles sneak out when he sees Y/N’s flat expression, but he manages to stifle the rest. His tone is jesting, poking fun. “If it makes you feel any better, I was respectful enough to wipe the donut down with a napkin, as well.” 

“Fuck off.”

Harry grins down snidely at the last inch or so of alcohol left in his glass, bringing it to his mouth and downing it all in one go. He places the cup down carefully on the counter behind him, his arms finding their way across his stomach, fingertips momentarily tapping at his elbows. He appraises a playfully grouchy Y/N, pursing his lips to hide a smirk. 

He watches as she takes another small taste from her drink, her pulse lulled by its contents. She’s not drunk by any means— not even buzzed— but it had helped calm the tittering in her throat that Harry had been able to detect earlier. She’s relaxed now, all anxiousness washed away by the small serving of liquor and his inappropriate (and extremely funny, if he does say so himself) jokes. 

The creature thinks it’s proper time he gets what he came for. 

“I really am glad you reached out, though.” Harry starts, an easygoing smile nudging across his alcohol-swollen mouth. “Truly.” 

Y/N snorts sarcastically, attempting to hide how his comment had made her pulse sharpen. He’d heard it anyways. “Oh, are you? Truly?”

Harry pushes himself off the edge of the counter, slowly sauntering over to Y/N, who instinctively draws back further against the tabletop behind her. She ogles at him from below heavy lashes, glass still perched between her tinted lips, excited anticipation written all over her body language. He can practically feel the heat radiating off her, rising a few notches the closer he gets. 

“Yeah.” Harry’s arms unfold, one stretching over her shoulder to prop his palm against the cupboard behind her head, the other fiddling with the seam of his blazer. He slides his forefinger and thumb along the single buttoned hole, giving it a rough tug and allowing his jacket to spring open. “I don’t think I’ve ever had that much fun interior designing with anyone. Not for a while.” 

Y/N glimpses down at where his coat had parted, drinking up the sight of his lean torso behind the see-through material of his shirt. Now that he’s nearly pressed against her, his scent is stronger than before, burying her under smoky notes of vanilla and seasoned firewood. A familiar heat pools between her clasped thighs. 

When she pipes up, it’s shaky and whispered, covered in a dreamy undercurrent. “Yeah, me either. It felt...nice.”

Harry’s irises flash crimson for a millisecond, but she’s too occupied gawking at his tight stomach to notice. His dialect takes on a low, seductive twang, the breath of his words fanning across her face. All she can smell is wine, mint, and...vanilla chapstick? 

“It felt really nice.” 

Y/N’s view drags up to land on his lips. They look as soft and appetizing as last time, tempting her to just drop her flute onto the floor and replace it with his mouth. “Extremely nice.” 

An outside force suddenly tips her glass upwards and she realizes it’s Harry’s fingers. He nudges her cup until the liquid inside funnels towards her mouth, his intentions set on helping her finish it off. She drains the wine obediently, staring up at him dazed and moony, feeling a few drops escape along the sides of her mouth and tickle down her chin. The jade-eyed boy then gently pries the glass from her fingertips, reaching over and placing it inside her sink to be handled later. 

Y/N’s hands fall flat against his thick chest, feeling it rise and fall steadily below her grasp as he takes a step forward, their bodies completely flushing together. His palm trails up the exposed sliver of her thigh, diving a couple of inches below her dress and giving the outer area a hard squeeze. He doesn’t go any further; he won’t until she explicitly asks for it. He’s a prick about a lot of things, but never consent.

Harry leans down, running the tip of his cold nose along her clenched jaw, his warm tongue peeking out to collect the streams of wine that had dripped out. The contrast in sensations makes her knees buckle and what he murmurs hotly against her skin doesn’t help in calming those motions at all.

“Wouldn’t mind making you feel that nice again.” 

Y/N’s mind stalls, overwhelmed by his touch and smell. She can feel him sponging tender kisses at the corner of her mouth, and she can feel the palm of his hand massaging at her thigh needily. She can feel his breaths quickening in pace the longer he’s around her, and she can feel the foundation of a moan building in his lungs in the form of small vibrations, which run across her palms and twitch her fingers. She can feel everything; she’s never been more hyper-aware of her surroundings than now. And all because of this one mysterious young man. 

When Y/N finally speaks, Harry feels relief flood his system, though it is swiftly replaced by intense desire. 

“I wouldn’t mind it, either.” 

That’s full permission if he’s ever heard it. 

Harry’s other hand drops from its spot against the cupboard behind her, joining its partner on her opposite thigh. He coasts his palms fully below her flowy dress onto her hips, a lascivious simper crawling across his cheeks at the lack of extra fabric beneath her clothes. “No panties tonight?”

The human swallows heavily, shaking her head as she leans it back against the wooden cabinets, giving him access to her throat. At the sight, the vampire’s fangs protrude, cutting into the inside of his lower lip as venom fills his mouth. He wills himself to maintain control. It’s difficult, considering his sharp eyes can make out the chiseling of her arteries pumping blood just beneath her delicate skin, but he forces composure into his behavior nonetheless. With all of the lights on and Y/N completely sober, he knows he won’t get away with another mid-fuck stunt like the one he pulled last time they were in this position. 

Instead, he distracts himself with what he can draw from her at this very moment— another unbelievable orgasm. 

“Such a filthy little fucking thing.” Harry growls, smearing his lips down the center of her jugular, nipping love bites into her flesh but making sure not to split it open. “S’that how bad you wanted it when you texted me? So bad that you didn’t even bother to wear anything underneath?”

Y/N whines softly when he passes over a particularly tender spot along her neck, shuttering against his chest. “Y-Yes.” 

A low chuckle rolls from Harry’s wandering tongue as he hones in on the area that had coaxed such a delicious reaction. “Fuck, that was such a pretty noise. Are you sensitive here, baby?”

Y/N nods with fervor, running her touch up his pectorals and over his strong shoulders, diving under his coat and fisting at the mesh that strains across his muscular back. Her eyes roll closed, her next confession coming out in the form of a feathery sigh, legs parting wider for him to comfortably fit in between. “I just...I just need you.”

Harry eagerly accepts the invitation, sifting between her thighs and hiking them up onto his hips. The fact that he can suspend her so effortlessly, almost as if she weighs nothing, makes the pit of her tummy boil. “You need me now, d’you? How much, doll? Want you to tell me how much you missed my cock.” 

The young woman winces ever so slightly at the crude word and it amuses him to no end. “So fucking much, Harry.” 

He can confidently say his name has never sounded sweeter than when it trickles from Y/N’s tongue. 

When he speaks, it’s packed with all the pent up turmoil radiating deep in his abdomen. “Did you think about me the way I thought about you?”

Y/N’s reply falls breathily from her mouth without any hesitation. “Y-Yeah. Couldn’t get you out of my head.”

A cocky hum tinges the air on his behalf. “And why’s that?”

“Because…” The girl struggles to swallow, finding it difficult to match how easily brazen he can be. She pushes through. “Because you fucked me better than anyone else ever has.” 

The compliment is one Harry gets often, but for some inexplicable reason, it hits so much deeper coming from Y/N. “Mm. Poor baby just needed to get properly rawed, didn’t you?”

“Had no idea how badly I wanted it until you came along.” 

A dark chuckle rolls from the creature’s lips at her bluntness. He repeatedly passes his textured tongue over the pressure point on her throat, flames igniting in his chest when she releases another watery, desperate mewl. “God, look at you. Practically already dripping. Like it when I play with you like that?”

“Fuck, y-yes.”

“Want me to keep going?”

“Please.”

And so Harry keeps going, and he doesn’t stop. Not at her neck, and not anywhere else. Not until she begs him to hours later, when he’s whittled three orgasms out of her trembling body, each one more intense than the last. 

The first one takes place right there on top of the kitchen counter. He boosts her up onto the table, bunching her pretty sundress around her quivering thighs— as he’d fantasized prior— while she fumbles with his trousers. He tends to her every breathy whimper as she eases him out of his briefs, marking his teeth all over her throat with the assurance that his blood will fade the bruises by morning. He tears his jacket down his broad shoulders, panting into her mouth as she undoes all the buttons that line his elegant iridescent shirt, moaning softly when she breaks their kiss to paint her hot lips down the expanse of his heaving chest and tight stomach. Y/N ducks down as far as her angle will allow, wanting to taste as much of his skin as she can. She wants to memorize its salty smoothness for as long as she lives. 

Harry watches her with bliss-drunken fondness twitching his mouth, head falling back to hang between his shoulders as a low, “Such a good girl.” rumbles from his throat. His ring-clad fingers tangle into her locks and scratch at her scalp lightly, strained exhales encouraging her to keep going as she delights herself with tainting love bites all over him. He yanks the girl back up by her roots, grabbing her hips and roughly scooting her forward towards him, clammy foreheads pressing together as he fixes to fill her up for the first time in what feels like eternity. 

The monster’s voice is as dominant and thick as she likes it. “Eyes up here. Want to see you come undone while I fuck you.” 

The way he spreads Y/N open makes her choke out a scream like nothing else she’s ever heard. Harry simply clamps one of his palms over her mouth, continuing to ram into her at a harsh stride, gasping against her ear with every thrust as she rakes her nails across his back. “Gotta keep that pretty mouth quiet. Thin walls.” 

The human feels like her heart is going to break through her ribs and what she doesn’t know is that with every passing beat, Harry feels it tenfold. And it’s driving him fucking insane— she drives him fucking insane. Especially when she looks at him with that glossy, begging gaze, biting into the mound of his hand as he slams his hips inside her so hard, the glasses in her cupboard shake. “Like it when I give it to you rough? Yeah, I thought so. Just like that? Harder? Say please…Christ, you’re a fucking angel.”

Y/N is dirty. So fucking filthy, and Harry loves every second of it. Loves that anything he throws out, she returns with as much enthusiasm, if not more. Loves that she can take his cock as hard as he’s willing to give it, which says a lot, considering his stamina and strength usually surpasses most humans. He’d met very few mortals who can match his sexual prowess and she happens to be one of them. She not only takes it, but pleads for more. She doesn’t just seek her own pleasure, but insists on delivering his own. And though they’re polars opposites at their core— she’s timid, physically standard, and boringly normal, whereas he’s confident, attractive, and unusually superior in every sense of the phrase— they fit together better than he’d ever care to admit. They’re perfectly compatible, down to their personalities and their intimate needs. 

As Harry stands there— fingertips leaving welts across her waist as he grunts brokenly against her throat, stretching her out like she was meant to take him this deep, her moans sounding like classical melodies to his ears— he thinks that maybe...maybe he’ll keep her around. A friends with benefits situation would be the most ideal. And to quote his own clever motto from before, it would be mutualism at its finest. 

The alliance would be nothing emotional; simply for the sake of providing each other with requited relief, as well as providing Harry with a convenient feeding arrangement. Neither of them would have to submit themselves to going to those terrible clubs, they both already know what the other enjoys, and the banter they share is pretty fulfilling. Plus, her blood is one of the sweetest he’s ever had. Whatever magic lies in her veins tides over his cravings in a fashion he’s never quite experienced. They both get what they want and don’t have to deal with the disasters of real commitment; neither are in a place in their lives where they can shoulder such a big responsibility. Harry is emotionally unavailable, as he has been for the past two centuries and as he intends to be for the next dozen. Y/N has just started anew in a place where she has so little to give and so much to lose, dating is the last thing on her mind. A casual no-strings-attached arrangement would be a perfect gift, bow and all.

And with the way they make each other cum multiple times that night— once on the counter, and twice on that trusty old couch— there’s not a single doubt in Harry’s mind that this is most definitely mutualism at its peak. 

///

During the span of the next few weeks, Harry learns a lot about Y/N. It’s surprising how informational someone’s sex habits can be. 

The second week after they had met— and the first since their second very heated, very satisfying encounter— she shoots him a text on Wednesday, of all days. 

Harry isn’t doing anything particularly interesting when he receives her message. He had gone to see Mitch play at the bar that had recently booked him as a semi-permanent gig, sitting in the booth furthest in the back from all of the ruckus, fingers tapping along the waxed table to his best friend’s skilled jazzy guitar chords. Mitch always teases Harry about how he doesn’t have a job, which the vampire always waves off. Working for money is stupid and unnecessary; any materialistic wants and needs that plague him, he can get with the help of compulsion. Therefore, what’s the use in condemning himself the horrors of customer service or a constricting office cubicle? 

His best friend is halfway through his set when Harry’s device vibrates against the sticky surface before him, tittering fingers coming to an abrupt stop. He flips over his iPhone, eyes flickering over the screen, a coy grin spreading its way across his blushed lips. Y/N’s contact beams up at him in return. He’d set her profile as just her name alongside three disco ball emojis, for the sake of their little inside joke. 

I’m getting off work a bit earlier than I thought today and was wondering if you wanted to help me with my ceiling fan.

Harry bites into his bottom lip to muffle a chuckle, shaking his head lightly as he stares down at the comical request. 

That’s odd. Last time I was there, you didn’t HAVE a ceiling fan.

Y/N sits on her lunch break in the backroom of the cafe where she’s employed, a veggie wrap halfway suspended towards her mouth when Harry’s text bloops in, pointing out her embarrassing mistake. She blinks at his correction blankly, eyes closing in faint humiliation as her true intentions are now painfully clear. 

After a second of recollection, she types back some damage control, though it hardly has an impact. Harry’s already chortling to himself just thinking about how contorted her face must look at the moment.

I’m aware, thank you. I meant I wanted help picking one out. I’ve got a few tabs saved as potentials. 

He decides to be a little shit about this whole thing, continuing to mock her.

You could just send me the links right now and I can tell you which one I like. You know that, right?

Y/N knows that. She also knows, by the tone and texture of his response, he’d only mentioned that alternative to be annoying. He knows she’s not talking about ceiling fans, and he just wants her to chase after him. Unfortunately enough for Y/N’s pride, she’s more than willing to.  

I just think your opinion would be much more valuable and effective in person, since you’d be able to help me search for other ones at the same time. We’d cover more ground. Two heads are better than one!

We do make quite the team, don’t we?

I personally think so. A dynamic duo for the books, honestly.

A soft round of applause cuts through the air around the vampire, signaling the end of Mitch’s performance. Harry glances up to see his best friend mounting his guitar back into its case, smiling bashfully at the crowd and nodding his head in thanks to all their praise. Harry coins his luck; things couldn’t have wrapped up at a better time. 

Alright, Watson. What time will you be home?

Y/N stops mid-chew through a bite of her meal, cheeks puffed as the corners of her mouth twitch at his nerdy reference.

I’m off at 6:45. Should be home by 7. 

I’ll see you there, then. 

See you there. Also, why do YOU get to be Sherlock? Seems a bit sexist. 

Harry rolls his eyes at her quip, smirking to himself as he types out his final response.

Well, first and foremost, I’m literally English. Secondly, last time I checked, I’m always the one in control. And frankly, you seem to like it that way. See you at seven, darling.

And at seven on the dot, Harry’s outside her apartment. His friends would be amazed at his punctuality. He only shows it when it’s worth the trouble.

The creature walks up the steps to the mortal’s complex with his Ray-Ban sunglasses perched on the bridge of his nose, keychain tucked into the back pocket of his black skinny jeans, and his tan Chelsea boots clicking against the cement ground. A light wind whips his Keith Harrington Safe Sex t-shirt against the broad muscles of his back, drawing a soothed sigh from his lungs. He loves the California weather. 

He gives her door three swift knocks with his ring-clad knuckles, stepping back from the entrance and clasping his large hands behind his back as he waits. 

When Y/N answers, Harry tilts his chin down a smidge, looking at her over the brim of his chic black glasses with his signature dazzling smile dimpling his cheeks. He lists his head slightly in a formal greeting. “Detective.” 

The girl’s irises flit up to the ceiling as amusement twitches her lips. She plays along. “Nice to see you again. Detective.”

She moves off to the side, beckoning him to come in and he gladly takes the offer, striding into the flat and down the narrow corridor he’s grown quite familiar with. Y/N follows him back into her living room, gaze quickly drinking up his appearance. He’s casual today— less jewelry, more comfortable clothes— and he works the normal fit as effortlessly as he works his fancy brands. Especially with those tight dark jeans. They hug his thighs in a fashion that should be illegal. 

Harry twists around on his heel to face her, reaching up to remove his sunglasses and tucking them along the collar of his tee. A handful of curls fall across his forehead, framing his face and sculpting his jaw, as usual. A sweep across Y/N’s physique tells him everything he needs to know. 

She’s still in her work clothes, clad in a navy blue polo shirt and a pair of dark skinnies similar to his. Her hair is down, though the strands have a dent that suggests she’d been wearing a ponytail. Her mascara is smudged a tad under her seemingly tired eyes, but her attitude is as bright and lively as always. She appears messy, but he likes it. It’s a type of unconventional beauty that’s natural and genuine, which he can appreciate.

He contemplates her with a certain slyness that makes her shift in her socked feet. 

“I got a message earlier. Sounded kinda frantic.” He drifts closer to the human, a sultry tension growing taut between them. He glances upward for an instant, as if recalling a thought. “Something about ceiling fans…?”  

Y/N chews into her cheek to keep from giggling, allowing him to press his chest to hers. He slowly begins to back her up towards the shabby couch, which has seen this interaction happen one too many times. “Yeah, I’m thinking of getting one. Figured it’d help. It just gets really hot in here sometimes, y’know?”

“Mmm…” Harry thrums in agreement, deep in the back of his throat. His hands crawl onto her hips and grasps them somewhat roughly, index fingers hooking into the belt loops of her jeans as he leans down to brush his soft lips over her own. She’ll never grow tired of the electricity that passes through them every time their mouths touch. It kindles her needs unlike anything else. “It does get pretty hot in here sometimes. Especially if you’re working up a sweat.” 

He pushes her further towards the sofa, movements gradual as she drifts backwards, careful not to trip her. She glimpses down at where their lips are flirting, breath hiccuping when he licks his lightly in anticipation, his tongue just barely grazing her Cupid’s bow. “Absolutely. A fan would definitely help relieve some of that stress.” 

“Yeah.” Harry nudges the tip of her nose with his own, feeling her grab at his biceps for security as he continues inching her backwards blindly. “It can work wonders for when you’re all pent up, too. Especially when you’re really tight, which I know for a fact you are.”

The backs of the girl’s knees hit the edge of the couch and she topples into its cushions. She sits up onto her elbows, sheer need inking into her irises as he patiently begins to undo his belt. His long, nimble fingers work with ease and he seems to be in no particular rush, which pricks at her nerves because she feels completely the opposite. She’d been thinking about him since Friday night— or rather, Saturday morning, when he had actually stayed for breakfast that time around. 

Y/N had sat on top of her small dining table while he took the seat before her shirtless, leaning forward with his arms crossed nonchalantly over her lap as she fed him bites of lemon blueberry pancakes. The pads of his calloused fingers had drawn random shapes across the warm skin of her thighs, attempting to cheekily slip beneath her pajamas shorts and he’d giggle boyishly around mouthfuls of food every time she would swat his hand away. He looked so fucking pretty that morning, with his curls tangled in tuffs and the vague imprint of her teeth scattered across his grinning mouth, angry red scratches decorating his bare shoulders. That wholesome yet dirty image had left her head spinning for days. 

The sound of Harry’s zipper ripping open blinks Y/N back into the present and she nearly gawks as he grabs onto the hem of his graphic t-shirt and yanks it over his head, arms crossing as he does so. He tosses it onto her playfully, laughing as she smacks it away from her face and gives him a deadpan look. Harry leans forward, propping his palms on either sides of her head and bracketing her in, the unmissable scent of his delicious cologne invading her senses as his dark tattoos ripple over the lean tendons of his stomach and arms. His strangely cold forehead flushes against hers and he nips at her top lip, tugging it between his teeth and releasing. His voice comes out as deep and hypnotizing as ever. 

“Get undressed for me. Want your thighs wrapped around my head.” 

Harry comes to find that for such a reserved girl, Y/N has a pretty intriguing sexual mindset. She’s open to a lot of stuff he’d never expect from a rural-town escapee. Her kinks surprise him, but pleasantly so, considering they cross over with a lot of his own. She’s into choking, which he adores. There’s nothing hotter than feeling her pulse slam against the palm of his hand as his array of rings mark into the delicate skin of her throat. She likes being restrained, which translates into Harry pinning her wrists above her head while he slams between her drenched thighs. It’s difficult to achieve that on the sofa, so they end up rolling across the rug on the floor, her legs tangled around his hips like a vine as he pants into her mouth, damp hair flopping over his forehead and tickling her eyelashes. Ideally, he would have used his belt to tie her hands to a headboard. If they were at his place, he would’ve just reached for the metal cuffs he has hanging casually off the railing of his bed, which he keeps there for easy access. But they’re in her living room, so he makes do with what he can. 

The vampire doesn’t stay over that night, not because he doesn’t want to, but because he promised Niall he’d help him out with a car issue. Apparently the motor is making a weird noise and Harry isn’t shocked one bit. Niall barely has the brain cells to be alive, much less to handle the upkeep that comes with owning a vintage vehicle. He thanks Y/N for a good time as he slips into his tight jeans and recovers his sunglasses from the floor, pulling his tee over the already fading hickies littering his collarbones, fitting his accessory into his sweaty curls. 

Harry leans down to where she lays limply, splayed over the couch where he had placed her after picking her up off the ground (only after he’d made her cum twice). He plants a nonchalant farewell kiss to her parted lips, thumbing over her bruised nipples jestingly and grinning into her mouth when she whimpers. “I’ll see you later, Watson. Let me know which fan you decide to buy.” 

Two days later, Harry’s phone chimes again, this time with the unique ringtone he’d assigned just for her. 

He’s relaxing in his bathtub, submerged up to his chest in hot water mixed with Epsom salts and jasmine bubble bath, his locks sudsy with shampoo. He’s in the middle of shaving his face, dragging the straight razor (his time in the nineteen thirties made him picky towards any other tool, especially those simpleton plastic ones) down his jaw carefully, making sure not to nick the little moles under the corner of his mouth. When his device goes off, he halts all his motions, glancing over from the hand mirror he’s holding before his face. He’d changed her contact name to Watson as homage to their funny little dynamic, but he’d kept the disco balls in their place. He respects the roots of their acquaintanceship.

Fan came in. Wanna come check it out?

He had a nagging suspicion he’d hear from her today. It’s another Friday night, after all. He’s just happy she’d texted earlier than last time so he can flake on his friends without forcing them to wait for an hour. 

Wow, you chose two day shipping? You must be itching to see me.

Don’t let it go to your head. The only thing I’m itching for is your professional opinion. 

Right. Well, me and my professional opinion are washing up at the moment so give me thirty minutes and I’ll be there, yeah?

Sounds good to me, Sherlock. 

Harry decides on an outfit that falls at the center of his dressing spectrum— something comfortable but not lazy. Something semi-formal. He doesn’t really have to impress her anymore (not that he had to try that hard in the first place) but he wants to look good, either way. There’s nothing wrong with showing off what he has, both physically and wardrobe-wise. He chooses a horizontal-striped fitted tee made of thick cotton, the lines alternating between brown, beige, and a light caramel. He tucks the shirt into a pair of mid-rise corduroy flared pants that are a dark mustard shade, shrugging on an olive green jacket with red and white stitch detailing along the edges, large images of cacti embroidered along its expanse. His pearls, cross necklace, and he opts out of his earring this time. Rings, vanilla chapstick, mint gum. Keys, wallet, starch white Vans. 

Before he knows it, he’s being roughly pulled into her home from his spot just outside her threshold, his cherry-lacquer nails carding into the silky hair along the nape of Y/N’s neck as his teeth skim over the hollow of her throat. The human grapples to push his coat off his wide shoulders, backing further down the small hallway of her flat and kicking the door shut. She holds his head firmly to the sensitive spot in her neck that he’d toyed with a week prior, and he can’t resist the way his eyes blink crimson— a hunting impulse, stemming from the sound of her blood rushing through her carotid artery. He hadn’t fed last time— vampires only need to feed once a week to avoid desiccation— so he surely intends to tonight. 

Harry’s hands fit perfectly around the dip of her spine, pulling her body tight to his as he paints sloppy kisses over her jugular. He gets his teasing words out in between desperate gasps and breathy chuckles. “And here I thought this was genuinely going to be about the fan.”

“Shut up.” 

Y/N makes a sharp turn, tugging him into her room instead of the living room and it dawns on him that this is the first time they’re going to fuck in her actual bed. All those instances of sleeping together and not once had they done anything on the piece of furniture that was intended for that sole purpose. It’s ironically hilarious and he voices that opinion as they stumble onto her mattress. 

“You know,” Harry murmurs into her mouth as she shoves him flat onto the rumpled sheets (she hadn’t made her bed this morning and that’s endearing, for some reason), straddling his lap as she hurriedly pulls his t-shirt out from along the waistband of his trousers. “Out of all the times we’ve done this— which is quite a few— we’ve never done anything on your bed other than sleep.” 

That’s a lie. He’s never actually slept in her bed. After staring at the ceiling blankly two weeks ago for about eight hours, he had been smart enough to grab his phone from his pants the second time around. He spent that stretch of time playing Mario Kart and watching Unsolved Mysteries on Netflix with the volume down just out of human earshot, so as to not disturb her slumber. 

Y/N ducks in order to drag her wet, pillowy lips down the butterfly inking on his tummy and over the spines of the two ferns on his pelvis, licking across his happy trail. He jerks in response, a soft grunt gurgling in his lungs as she uses her index finger to trace the outline of his hardening cock through the velvet fabric of his slacks. Her voice is distant, giggle breathless. “Yeah, you’re right. How counterintuitive.”

Harry swiftly pops the button of his trousers, helping her coax them down his legs, releasing a stuttery moan when she immediately bends down and mouths at his prick over his briefs. The soiled stain forming around the tip of his cock would be embarrassing if he didn’t know she found it hot. 

His tone is tight but humorous as she continues licking at him eagerly through his underwear, nails digging into his inner thighs. “Am I your first?”

Confusion flickers in her eyes for a moment before she realizes the joke. He’s referring to if he’s the first person she’s slept with on her new bed in her new home. “Yes, you are, actually.” 

Harry’s juts his bottom lip out into an overly-sweet exaggerated pout, talking in a honeyed drawl. “Aw, I get to christen your bed with you? We’re practically married now. When’s the baby due?” 

“God, you’re a moron.” Y/N bursts into a fit of laughter as she mounts back onto his lap, pinching at his torso in fake spite and feeling her insides flutter at the airy giggles that escape him. She gnaws on her bottom lip thoughtfully for a second, watching with hunger as he finishes removing his shirt and momentarily sits up to chuck it onto the ground over her shoulder. 

Harry falls back onto the mattress, folding his taut arms behind his neck, biceps flexing with the movements as his strong chest and toned stomach look as appealing as ever. She runs her palms over his tanned skin, feeling the sturdy muscle shift beneath her touch. Shit.

The immortal slinks his head to the side, eyes going half-lidded in suggestive mischief as he sees the way she’s objectifying him. He doesn’t mind; he actually lives for it. “Are you just gonna keep staring or are you gonna fuck me?”

His lewd comment washes warmth across Y/N’s ears and spurs her into action. In less than a minute, she’s fully unclothed, bouncing on his cock with a type of need that boils the pit of Harry’s belly. His fingers are digging bruises into her waist, slamming her down onto his prick with enough force to make the old bed creak wildly. She may be on top, but he’s still the one pulling the strings. 

Y/N collapses forward, anchoring herself onto her forearms on either sides of his head, burying her face in his auburn ringlets. She bites onto her tongue, trying to keep a tab on the atrociously loud sounds threatening to spill from her mouth. They come out as broken whines instead, which Harry drinks up like a glass of aged bourbon. She fists at his roots, jolting with every thrust he gives upwards, her knees digging into his love handles to keep balanced. At this point, she’s barely riding him at all. He’s just ramming himself into her from below as he guides her hips and she doesn’t have an issue with that at all. She likes when he leads.  

His growl comes out low and raspy, riding on a moan, his warm, choppy exhales pebbling her bare nipples. “How’s that, darling? How’s that cock feel?”

Y/N nods her head frantically, not trusting her tongue to form an appropriate response. 

“Tell me.” He grits out through bared teeth, back arching a bit as he feels the knot of white hot pleasure in his stomach twist and turn. 

“I— I can’t. I’m—”

One of Harry’s hands coasts down the small of her back and onto her ass, giving it a harsh squeeze. She yelps at the new sensation, pain and bliss intermingling. “Yeah, you fucking can. You will. Use your words. Tell me how much you like it.”

A violent shutter runs through Y/N’s limbs and she instinctively pushes back against his palm. Harry’s eyebrows kink in question as he feels her draw her face back from his hair. One look at her eyes tells the entire narrative: She wants him to spank her. 

Harry slowly lifts his hand from her skin, brows raising a bit higher for confirmation. Y/N smears his lips against his forehead and left cheekbone, bobbing her head desperately, whispering a tiny, “Yes, please.” that sends smoky tendrils of hot air cascading down his straining neck. 

When the vampire’s hand comes down, it’s fast and hard, his cold rings biting into her flesh and leaving welts, the sound echoing off the glossy walls and tall bookshelf in her room. The cry that betrays her could probably be heard down on the main floor of her complex. 

The shattered noise makes Harry sanity slip and he’s lucky she’s too lost in her own bliss to see the way his eyes glow dangerously red. “Fuck, you’re such a slut for it.” 

Harry suddenly boosts himself forward, toppling Y/N backwards until she’s the one wedged against the bed. She wraps her arms around his shoulders, nestling her face into the crook of his sweaty collarbones, cracked cries pooling into the junction of his clavicle as he hikes her roughly up his thighs. He sinks further between her legs until he bottoms out with a loud garbled groan, pushing so deep she can feel him in the trench of her belly. 

“Oh my God, Harry— I— fuck, just—just— oh!”

His pace rises in intensity, strokes messy and unforgivable as he fucks her into the bed, the cracking of the frame warning him that it might give away. “Oh, so you liked that, did you? Like it when I call you a slut and stretch you out like one?”

Harry feels Y/N’s teeth rip into his shoulder in order to evade a scream; a strong shiver pin-balls down his spine as a result. Her voice is absolutely wrecked as she talks over her muffled mouth. “Loved it. Loved it so much. Want—Want more. Please, please, please.”

Harry holds her down firmly to the sheets, pounding into her with a form of unrestrained force he’s never exhibited. She just drives him to the brink like no one else has in nearly twenty decades. “Can you feel me in your tummy, pet? Can you feel how I fill you up?” 

“Yes, yes— it’s so good, Harry. You’re incredible.”

“Such a proper little whore.” He has to actively hold back from digging into her throat with his fangs, his eyes screwing shut in concentration as his orgasm begins to burn through his veins. “Begging me to fuck you like one, over and over. You’ve never had it this good, have you?” 

“N-No. You’re the only one who makes me feel like this.”  

“Hands off.” 

“W-What?”

“Hands off.”

Y/N obeys, throwing her arms above her head and letting them hang off the edge of the bed as he’d instructed. It’s not like he wants her to stop scratching down his back, but he knows that if she continues, he’s going to black out. He’s already teetering, obvious in the black webs he can feel materializing over the whites of his eyes.

“Ask for permission.” 

The mortal unclamps her teeth from his bruised shoulder and swallows heavily, her words sputtering out from how hard she’s jerking against the bed. “Please.”

“Please what?”

“Please—can I—can I cum?”

“‘May I cum.’” The boy corrects, half because he wants to be a cocky ass, and half because it’s automatic. He was raised during an era where intellectual accuracy was of utmost value in society. It’s hard to leave those lessons behind. 

Y/N hiccups another mewl, hands curling into loose fists above her head as he continues to fuck her deliberately into the duvet. She repeats his phrase shakily. “May I cum? Please?”

Harry’s lashes flutter open and as soon as he sees her, all doe-eyed, covered in his love marks, with her bottom lip trembling...It’s like a switch flips. When he speaks, it’s soft and encouraging; a drastic contrast from his mood a few seconds ago. “Yeah...Yeah, baby, go ahead. Cum for me.” 

That night, as Harry lays there awake staring at that awful popcorn roof with the taste of her blood fresh on his tongue and her steady heartbeat throbbing in his heightened ears, he catches himself smiling in the dark. It doesn't have to do with emotions or feelings or any of that complicated bullshit. It just has to do with the fact that he found some consistency in his life, as unattached and materialistic as it may be. They don’t have a complex bond or a deeper meaning. They simply just coexist. They provide some common stability to each others’ lives and it helps keep an important balance. Stability is so rare to find, especially for an immortal who is condemned to witness the world constantly evolve around them while they remain frozen in time. Society will change, people change, appearances change, alliances change, and though it can be exhilarating, at times, Harry never truly has a say in it. He’s always just strung along for the ride.

This is different. It’s static, and that’s all he really needs it to be. Sex can be so emotionally messy if lines aren’t drawn and boundaries aren’t set. But with Y/N, it’s like they have a silent understanding— an unspoken agreement signed by both parties. It’s a notion that could have spared Harry his life in the past, and it’s an ideal that— even in death— took him centuries to learn:

Some people are meant to be loved, while others are just meant to be naked. 

///

The third week is when things escalate for the better. 

Specifically, Tuesday night. That’s when the sexting starts. 

It’s a pretty calm evening and Harry finds himself with nothing to do. Mitch is out with Sarah, who had come into town two days ago due to the band she’s touring with being on a three week break. She’d said she wasn’t staying for long— maybe a week, because she has plans to visit some other bloodsucker friends in Canada. Even though Mitch tries to hide it, Harry can tell he’s bummed about Sarah’s short visit. The older vampire is good at hiding his emotions, but Harry’s known him for so long that he could read Mitch’s mood even if he was blindfolded and gagged. 

The jade-eyed boy had been honest with his best friend, asking him what the point was in continuing to see someone whose depth of interest in the relationship wasn’t as developed as his own. Mitch had simply shrugged one shoulder and told Harry that he wouldn’t understand. He mentioned something about how eventually, the freshblood high would wear off and Sarah would find herself wanting to settle down somewhere with someone she could trust for the rest of eternity. Mitch explained that he cared for her enough to wait until then. 

His best mate had been wrong. Harry does understand. He understands the concept of chasing after someone who, in the end, didn’t want anything to do with him. He understands it a little too well, sadly. He figures that’s the same fate Mitch is bound to suffer, just on a less extreme level. 

But then again, Harry’s perception of love is majorly skewed, so who is he to judge?

With Mitch tied up with Sarah (probably literally, though Harry doesn’t dwell on that; it’s none of his business), his options dwindle to the rest of the crew. Niall and Xander had invited him to a concert they were attending, but Harry politely declined the offer. The musicians were some wannabe indie band and Harry would rather swallow a nicotine addict’s blood than listen to a couple of morons sing in cursive. Adam had suggested he tag along with him, Ny-Oh, and Charlotte to a new art exhibit that had opened up in the next town over. It was a thirty minute drive, so it wasn’t that bad, but Harry declined that invitation, as well. He loves art, if the giant collection on his wall has anything to say about it, but he doesn’t get on well with Ny or Charlotte. They say he’s “too much of an arrogant dickhead” to be around for an extended period of time. They’re right, of course, but it still hurts. Plus, Ny has a mullet and Harry knows he wouldn’t be able to withhold from making a Billy Ray joke. It’s best he stay away, lest she end up with an achy-breaky heart.

So that leaves him here, all alone at eight P.M. on a Tuesday, plopped on his couch in nothing but a pair of maroon plaid boxers as Hamilton plays on the ninety inch flatscreen mounted on his glass wall. He had left the curtains open, not really caring that he’s practically naked. The sun’s already set and it’s almost pitch black outside; plus, he lives on the twenty-fourth floor of the condominium complex. The only living being risking an eyeful is a peepy pigeon. Even then, Harry’s more than happy to put on a show. He’s confident enough in himself that nudity is practically second nature. His friends can attest to that. 

Harry lays across his leather sofa with a large checkered throw cushion snuggled into his side, one of his hands slung across the backrest of the couch as the other remains submerged wrist-deep in a bag of Veggie Straws. His socked feet are propped up on his round marble coffee table, ankles crossed and posture anything but eloquent. The apartment is silent, except for the musical streaming through the speakers of his television set and the gentle pattering of rain just outside his glorified window pane, accompanied by the faint flickering of the city lights below. The atmosphere of the room is relaxed and cozy and it lulls his soul in a manner he can’t put into words.

Harry has always liked the rain. Ever since he was a child, he would sit by the small round window of the attic room he shared with his older sister, watching it fall from the sky in sheets of glittering sapphires, soaking into the dry ground and turning it into a slush of dirt he would later sneak out to play in. When he got older, he would prop his shoulder against the doorframe at the back of his father’s blacksmith shop and gaze at it, mesmerized by how it would trickle down the streets of the public market, washing away all the grime that came with a bustling city’s reputation. Sometimes he would stand in it, feeling its cool touch run down his arms and soak into the back of his sot-covered work shirt. He enjoyed how it would cleanse the sticky sweat from his face and neck, its gentle nature leaving him feeling like he could float through air. Then his father would call him back into the store and playfully scold him for allowing himself to get drenched, warning that his mother would kill him if he caught a cold. 

Harry’s changed a lot since then, he knows that, but it comforts him that his love for rain is the one aspect of his personality that two hundred years of Hell had failed to take from him. 

The melodies swimming out of his TV reign him back in from memory lane. 

Harry’s not really one to enjoy musicals, but back when Hamilton had first hit Broadway, he’d used his persuasive supernatural abilities to sneak into one of the first showings. He’d been curious as to what all the hype was about, and the play did not disappoint. The songs were catchy, the acting was good, and the characters were brought to life through raw emotion and comedy. He respected that. And the plot of the story itself resonated with him deeply, as well. A protagonist that rose from nothing, fell in love with the wrong woman, and made terrible life choices that seemed correct at the time, which would all eventually lead to his death. It hit a bit too close to home. 

If he had a dollar for every time he’s seen it since it had come out on Disney+, he could probably pay rent himself instead of compelling others to do it for him. 

The play is halfway through one of its most famous ballads when the monster’s phone dings with a familiar tune. A smirk is already etching itself across his face before he even unlocks his device. 

I need interior design advice. 

I’m still a little sore from our last help session. How’d you bounce back so quick?

Funny, but I need ACTUAL interior design advice this time. 

Harry’s brows furrow in mild confusion and slight disappointment. He draws his hand from the junk food container, dusting off the crumbs. Oh. 

Genuinely? 

Yup!

He guesses he’ll give it a go. He does have pretty exquisite taste; the modern gothic aesthetic of his condo proves that. It’s not like he has anything better to do.

Alright, shoot. 

Y/N releases the breath she’d been holding in. Thank God he’s agreed to help. As much as she’s ashamed to admit it, Harry’s really the only person in LA that she deems relatively close to a friend. She hasn’t managed to mesh well with her coworkers much, despite the fact that she’s been trying extremely hard. She just doesn’t wanna force herself into unfulfilling fake friendships for the sake of having people to flaunt. It’s not right and she knows she’d grow to resent it. 

So instead, she’d reached out to the one California resident who doesn’t make her skin crawl. 

Whew, okay, thanks in advance! So I went out yesterday and got a new bedspread and I wanted some help choosing a new accessory to go with it, which is going on my wall. 

Harry’s ears perk up and his back straightens at her statement. Could she finally, by the grace of fucking God, be getting rid of that shitty tapestry? 

Well, let me see it, then. Don’t keep a man waiting, I’m dying to play Property Brothers over here.

A picture comes through of the two new accessories Y/N is referring to and the way Harry’s face drops instantly is almost comical.

Which tapestry fits better? I’m thinking the Van Gogh style painting of a lighthouse. The blue goes well with the dark turquoise of the comforter. But then again, the forest canopy has those pretty exotic flowers that compliment the coral stitching. I can’t decide. 

The vampire’s face pinches in disgusted horror as he blinks down numbly at the image on his screen. He’s going to be sick. Those Veggie Straws are about to make a hideous comeback. 

…two new tapestries? Did the other one rip or…?

What? No!! I just saw these down at the thrift store and thought they were cute. Why? Are they really that bad??

They’re not just bad, they’re worse. He’s going to ask her to blindfold him next time he visits. 

They’re…kinda immature, dove. I just thought you’d go for something cooler this time, like a vintage painting or a couple vinyls to mount on the wall. 

Immature? 

Oops. He should have picked his words more carefully. Now he’s gone and offended her and she’ll probably bite down the next time he puts his—

Another message interrupts his spiraling negative conclusions.

I know you didn’t just call ME immature when you compared me to a cream-filled donut, Harry. 

The playful tone in the text delivers a wave of relief that is almost as pleasurable as what lies between Y/N’s legs. 

Can I speak freely for a second? Full disclosure, no consequences?

That preface makes me think you’re about to chew me out.

I’ll be gentle, I promise. I know it’s not our usual dynamic, but I’ll give it a go.

Y/N ignores the bristling across her cheeks. 

Alright, go head.

I just think tapestries are kinda stupid. They scream “confused teenager trying to find myself.” But that’s just my opinion. I’m only telling you so you know that I’m probably not the best bloke to go to with tapestry inquiries. 

Harry watches as a read receipt stares up at him for a few seconds. Just when he thinks he might have truly upset her this time, her message bubble pops up. 

So...the one I’ve had hanging in my room the last three times you’ve been over…

I had to actively restrain the urge to strangle myself with it.

Y/N breaks out into laughter. The image of waking up to Harry laying facedown on her bedroom floor, balls naked and mummified within a sunrise tapestry...It’s sending her. 

Well, you know what? That’s not fair! You can’t judge my house when I haven’t even had the chance to judge yours. 

Harry nods once to himself in surrender, reaching up to finger-comb a few rebellious curls out of his eyes. She makes a valid play. 

Fair enough. You’ll have to come over and give me your opinion sometime.

I’d be honored to. Now, would you be so kind as to put your own personal bias aside this once and help me choose which one to put up. I promise I’ll spare you any more tapestry-related problems in the future. I’ll remove it from my customer contract.

Harry sighs defeatedly. He can’t believe he’s giving up his integrity for sex. 

Fine. Send me a picture of both of them up on the wall. It’ll give some perspective. 

Y/N giddily obliges, deciding to send a video instead. That way, she can get all of the angles in one go rather than having to send multiple pictures. 

Harry waits patiently, shoving another handful of chips into his mouth as he taps his foot against the coffee table to the tune of Wait for It, which is playing in the film that has now become the backdrop of his night. When Y/N’s next message comes through, he’s mildly surprised to find it’s a video. He clicks play, watching intently as she circles the two pinned tapestries slowly, making sure to get a proper view from all sides. By the time the thirty second clip is coming to an end, Harry’s leaning more towards the tropical canopy painting. It’s not as loud and she was right about the flowers matching the stitching on the duvet. 

He’s about to tap back “the forest one” when something flashes across the screen that makes him choke on his snack, launching him into a coughing fit.  

It’s within the last three seconds of the video and if he had cut it off in order to text back, he would have missed it. But he hadn’t, and now it’s burned into the back of his eyelids, causing a buzzing sensation to string right to the area between his thighs.  

The last few frames of the video, Y/N had lowered her phone from the position she’d been suspending it, probably thinking she had already stopped filming. She hadn’t. And because of that, Harry gets a full frontal view of her body, covered in nothing except a pair of lace panties and a mid-thigh oversized Avengers t-shirt. The entire screen fills with bare, silky skin and raunchy lace and he can feel his fangs poke into his tongue. 

Harry’s not a pre-teen; he’s not going to drool over seeing a pair of legs. What really gets to him is the fact that it appears Y/N still has a few hickies across the inner area of her thighs, which have failed to fade as quickly as the others. They should be gone, given that anytime Harry feeds (like he had the last time they’d slept together), he always gives her a bit of his blood to heal. Meaning, normal bruises like that should be gone. Maybe he just hadn’t given her a high enough dosage, or maybe he’d marked her more than he remembers, but either way, the stains are there.

The vampire ogles at the paused image with a dry throat and wide eyes. Just seeing her like that, dressed in comfy yet effortlessly sensual attire with no bottoms on whatsoever, freely flaunting his love bites around her apartment, probably looking at them in her mirror, thinking about how his teeth had felt grazing her skin…

It’s enough to pop a stiffy into his briefs. 

Harry glimpses over the top of his phone, swallowing thickly at the large bulge beginning to tent his boxers. His socked toes curl as he feels a longing throb begin to swell at the pit of his clenching stomach. Great. This is just fucking perfect. 

He attempts to tap back a reply, but his hands have started quivering slightly, clumsy thumbs ruining his message to the point where he has to retype it three times.

The forest one. I agree with what you said about the stitching. 

Okay, thank you so much! Your input is highly appreciated, as always.

The immortal finds himself gnawing at the inside of his cheek, weighing on whether he should mention the little softcore porn moment she’d unknowingly shot, or if he should just let it slide and go take care of the issue that is literally weighing on him— he can feel it getting heavy against his thigh. 

His fingers seem to take on a mind of their own, printing out a quick sentence and hitting the send button before he can rethink his motives. 

Did you watch your video before you sent it?

Uh no...It looked pretty okay to me while I took it. Why, do you need a different one? Was the lighting too dark? 

The fact that she sent it by accident only adds to the appeal. She’s such a good girl. So fucking innocent and sweet, she could practically give him a toothache. 

Do me a quick favor and rewatch it all the way to the end. I think you’ll be surprised with what you find.

Y/N leans back against her bookshelf wall, chewing on her bottom lip as a sly grin ticks the corners. She doesn’t have to rewatch the video. She’s fully aware of what she had done, which had been completely on purpose. She’s only playing dumb to see his reaction, getting off on how flustered he seems to have become. Yes, her intentions for contacting him had originally been purely for his opinion on decor. But when she saw the chance, she decided to jump headfirst and take it. What are friends with benefits for if not for times like these, when you’re too lazy to come over but need a bit of relief? 

The human allows a full thirty seconds to pass, simulating that she’s watching the video, and then thoughtfully taps out her response.

Oh, whoops. Sorry for the indecent exposure.

Harry shifts in exasperation against his sofa, the radiating in his abdomen crawling up to his chest and down to his knees. He needs to take care of himself now.

It’s fine, babe. You just might wanna be more careful, cause this time around you got lucky that it was me and it’s nothing I haven’t seen before. Could go south if it were someone else. 

Y/N rolls her eyes lightly at his scolding, but continues to play the clueless act, curious to see where it’ll take her. 

You’re absolutely right, I’m so sorry. 

Harry clears his throat, flinching as he feels a soft twitch run up the length of his cock. He exhales tightly, trying to steer the conversation into a lighter mood. He doesn’t want her to feel bad; it’s not like he’s angry about this. He’s hot and bothered and needy, but not mad.

I just think it’s funny you exposed the fact that you go around your house without pants. 

Oh, fuck off! No one ever wears pants around their own house, especially if they’re alone. It’s one of the laws of physics. No human resistance, no pants. 

Harry glances down at his body symbolically, where he’s clad in only his underwear, as well.

Touché.

Exactly. 

A pause befalls the conversation as both parties fish for something new to say. The situation’s become less lively and more intense now and neither are sure how to navigate without crossing a line. In a surge of courage, Y/N decides to just directly communicate her intentions, praying that he doesn’t take it the wrong way. 

I have an idea, just hear me out. For the sake of evening the playing field, I think that since you saw me pantsless, it’s only fair that I see you the same way. It balances out, right?

Harry’s jaw drops in an open-mouthed simper, impressed by her blatant suggestion, but also by how smoothly she had delivered it. He mumbles his next words to himself, voice amused and somewhat awed at how she had managed to spin this to her benefit. “You clever little minx. Bet it wasn’t even an accident.”

You did it on purpose, didn’t you?

Y/N purses her lips, shrugging her brows cheekily.

Maybe.

The vampire scoffs, taken aback not only at the ploy she’d pulled off, but at how unapologetic she is about the whole thing. It’s hot. 

Alright, l’ll bite. Tick for tack. 

The photo that comes through makes Y/N choke on her spit. It’s not anything too revealing, but it packs a lot. Literally. 

It’s a pretty casual picture, and she gets the feeling he took it as so just to be a tease. In the frame, all she sees is a snapshot of Harry’s lap, thighs straining against the flimsy material of a pair of crimson tartan boxers, the large tigerhead tattoo he totes somehow prominent in the low lightning. Of course it stands out, though. That’s to be expected; his thighs are thick in the most satisfying fashion and they’re one of his most defining features. She can also see the bottom half of his lean tummy, the cutoff being the crest of his belly button. His fern inkings are peeking out of from below the waistband of the Calvin Kleins, dark and matte on his lightly bronzed skin, and she spots the nonchalant position of his crossed ankles in the background. 

As appetizing as every little detail is, the centerpiece of the portrait is the obvious bulge pressing into the fabric of his briefs. The outline is so prominent, the picture borderlines on graphic. His cock looks pretty as ever, even when it’s covered; the thin underwear leaves very little to the imagination. 

Y/N has to bite down on her tongue to keep from making an embarrassing sound.

Wow, okay, well...Your picture was much more explicit than my video. That’s not fair at all. Throws off the equilibrium we were trying to establish. 

Harry chuckles aloud, shaking his head in amazement at how well she can bend the game to her will. Three weeks ago, when he’d first laid eyes on that shy girl at the club, he would have never expected her to be so bold. Now, she has him wrapped around her pinky like a string.

You’re absolutely right. My apologies. Maybe you should send one similar so we can even out the stakes. 

You read my mind.

Y/N’s next picture causes a hiss to stream through the cracks of Harry’s teeth, eyes glinting red.

It’s a picture taken on top of her bed, the angle set from above. She’s laying on her side, her torso twisted so that her backside is in the shot, her huge tee pulled tight against her waist so it creates an enticing cinching effect. Her thighs are clasped together, the collar of her shirt pulled away just enough that he can see where the valley of her chest begins to curve, and the cheeky lace panties are working utter wonders for her ass. He can’t stop staring. He physically can’t pull himself away, his eyes bouncing across every pixel, attempting to commit the picture to memory to keep it locked in the back of his brain forever. 

Y/N awaits anxiously for his reaction, biting into the pad of her thumb as the seconds list by, wondering if he had enjoyed the nude or if he was just sitting there judging all her flaws. It’s been so long since she’s sent a risky photo like that, she can’t help but stress. Sharing your body with someone digitally is almost as intimate as real sex and it comes with similar worries and insecurities. Was the angle good? Are her stretch marks unattractive? Are the dimples along her backside gross? Is he second-guessing their arrangement? Is he wishing they hadn’t met?

She practically drops her phone when it vibrates.

God, you look stunning. Like a proper fucking dream.

All of her concerns immediately disintegrate, replaced by an odd sense of pride. She’s happy that he enjoyed it, and she’s thankful for the caliber of his response. Most men don’t care to comment that nicely, if they comment at all, and Harry’s enthusiasm only excites her further. She wants to keep going. 

You look pretty fucking good yourself. Wish I could just kneel between your thighs, take you into my mouth, and make you feel good for hours. 

Harry struggles to get saliva down his parched throat, her words bouncing around the inside of his skull, sending a current of bliss directly to where he needs it. 

Hours? You want me down your throat for hours?

For hours, Harry. I’d literally just sit between your legs and let you fuck my face again. Let you use me to make yourself cum.

“Jesus fucking Christ.” Harry’s broken whine echoes off the tall walls of his home, one of his big hands finding a path to his curls and tugging in desperation. He needs to keep composure. 

Harry’s next snapshot comes through and Y/N has to screw her eyes shut for a second to brace the bolt of electricity that zips down to her core. 

The boy’s thighs have parted wider, his feet now down from the table, knees hanging off the edge of the sofa. His free hand has delved below his briefs, pulling them up just enough to show a tad of the neatly trimmed area beneath. His fingers are cupped over his cock, hiding it from plain view, but the imprint of his knuckles on the fabric suggest he’s gripping it tightly. The longer she looks, the more she notices— specifically, a dark damp patch spreading at the middle of his boxers and she knows damn well what it is. The fact that she’d got him riled up enough that he’s leaking through like that...She can hardly breathe right. 

Shit, you look so good. How do you always look that fucking good? I just want to feel you stretch me out while you moan into my mouth. 

Harry slowly starts pumping his palm up and down his cock as he rereads her words, catching his lower lip between his teeth, his naked and flushed chest stuttering. He doesn’t want to be the douche that tells her to send another picture, but he really needs her to. He wants to see what she’s doing, how she’s fairing. Wants to know if he has her as fucked as she has him right now. 

It’s almost like they share a telepathic link because not even five seconds later, another beautifully filthy photo is decorating his screen. 

This time around, Y/N has decided to fully lay on her back, spreading her legs open and drawing her knees up slightly so that her thighs are not only flexing, but displaying all the love bites he’d left only a few days prior. They’re all different shades of purple and brown, scattered over the satin suppleness of her skin, painting a canvas of the heated night they’d shared. It’s art at its most prestigious, if he’s ever seen it. And she has her hand ducked below her panties, the outline of her fingers situated right over her clit. 

Harry’s own hand instinctively tightens around his length, pulling a weak groan from his parted lips. He throws his head back against the backrest of the couch, bucking into his palm and teasing his forefinger over his bubbling tip. He spreads the precum all over the sensitive head, whimpering when the draft from the air conditioning caresses it and sends a quiver toppling over his shoulders. 

Fuck, she’s driving him mental. There’s only one way to take care of this effectively, despite their distance. 

I’m going to call you.

Y/N gulps heavily, licking over her chapped lips and feeling her pulse jump at the realization that she’ll be getting to hear his throaty voice coax her through an orgasm. Not only that, but she’ll get to hear him cum, too. She’ll get to hear every shattered gasp and needy mewl, almost as if he were pouring all those sounds of pleasure right into her ears in person. 

The mortal’s heart hiccups when his contact pops up on the Caller ID, phone vibrating insistently. After a deep breath taken to ground herself, she slides her shaky thumb over the glass, slowly bringing the device up to her ear. Her voice is soft and timid as ever, a tremble running through its undertone. “H-Hello?”

Harry’s words come through the crackling speaker as dark and smoky as whiskey, pouring into her mind and intoxicating her as easily as the real liquor would.

“Flip onto your stomach and take off the lace. Now.”