#bandana Harry one shots | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

sushirrrry · 2 months ago

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pulse. a harry styles one-shot; 12k words. the one where harry goes with his best friend, jack, and jack's little sister, charli to a music festival. CW: language, explicit sexual content (fingering, squirting, intercourse), explicit drug use

“And that’s when I knew I wanted to save the world, one fire at a time.”

The looks from the girls in front of them were flourished with admiration, maybe a bit of chaos and something that was a bit more addictive than that. But Jack was pushing his shoulder into Harry as they stood there, trying his best to play the wingman that Harry had desperately tried to dismiss the entire situation.

Harry held the bottle between his fingers, lifting it to take a sip as the morning sun rounded out into the cloudless sky. The tension in his back was killing him, his eyes were a bit heavy at the way that he tossed and turned all night from laying on the ground.

“But my guy here,” Jack took his hand on Harry’s shoulder to bring his attention back, “This guy saves more than just lives— he’s preserving the art in the minds of children.”

Jack was laying it on heavy, building up every detail of Harry’s life to mean much more than it was. Harry being a primary school music teacher wasn’t anything that was new and exciting in the real world. Jack made it sound much, much more delicate, and necessary than it was.

The two girl’s faces were astonished by the fact, one staring at Harry until he caught her eye. He smiled sheepishly at the fact, nodding a few times to confirm with what Jack had been saying before he turned his head to notice someone coming from one of the tents in their small camp.

Her hair was long and untouched, small braids still placed in her hair as she placed sunglasses over her eyes. The night before was a bit too rough on them; Harry was aware that the second day usually felt worse than the first. He couldn’t seem to turn his head away as he watched her diligently try to unscrew the top of her water bottle, almost as if her muscles had turned to mush.

Harry took it upon himself to move towards her, taking himself out of the conversation before she saw him coming.

“Need some help with that?” He offered. His own hand holding a beer as Charli held out her bottle towards him with a small grunt.

“I don’t know how you’re drinking that without gagging.” Her voice was rough, hoarse, as she cleared her throat.

Charli took a seat under the small pavilion that their group had set up; her seat now in a foldable chair as she slinked into it. The large t-shirt covering her chest and her pajama shorts that resembled boxers were nicely matched with the tall, rain boots that she had been wearing around their small camp as the dust and dirt seemed to be kicked up.

Harry took the water bottle from her hand, holding his beer against his chest as he multitasked to unscrew the top lid.

“I didn’t take any shots of lemonade vodka, and I drank a bunch of water before bed. That might have helped a bit.” Harry smiled at her; his eyes not being able to relay the affection that they may have had behind the dark sunglasses on his face. The backwards hat sat on head while the bandana around his neck helped to shield the morning sun.

He didn’t want to stare; he knew that his sunglasses had been blocking the obvious, though.

“You look good for someone who’s probably one sip of water shy of dying, I have to say.” Harry shrugged, watching as she took a few sips from the bottle he had opened for her. The look on her face showed a bit of thankfulness of him obviously giving her some pity.

“I don’t think that sleeping in tents is necessarily my thing,” Charli shook her head, knowingly hating camping to an obvious degree, but wanting to find herself in these experiences that pushed her boundaries.

That was the whole reason that she was here in the first place. Charli was always the little sister that wanted to keep up; she wanted to do everything that Jack did, and she knew that she could if he would just let her participate. When this summer festival came around, Charli asked her friend Rena to book a ticket to come with her—knowing that Jack and Harry would say no to it.

Harry and Jack went to festivals all year—they frequented this one in Spain every year and had become quite close with a bunch of other people who had traveled in for it. But this time, Charli wanted to just insert herself into the situation so neither of them could deny her entry, or her company.

Jack and Charli were close, but that did not mean that he wanted to watch her dance around at a festival and get herself into trouble. Neither did Harry, really.

But something had changed a bit. Harry hadn’t seen Charli in a year or so. He hadn’t spoken to her or hung out with her enough to notice the changes in her personality, her being, her looks. She was older now; she wasn’t the little teenage sister that tried to slip into the car every time they would head to the mall or to grab a bite to eat.

She was always beautiful, there was no denying that. But Harry found himself blushing at her remarks, stopping himself from staring at the way clothes hung off her body, and tried to deny himself from watching as she danced with her friend while trying to entertain the other men standing behind them.

Charli had always just been Jack’s little sister.

Sometime between the lines, it had taken a turn, though. Harry had looked at Charli one day and noticed that her eyes struck a match, his heart started to race a bit faster than usual, his eyes stared to wander, his palms became a bit sweatier than normal.

Instead, he tried his best to remain subtle—not wanting to say anything different, but just allowing the weekend to go along.

After the awkward teenage years when they would go on family holiday’s, Harry would always think Charli was quite funny—she was witty and dry with her humor, but it always intrigued him to some degree. And she had always been very good at Pictionary, which Harry found hilarious.

Now, it was different. Now, Harry found himself staring longer, harder. But it must’ve just been the heat, he thought.

“You look like shit,” Jack had mentioned, coming from behind Harry as he looked at his little sister, “Festival already got the best of you lot already, hm?”

When Charli had approached Jack to wanting to go to this festival in Spain, Jack and Harry had already made plans with their friends to go. Jack, being her older brother, had shown some apprehension considering he knew that Charli and Rena had never done anything like this before. They were freshly in university, a few years younger than Harry and Jack.

“Don’t be fucking annoying,” Charli said to Jack, rubbing her forehead, “We’re just hungover—it’s nothing unusual and we aren’t used to the bit of heat all the time. We’ll be okay.”

Harry’s lip turned up on the side, but his attention as brought back to Jack who hit him on the chest.

“What was that for?” Harry asked, a bit taken back by the action as he rubbed the site where he had been hit.

“Mate, you totally walked away from those two birds, left me in the dust,” Jack turned his head to try and locate them, craning his neck, “The blonde was totally into you. They were having a kickback before heading back into the grounds tonight.”

Harry focused on the beer in his hands, finishing the first one of the days before he threw it over to the small pile of garbage that they had started to collect.

“Dunno—not super interested,” Harry shrugged, but Jack gave him a strong look of disapproval.

“Not interested? In what? You not interested?” The confusion was taking over him as the three of them sat in the small, confined area. Harry poked his tongue into his cheek before he tried to think of how to get Jack to stop talking.

He didn’t care that Charli would hear how Jack talked about him—surely, she could figure out his habits on her own, but he didn’t necessarily want them repeated. Of course they had had fun at festivals in the past. But there was a small amount of embarrassment that sat on his chest as he felt the judgement pour off from Charli’s facial expression.

“It’s like, a girl’s rite of passage to hook up with you at a festival once.” Jack chuckled, grabbing his own beer from the fridge before popping open the cap, looking over at Charli. “Better keep Rena away from him tonight or he may go mad with the wandering hands.”

Charli smirked at the comment, “I’m not keeping anyone away from anyone else. Maybe she wants someone’s wandering hands.”

Jack chuckled at the comment, Harry rolled his eyes with the smile steady on his face.

The three of them sat around, making themselves a few sandwiches for breakfast—Harry brought bagels for them to share. They sat in a circle, eating and talking about the day ahead of them. The heat hadn’t really started to become an issue; it was quite nice in the shade unless you were in the direct sunlight.

The day took them into night—getting ready in their tents, while simultaneously letting the party get started. Jack and Charli were significantly more into drinking than Harry was; he kept a steady buzz with the beers that he had brought, but he let general buzz of the alcohol mixed perfectly with the contentment of the weed, too.

Jack had always made fun of Harry in the best way because he always knew how to have the best time, making sure that everyone else was having the best time around him. It was a rare kind of person who knew his own limits but was able to let the people surrounding him in on the most significant adventure of a lifetime.

Harry didn’t add much to what he was wearing except a bandana around his neck to keep the dust low. His sunglasses hung from his shirt, the backwards hat shieled his neck from the hot afternoon sun. The Adidas sneakers were dusty and worn, his shorts and t-shirt were moderately hot from the dark colors that absorbed the heat.

But it was when Charli and Rena came out of their tent that his eyes tried their best to look away—failing miserably, he knew.

Her perfectly sun-kissed skin with patches of redness that he just knew would burn to the touch with spots of freckles that accompanied, the dark curls that cascaded down her back with micro-braids that were misplaced, her top was practically irrelevant as it hung from her shoulders and tied around her back with just a simple string.

It was all that it took for him not to combust. He tried to remind himself: it’s Charli. Something about that sentiment stopped working like it had before.

The group was a bit larger now; there were many more people around to involve and take his attention. He watched as Charli and Rena had found the attention that both had been looking for. A few different guys who looked more their age had started to make their way around them. Charli and Rena took a few shots, their energy had increased drastically with a mid-day nap and some blush to help elevate themselves.

When they started to move their way towards the stages and grounds, Harry had packed himself what he needed in his pockets—a few joints, a baggie with other worldly possibilities, and a lighter. Everything he could have needed.

The bass pounded relentlessly, a constant thrum that seemed to reverberate in Harry’s chest, matching the wild, erratic beat of his heart. The music festival was a sensory overload—lights that dazzled, bodies that pressed in from all sides, and a heady mix of sweat, alcohol, and something else altogether more intoxicating the longer he stood and watched. It was almost as if he had been placed into another world; his brain would have convinced him, otherwise.

Charli.

She moved like a force of nature through the crowd, her every step drawing his gaze, every laugh tightening the coil of desire in his chest.

She was supposed to be off-limits, a hard line he’d promised himself never to cross. But tonight, with the flashing lights painting her skin in shades of electric blue and purple from the neon lights that threatened him with desire, Harry could barely remember why.

It wasn’t just the way she looked, although that was enough to drive any man to the edge. Her outfit—a slinky, black top paired with high-waisted micro-shorts—revealed just enough to set his imagination on fire yet left enough to keep him burning. It was the way she moved, all easy confidence, as if she knew exactly the effect she had on him, and maybe she did. The sway of her hips, the way her curls bounced with each step.

It was all fun and games until her eyes sought him out in the crowd—it all added to the tightrope tension between them that he hadn’t been sure was there before.

He shouldn’t be here, standing this close to her, watching her with hungry eyes while pretending that he didn’t want to touch her, taste her. But here he was, and there she was, her presence overwhelming every shred of common sense he had left.

She caught him staring—again—and shot him a look over her shoulder that made his pulse skip. Harry wasn’t sure that she had been looking at him, either. He wasn’t sure if he was misreading the signs; maybe she was just looking past him.

But that smile, playful and knowing, was his undoing. It was like she could see right through him, could tell that he was a hairsbreadth away from losing all control that he had. And maybe she liked it, liked knowing she had him wrapped around her little finger.

When she slipped through the crowd, it was like slow-motion. She was turning her head just enough to signal him to follow, and he didn’t hesitate in the slightest bit. It was almost an innate reaction to her; she walked, he followed. His feet moved of their own accord, pushing past bodies until he was right behind her, close enough to feel the heat radiating off her skin. She led him away from the main stage to a more secluded spot where the music was a distant pulse, and the crowd thinned out. The darkness here was thicker, the lights softer, casting long shadows.

Charli stopped abruptly, turning to face him, and he nearly collided with her. The sudden proximity knocked the breath out of him. Her chest brushed against his as she looked up at him through her lashes, eyes dark and inviting.

“You’re quiet tonight,” she teased, her voice soft but laced with something that made his blood run hot. “Something on your mind?”

“More than a few things,” Harry replied, his voice rough, strained. Her scent was everywhere, a mix of something sweet and sharp, mingling with the night air, making it hard to think about anything other than how close she was. He could reach out, just a little, and—

No. He couldn’t. He shouldn’t.

But then she tilted her head, and that damned smile returned, like she knew exactly what she was doing to him. “Like what?” she asked, her tone daring him to say it, to cross that line they both knew was there.

He clenched his fists, shoving them deep into his pockets to keep from reaching out and touching her. Instead, he pulled out the joint he’d rolled earlier, holding it between them as a distraction, a lifeline.

“Like this,” he said, his voice a low growl. “Want some?”

Charli’s eyes flicked down to the joint, then back up to him, and the look in them was nothing short of wicked.

“Sure,” she murmured, stepping even closer, until there was no space left between them. Her fingers brushed against his as she took the joint from his hand, the contact sending a jolt of electricity straight through him.

He watched, mesmerized, as she brought it to her lips. Her eyes glanced up at him with few blinks before Harry’s hand cuffed around the spliff to light it as it sat between her lips.

The motion was slow, deliberate, and his gaze was locked on her mouth, on the way her lips wrapped around the end of the joint, the way she inhaled deeply, then exhaled a plume of smoke that curled in the cool night air. Her eyes never left his, and there was something in them, something hot and dangerous, that made his pulse quicken.

When she passed the joint back to him, their fingers lingered, the touch just a little too long to be accidental. Harry took it, barely feeling it between his fingers, all his senses focused on the heat of her body so close to his. He took a drag, more out of necessity than desire, needing something to calm the riot of emotions inside him. But it didn’t help. If anything, it made the world spin faster, the edges of his control fraying with each second that passed.

“Having a good time so far?” Harry asked her, watching as she waited for him to pass it back to her. When he did, she took it gratefully and took another puff herself.

“Definitely. I’m just a bit overwhelmed, I think. So much going on, the music just—you can feel it in your bones. You can really—yeah, I don’t know, I just feel really, really good.” Her voice was sharp, but it had a bit of slurring to it. He knew that the dehydration and overall adrenaline would send her into overdrive if she kept up the pace of her habits. He took the joint away from her this time, wanting to keep her from overdoing it.

It was obvious—the way that she moved closer to him when he would take another step back. He could smell the alcohol on her breath, but he had watched her take only a few drinks before getting here tonight. It was obvious that they were getting high on something stronger than any of the substances combined.

Harry cleared his throat, letting their eyes linger on one another for a long moment—much longer than he had anticipated, but when her lips parted for a moment, he shifted on his feet.

“You know we shouldn’t be doing this,” he murmured, not entirely sure if he was talking about the joint or the way they were practically pressed up against each other, the space between them crackling with unspoken tension.

Charli took a step closer, closing whatever distance was left between them. Her body was almost flush against his now, her breath warm against his neck as she leaned in. “Doing what?” she whispered, her voice so soft, so innocent, and yet so full of intent that it made his head swim.

“You know this is just some infatuated fantasy shit, right?” Harry’s voice was low, “Your signals—your messages. You don’t want to mess around with me, Char.”

He went to place the joint between her lips again; his fingers lingered at her lips as she gratefully took the end. The color of her lips was the softest baby pink he had ever seen, a color so intimidating and intriguing.

“I think you’re writing me off because you think you know me,” Charli shook her head as she held the joint between her fingers, blowing out the smoke, “But I think you’re a bit scared. And I’m very intrigued. It’s my first festival, after all.”

Harry scoffed, “Not scared at all, love.”

Charli bit her lip, knowing the implications of the way that his eyes would gravitate towards where her teeth held her lip. Her tongue ran over her bottom lip softly, watching him stare at every single tiny movement that she could benefit from his view.

“So full of shit,” She half-whispered, shaking her head, “Can’t keep your eyes off of me, you really think you could keep your hands off if you got the opportunity?”

Harry’s eyes raised at her words, his tongue pushing into his cheek as he lifted his hand to take a large draw of the spliff between his fingers. The smile on his face was significant as he practically chuckled at her words.

“You think I’m scared to put my hands on you?” Harry shook his head, feeling the pity as he stepped close to her. The small space that they had created here in the back of the lot had become theirs as he stared into her eyes. “I’m scared I wouldn’t be able to stop once I started. This wouldn’t be a one-time thing—me and you. That’s why it’s not happening.”

Charli’s eyes fluttered shut for a moment as she listened to the words he spoke, practically feeling the overwhelming feeling on her skin just at his words. She tried to keep herself together, but he saw right through it.

It was practically a growl that he let out, hoping that she would back off, “I’d fucking wreck you, Char.”

As quick as he spoke, she took a step forward, “Well, then fucking wreck me.”

Her lips brushed his jaw, a fleeting touch that sent a shiver down his spine. Harry’s hand tightened around the joint, the other clenching at his side as he fought to keep control, to not give in to the desire roaring inside him. He stuck his hand in the front of his pocket as he felt his cock twitch just at the hot breath of her so close.

There were a million words in his brain, but they were all nonsense.

“Charli,” he breathed, her name a rough exhale, a plea. He knew he should push her away, should step back, but he couldn’t. His hand moved on its own, slipping around her waist, pulling her closer. “We can’t—”

“Why not?” she challenged, her lips brushing against his ear, her breath hot and teasing. Her hands moved to his shoulders as she pulled herself against, letting the smell of him infatuate every part of her being. “Please, please, please.”

Her words were a siren’s call, a temptation way too sweet to resist. His resolve, already shaky, crumbled to dust. His grip on her waist tightened, and she responded by pressing even closer, her body fitting perfectly against his.

His mouth hovered over hers, the world narrowing to just the two of them, to the feel of her, the taste of her on the air.

“You’re playing a very dangerous game with me.” He whispered, his voice a hoarse rasp, heavy with the desire he could no longer hide. The sound of the music in the background was just enough to heighten their senses as he practically breathed a moan into her own.

Charli smiled, that same knowing smile, and his heart skipped a beat. Her lips brushing his without another word, the touch so light it was almost a tease, a promise of what could be if he just let go.

The last thread of restraint snapped. Harry’s hand slid up her back, fingers tangling in her curls as he pulled her to him, crushing his mouth against hers in a kiss that was anything but gentle. It was fire and desperation, a release of all the tension that had been building between them for so long.

If she wanted to be wrecked, so be it.

Charli responded in a way that surprised him, her arms wrapping around his neck, pulling him deeper into the kiss. She tasted like smoke and something sweeter, something that made him dizzier than he had felt in a while. The thump of the bass had disintegrated into a memory, the sounds of the stranger around them had begun to dismiss, the only thing that mattered was the feel of her in his arms, the sound of her soft moan against his lips as he devoured his only saving grace.

He kissed her harder, deeper, pouring everything he’d been holding back into that one searing kiss. Her hands roamed over his back, her nails digging into his skin through his shirt, sending a thrill through him. He wanted more, needed more, and the way she clung to him told him she felt the same.

But then, just as he was about to lose himself completely in her, a shout rang out from somewhere behind them, cutting through the haze of desire like a knife. The sound shattered the moment, and they broke apart, breathless, their hearts pounding in unison as Harry practically pushed her away from him.

“Charli!”

Rena’s voice had come from behind Harry, neither of them laying an eye on her until they had moved apart, and Harry’s back turned towards her. They hadn’t known how much she had seen, but it seemed like her cognizance had been long gone as she stumbled her way over to her friend.

“Hi, Harry,” Rena had seemed to forget Charli was there for a moment as she gave Harry attention first, her hand making its way to his bicep as she tried to steady herself. She moved her attention back to Charli, “I met someone who can hook us up, but I don’t know—like how much are you willing to pay? And like, he seems nice.”

Harry’s attention moved back to the conversation before his eyes narrowed gently at their predicament. He bit his lip just at the way that it didn’t sit right with him.

“I mean, a good amount, I guess. Nothing crazy. What’s he have?” Charli asked, almost like she had forgotten what had happened moments ago.

“He didn’t really say—I don’t think he’s given specifics, but I think we just want to tell him what we want to feel, and he can give it out.”

Harry shook his head, as he leaned down between them. “I know it’s your first time doing shit like this, but don’t fucking buy drugs from a random dude at a festival. That’s a way to get you offed. Unless he can prove his inventory, just don’t waste your time. Stick with the psilocybin’s and X.”

Rena and Charli looked back at him, before he shrugged.

“We have a hundred in cash,” She pressed, “I’ve known you long enough to know that you’re not just sitting on weed and beer, Harry. You and Jack go to festivals all the time—I’m not an idiot. Help us get something.”

Harry took a sip of the bottle, humming to himself before he shook his head at the thought. Turning to face her, he noticed the depth of her blue eyes that captured his breath for a moment.

“Doesn’t mean I’m going to help my friend’s little sister roll like that,” He shook his head, “Especially if something happens to you. Not taking that chance.”

The words of implication felt odd as he spoke to them, the truth feeling a bit overwhelming before he watched Charli bite her lip and lift her eyes to him.

“Don’t let anything happen to me, then,” She bit her lip again, as if knowing that was the game to be played. Rena watched the interaction, but it wasn’t clear if she was taking anything into memory, “Do it with us, if you’re so worried about us.”

Rena rolled her eyes at the interaction, “C’mon, Char. He’s not going to help. I’m going to go ask for more details, I’ll meet you back here, yeah?”

Charli bit her lip as she crossed her arm; she nodded a few times as she watched her friend move back towards another guy that was behind Harry—one of the ones that they had talked to earlier. There was a group of a few guys and girls that seemed to be the same age, and possibly the same curiosity as them with these types of experiences.

She turned back to Harry, a bit disappointed by his lack of help and coddling of her.

“I’m definitely not doing it with you—that’s dangerous if you’ve never tripped before,” He told her firmly, giving her an answer she may have been looking for. Biting the inside of his cheek, he decided to question her a bit more, “But how do you want to feel?”

Charli took a moment to think, crossing her arms as she shrugged, almost like she didn’t know how to respond to his request. She wasn’t prepared for him to answer her that way; there was so much that she didn’t know, but she didn’t want him to read from her, in hopes that he may breakdown and help her out.

“I want to feel light—I want to feel careless and out of body. I want to feel a heavenly touch, almost,” She tried to think, “A pleasure like nothing I’ve ever felt before. Like, bringing me to tears type of euphoria.”

It was almost like she had described exactly what he had wanted to do for her for years, but her innocent face hadn’t caught onto it yet. His smirk wasn’t hidden as he turned away from her, pulling the bottle to his lips as he shook his head with a blush on his cheeks.

“Well, shit, Char,” He answered with a bit of shyness, “You don’t need drugs for that, you know.”

Her recognition had caught on, breathing out of her nose just a bit before she covered her face with her hand.

“That’s what everyone seems to say, but I guess I’m not having the same type of experiences they are.”

Harry bit hard on the inside of his cheek, practically drawing blood as he looked down at the ground. A race of thoughts entered through his brain, pacing back and forth at the thought of how much he couldn’t stand to be next to her now—he couldn’t think now if he wanted to. He hummed again, in recognition of her statement before he ran his thumb over his lip to try to keep himself busy for a moment.

“I’ll help you out, but only under one condition,” He told her; moving to face her, even though he knew that was not a clever idea. He knew as soon as he turned to look at her that he wanted to look away.

She nodded in agreement; he lifted his eyes from her lips.

“You can’t leave my sight,” He nodded, “Understand?”

Charli nodded again, almost like she was in a trance to nod and do whatever he said. “Uh-huh.”

His heart skipped a beat as he felt the sensational pulse through his blood, down into his stomach and all extremities before he let a soft, troubling few words leave through his lips.

“Good girl. Let’s go back to camp, then. I may have something for you both.”

Charli felt a pang in her chest at the way that his words were reactive to her; each detail struggling to make sense within her as they stood together for a moment before he nodded his head for her to follow him back. The walk was only ten or so minutes. It gave Charli a few moments to grasp the sobriety a bit; it was what Harry had expected before they made their way back to the tent area that still had quite a few people around.

That was the culture; that was the essence of it all. The darkness had small bits of light around to maneuver their respective campsites, laughter and partying continued far into the evening. It was only around midnight now before Harry had reached his tent. He opened the zipper, pressing into the space that he had been sharing with Jack before he invited Charli inside.

There was a lantern inside that he flicked on before he found a seat on the small mattress pad, he had laid down, but knew didn’t make too much of a difference.

“I’m only giving them to you, by the way,” Harry told her before searching through a backpack he had stored behind his pillow. “I can’t keep track of both of you. She’s also much more drunk than you, which is dangerous.”

Charli sat on Jack’s side of the tent before she watched Harry pull out a small saran-wrapped baggie that held a spoonful or so of white powder that was tied together; Charli eyed him for a moment before he dug to the bottom of his backpack before he shrugged and went back to the small bag and another bag nestled in his shorts pocket.

“This is what I’ve got—looks like a little snow, some tabs. Kind of mixed together, but that’s what I’ve got.”

Maybe it was showing the innocence in her, but Charli felt a range of curiosity mixed with nerves as she looked at what Harry was offering. His eyes searched her face as she cleared her throat, reaching for the small bag.

“Do you—I mean, you know how much to take? I just—I mean, I just want to try. But I don’t… you know more than I do.” She trailed off, which led Harry to smiling at her for a moment. He crawled over to where she sat, sitting next to her then on the small blanket and mattress pad.

“This is going to make everything bright—you’ll get the smallest dose, just enough for it to be good. It’s only good every so often, doing this stuff everyday wears off the pure adrenaline which is really the good part about it. Taking a bump makes everything better, it’s why it’s so addicting.”

Charli held the baggie, using her fingers to unwrap it before she looked back at him. “Give me a bump, then.”

In the most oddly intimate manner that he could think, he felt the tension and significant rush bend through his veins as he watched the way that her eyes followed his hands before he was able to add a bit of the chalky white powder the end of his pinky that was coated in a blue nail polish.

Harry extended his hand towards her, his pinky finger gently poised near her lips.

“Just breathe it in. You’re safe.”

She scoffed with a hint of a laugh, “I thought I was playing a dangerous game.”

Harry’s eyes felt heavy as he tried to ignore her flirtation. “Smartass.”

The proximity of his hand, with its subtle warmth, seemed to magnify the anticipation between them. Charli leaned in, her breath mingling with his, her lips brushing lightly against his finger as she inhaled the bump of coke from his fingers and feeling the effect almost immediately.

The burn, the tingle, the numbness that was in her nasal passage drove her head to loll back for a moment.

As she took in the powder, her eyes fluttered closed for a heartbeat, and then slowly opened, revealing a glimmer of surprise and pleasure. The change in her expression was subtle but unmistakable; a softening of her features, a slight arching of her brows as if discovering a new dimension of sensation.

Harry watched her intently, his gaze never wavering away from her as she studied the way that she discovered pleasure. He could see the moment the effects began to take hold—a delicate flush spreading across her cheeks, a slow, satisfied smile curving her lips. Her eyes, once wide with anticipation, now seemed to shimmer with a new, heightened awareness after several moments of silence.

“How does it feel?” he asked softly, his voice a tender caress as he leaned in closer, the space between them shrinking.

Charli’s lips parted in a slow, blissful exhale.

“It’s… like everything’s just glowing now,” she said, her voice carrying a dreamy, almost hushed quality. Her hand reached out, fingers brushing against his, and he could feel the gentle tremor of her touch, a tactile confirmation of the high she was starting to experience for the first time. “You’re really going to let me at this alone?”

Harry swallowed harshly, letting his lips part as he thought about all the reasons he shouldn’t join in her fun. But as he watched her pupils dilate, he blinked a few times to remember the way that the blue sapphires disappeared just like that in front of him.

Charli shut her eyes softly as she hummed before moving to lay on the space that held her brother’s blanket. She laid down on her back, Harry’s eyes gravitating towards the pull of her tits before they settled a bit more upwards. He leaned his arms against his legs as she sat on the ground and watched her start to feel the threat of the pleasure eat away at her.

“We should get back out there, hm?” Harry piped up, his words almost barely heard before her watched her head move up from the lolled position, opening her eyes. “You have to find Rena.”

There was a moment of silence before she sat up on her elbows, her eyes gazing at him heavily before she let her fingers draw over a part of her stomach that were visible from the shirt’s complete openness. Harry’s eyes were focused in—it had been a trap all along, he noticed as he watched her smile with complete satisfaction.

“Should we?” She questioned, “I thought you said I wasn’t allowed to leave your sight,” She paused for a moment, sitting up completely. Her body practically touching his as she let her hand move to dance along the tattoo on his skin. “And I’m all yours now.”

Harry shut his eyes as he moved his head to the other side; trying to take in any breath that didn’t have her scent lingering within it—but that was merely impossible at this point. He shifted his hips as he sat, trying his best to overcome the initial feeling of this infatuation with her. It had never been this way before.

“Fucking tease.” He swallowed heavily as he licked over his lips.

There was a noise that Harry heard, a whimper of sorts when he stayed put. He tried to keep his eyes closed, but he felt her presence heavier the longer that he sat.

“Just once? Please?” Her voice a mere whisper, but a fixture in his memory now.

“No, Charli—that’s taking advantage of you.” Harry tried once again; he couldn’t physically move, but he just had to keep saying no, no, no. One of these times, that wouldn’t be good enough for him. He knew that one of these times she asked, he would flip. He couldn’t contain himself for that long, surely not if she continued down this path.

Charli blinked slowly, she leaned her chin on his shoulder as she sat perpendicular to him, her mouth hot against his neck. “Fucking gentleman shit. Stop making me beg, Harry, it’s not nice of you. I’m really not against begging, you know?”

Harry sensed the danger in this game—his adrenaline living for this type of interaction as he practically chewed through his bottom lip. He swallowed, letting his dry throat be a reminder of how he felt in the moment. He shut his eyes softly again before he watched Charli reach for the small baggie. His eyes narrowing as she had practically memorized his movement, picking up a small amount on the nail of her pinky before looking at him with the dazed, blown eyes that were starting to hypnotize him.

“C’mon, please,” She asked again, softly, “It’ll be fun, we don’t even have to leave the tent.”

He felt himself tense at her words—knowing full well that they could do dangerous things just in this small vicinity. He would ravish her; make her cry out in pleasure so trembling that he wasn’t sure it was for his eyes, or not. Harry became quite a monster in all the best senses when his senses were heightened—he wasn’t sure that he would be able to hold himself back again.

It was one thing when it would be one-and-done; this was Charli, after all. He would never be able to stop thinking about the pleasures and soft whimpers and rushing feelings of nirvana that would overcome him with her wrapped around him.

But what would be so bad about that?

He turned his head to the left, looking at her for a moment before he put his finger up to his nose, closing a nostril before sniffing in the white powder on her nail, letting it coat his nose and every inch of his last bit of sanity. The head rush made him breathe out in a gasp before he stared up at the ceiling. The numbness in his throat, the adrenaline rush that went straight to through his limbs and into his chest.

“Fuck,” He stated clearly, letting himself sit for a moment before the high took over. Staring at her under the influence became a greater, much more euphoric feat as he turned to see Charli smiling at him with a face of triumph.

The world outside the tent seemed to fade into a distant hum as Harry and Charli sat cross-legged on the crumpled blankets. The warm buzz of the coke coursed through Harry's veins, amplifying every sensation, every sound, every breath Charli took in the small area. The tent was dim, lit only by the soft glow of the lantern they’d placed at the entrance. It cast a golden hue over Charli’s face, making her skin look impossibly smooth, her eyes dark and endless as her dark curls laid around her face.

Charli leaned back on her elbows, her gaze fixed on Harry with a mix of amusement and something else he couldn’t quite place. She bit her lip, a small, almost absent-minded gesture that sent a jolt through Harry's chest. He was hyper-aware of everything—of the way her top had slipped slightly off one shoulder of how her breath was just a little unsteady, matching his own.

“This stuff’s intense,” Charli murmured, her voice soft but carrying a weight that made Harry’s pulse quicken.

“Yeah, it really is,” he replied, his voice sounding rough to his own ears. His eyes flicked down to her lips, then back to her eyes. The air between them felt charged, thick with anticipation and a tension that couldn’t be fooled.

A slow smile spread across Charli’s face, and she tilted her head, studying him like she was seeing him for the first time. “You’re different here, you know that?” she said, her voice low and teasing. “Not the same Harry I see with Jack.”

Harry’s heart skipped a beat, but it may have been the mixture of substances. “What do you mean?”

“I don’t know,” Charli shrugged, her smile deepening. “You’re… less shy. More fun.”

Harry laughed softly, the sound coming out shaky. “I guess this place brings it out of me.”

Charli’s smile faltered for just a moment, her eyes searching his. “Or maybe it’s just us,” she said quietly. “In this world.”

The words hung in the air, heavy and charged, and Harry felt a thrill run through him. Charli sat up slowly, closing the space between them until he could feel the heat radiating from her body. Her knee brushed against his thigh, and it was like an electric shock. He was suddenly hyper-aware of how close she was, how he could smell the faint traces of her perfume, mixed with the sharp scent of sweat and something sweet.

“I’ve always liked that about you,” Charli said softly, her voice barely above a whisper. “How you’re different. How you make me feel different. You’ve always been so nice to me, you know? So… pleasing.”

Harry swallowed hard, his mouth suddenly dry. “Charli…”

She didn’t let him finish. Instead, she reached out, her fingers brushing against his cheek, sending a shiver down his spine. Her touch was light, almost tentative, but it was enough to break the dam.

In one swift motion, Charli leaned in, her lips capturing his in a kiss that was both fierce and hungry. Harry’s mind went blank, every thought drowned out by the sensation of her mouth on his, the taste of her, the feel of her body pressing against his. He responded instinctively, his hands finding her waist, pulling her closer as the kiss deepened, grew more frantic. It was a deepened state of mind that brought him back to reality as he pulled away for a moment to breathe and regroup his thoughts.

Harry grabbed the bandana around his neck, pulling it off before he moved to the front of the tent. Charli’s eyes narrowed as she watched him begin to leave, her mind not meeting her words that she wanted to speak out. Instead, she watched as he wrapped the bandana around the zipper of the tent, letting it hand off the outside before he zipped it up fully.

“So Jack knows I’m in here with someone,” He told her, “Our secret, though, yeah? You and me?”

Charli nodded a few times before they had reattached to one another again. Harry reached out to grab the back of her head, pulling her lips to him in a quick, rushing moment. They were pressed to each other, the messy top lip kiss elated a whimper from Charli before she sat up on her knees, pushing back against Harry to try and get him to lay down so that she could take the control she craved.

He resisted, letting his hand grab at her waist before letting her climb into his lap as a fair compromise. Her arms wrapped around his neck, hair falling over their kiss as she allowed her tongue to travel over his plumped bottom lip. It was a feeling greater than pleasure; one of great heights that she would never be able to pinpoint except in this moment.

“You’re a needy little minx, aren’t you?” Harry grabbed onto her waist, the bares skin only being covered by the string that held her top up. “Coming onto your brother’s friend, such a needy, sly little fox. Wouldn’t have ever thought it.”

His hands felt the small of her back before she pulled back to get a glimpse of the way that his eyes dilated to the largest, dark circles of abyss, staring at her with a want so great that she wasn’t sure she’d ever find again.

She didn’t know which substance was talking but she seemingly found either to be mesmerizing.

“God,” She breathed out, pushing his hair back—his head pushing back as she kissed along the base of his neck. Her hips pressed into his, pushing up on his stomach as she pressed against the length of his body. “Wasn’t going to fuck just anyone this weekend, you know,” She breathed, “Love getting what I want.”

Harry scoffed at her answer, pulling her back before he let her hands rest against his shoulders. His eyes flew down to the way that her top dropped in the front. His hands reached behind her to grab the tie, pulling at it hastily before the top practically fell apart in his hands. The way that his eyes glided over her perfectly settled tits was mesmerizing; her left one holding a small, silver piercing that caught his attention like a hawk.

As she sat in his lip, her chest at eye level, Harry stared up at her for a moment before she squirmed in anticipation. Harry licked his lips softly before spitting gently onto her hardened nipple, watching as the dribble slid down the curve of her skin. Her heart practically stopped at the stalemate interaction, waiting for him to touch her.

The heaviness of her breath took his breath away— watching her chest inflate, deflate, settle. His cock hardened underneath her, her hips moving and feeling the reaction before a bit of surprise crossed her face.

“You’ve gotten me worked up all weekend, you know that?” He told her roughly, his throat hoarse but telling her simply, “Not going to go lightly on you—I’m going to fuck you into oblivion, and you’re going to take every inch, every moment, every word of it. You understand me?”

His thumb reached out to rub over the darkened, hard nipple that had sat untouched. Her reaction was visceral. The heat of the tent was starting to get to her already but couldn’t breathe at the thought of what was to come.

“Mhm,” She nodded, curtly, “Yes, sir—fuck, yes, please.”

The nickname sparked an electricity below his belt before he pushed her from him and onto the small, padded area of the tent that he had been sleeping on. Her world flipped as she stared now at the ceiling; the small light of the lantern by the door was the only amount of light. His hips pushed into hers as they melted into one another.

It didn’t take him anytime at all before he pulled down the shorts that sat on her body—they weren’t covering much, but they were enough of a barrier. The boots she had been wearing came too. His eyes drifted to the jet-black thong that covered little to nothing. The growl in his chest reverberated before he leaned up to kiss her again— messy, the way that his mustache tickled her lip was a certain kind of pain.

She wasn’t sure what was his needs and what was the drugs that were heightening every inch of her sense. She felt her body trembling, Harry watched as she shivered, her teeth chattering for a moment before he nodded as if to speak to her without a single word.

“You’ve got it all pent up,” He nodded at her, confirming her want and needs, “It’s going to fucking snap—you’re going to feel like you’re looking at yourself from up above, like you’re levitating almost,” He licked his lips, “I’m going to talk you through it though, don’t you worry.”

His hands moved to her hips, pulling them up as he played with the edges of the small thong that barely created space between them. Harry pulled himself up to leave a few more kisses on her mouth, notably feeling the want and need of her tongue pressing past his lips for more intensity—more feeling as she responded to his touch.

“Do you hear that?” She asked him, breaking their touch and kiss as he stared down at her for a moment. His eyes heavy on hers as she stared at him with a million sparkles in her eyes—the sparkling dust filling around her orbiting pupils.

“The music?” He asked, unsure. But when he watched her shake her head, he narrowed his eyebrows.

“That sound—it’s a buzzing, it’s uh, it’s like, it’s rushing—the ocean,” She shook her head, shutting her eyes. “It’s—”

Harry lifted his hand brushing her cheek softly before he looked between her eyes. Licking his lips, he nodded in acknowledgment.

“That’s the blood in your veins you’re hearing. Sounds like the rushing of water, every time your heart beats.” He explained, as if it was logical.

Charli took in a breath, “It’s addicting—that sound.”

Harry let his hand drift further down, down, down. Stopping at the small string of her thong, pulling at it.

“Let me make the sound louder, hm?” He sat up just a bit, giving him room to pull the underwear down her legs. His eyes didn’t leave hers as he watched them turn menacing, the devilish pleasure kingdom heating between her thighs.

It took everything in him not to drop his eyes—he’d never get the sight out of his memory once he did. Her laying there in complete submission to him—wanting his touch more than the security of never doing anything about it.

Her knees bent upwards, her hand resting on her stomach before she teased the idea of going further on her own. His eyes flickered, catching sight before he breathed outwards. The world turned upside down, eating away at him as pulled at the cotton tee that rested on his back, letting the clothes make a puddle next to them.

“You going to show me how you like it, then?” He teased, letting his lips settle between her breasts, giving a small kiss before moving down a few inches. The kisses were hard, pulling at her skin the way he knew she wanted.

“I’ve never felt like this,” She told him honestly, arching her back.

“Need me, then, do you?” He asks, sitting up a bit before kissing the top of her knee. His hand ran itself down the length of her torso, watching every movement of it. It was like a trail, a road. Every divot, every freckle, every small wrinkle of her skin.

“So bad.” She gasped out before he let his fingers move down her body further. The moment he touched her, they both gasped at the undeniable feeling of longing—the collection of wetness that coated his fingers, the warmth of her being.

Harry watched every moment, every movement. His lips parted, watching as she quickly settled, finding her grounding once he pressed one finger deep into her. The way that she opened for him wasn’t a coincidence; she had been waiting for this moment for so long, he could feel every inch of her holding onto his soul.

“God, more,” She begged, her hands moved into her hair as she arched into the feeling. “More—fuck.”

In that moment, he felt like an other-worldly being, giving her everything that she could have asked for. Anything he did would pleasure her; it was a superiority that couldn’t believe he had in his touch, but he smirked at her desperation.

“More?” He confirmed, letting his middle finger slide in right in place, before he curved them, “Like that?”

A mewl left between her lips as she huffed a breath. It was a bit loud; he could process that as soon as it happened, the noise going straight below his shorts before he leapt up to grip at her chin.

“Shh,” He told her, “Knew you’d be loud, but we gotta’ keep it to us, hm? Just right here.” His mouth leaned down, hot breath along her lips as he held his arm up right next to her head.

Charli felt like her body had melted onto the floor and completely dispersed in a million directions. The lightness that she felt, the warmth that her body harbored while still having a chill to her skin. Each movement, each touch, each breath—it came into her mind like the brightest sunshine.

His fingers moved in a synchronization with her heartbeat as she felt the easiness that came with pleasing her. He pressed on her lower abdomen when he pressed in, which elicit her back to arch against the ground. It was a rapid movement, but more of a flick to his wrist like a painter would say practice makes perfect.

Harry’s eyes moved down to the perfectly pink tone of her clit, aching and drenched with pleasure as he let his thumb rub over it. Her own wetness creating the perfect glide of his fingers as he bit back at the filth of his thoughts. He had so much to say and would hold it back from scaring her off.

The soft whimper of her created a symphony between them; one rock of her hips too many would set him off, he was certain.

“Don’t be scared of it, c’mon,” He pushed his fingers in to the knuckle, letting them beckon with the motion, letting them sit for a moment before his thumb rubbed over her swollen clit—the blood rushing through her system as he nodded at her. “You can fucking do it, Char, fucking soak me, huh?”

Her back arched in anticipation of the rush, pressing her hips into his touch further as the overwhelming and unjustifiable sense of pleasure carried her upwards into the heavens. The sound she made was sinful, the way that her eyes rolled back. Every inch of the detail was harbored by the darkness around them, but Harry felt that he could see through it—watching it as brightly as he could.

There was a small gush of her orgasm that made her body shiver with adrenaline as it soaked her inner thighs, the muscles in her legs contracting and shaking as she pulled them together. She breathed out a whimpered moan before grabbing onto his forearm to elicit the message that she was simply overworked by the feeling.

Harry breathed heavily, watching her wrecked laying in the middle of the bed he had made—simply lying in it. Her chest pulsed upwards as she had her eyes shut; he knew, even in his high, that he needed to give her a minute before they imploded. He didn’t want to make her heart rate skyrocket, so he settled on giving himself the pleasure of bringing his fingers towards his lips, letting his tongue dance over the wetness of them.

“So, so fucking delicious.” He stated under his breathe, watching as she writhed under him. Her eyes now wide open, watching him taste her on his fingers as she mewls with need. It’s filthy—it’s nothing she’s ever witnessed; a man devouring a woman in this way. She knew it would be like this with him, which turned her on more than she could imagine.

“Going to wet my cock like that too, hm?” He asked, coaxing her. “Going to prove yourself to me?”

Her face was flushed, her lips parted as she tried to catch her breath. It took him a moment, the words leaving his lips were enough to push her over the edge once again. He pressed his hands into her hips to steady her, giving her a sense of grounding. His high made his head dizzy with greed; his thoughts danced with a flourishing wave of desire.

“You have to stay with me, Charli,” He told her gently, “Let me hear your pretty words. You want me?”

Charli had tears in her eyes, a push of absolute certainty flooded through her as she sat up in a haste to let her hands move through his hair. Her lips found his again, letting her taste herself against his lips—his tongue was warm with her.

“Mm, those aren’t words,” He murmured against her. “But I’ll take it as a yes.”

“I’m just speechless,” She giggled out, “Sorry.”

It was chaos; the mascara smudged on her bottom lash line that created a darkened effect. It was revelry; the waning moon of her pupils as they settled back into a faded darkness.

“You’re so fucking pretty.” Harry echoed out his thoughts into the air as he let his thumb press into her bottom lip. He grabbed onto it, letting her smirk take over as she only harbored the horniness further from the way he degraded and lifted her in such bliss. “So, so fucking pretty. Could wreck every inch of your pretty cunt.”

“Let me play the game,” Her voice shrouded innocence, letting her hair fall into her face before he pushed it back. Her mind was running a million miles a minute, but her movements were slow, her erraticism and need for him ate away at her.

In an instant, she was pushing at his chest, moving him back so that he could rest on his hands. She wanted to pull on his shorts, let them both then lay together. The sweat that had sheened over their bodies both had created a humidity within the tent as they continued to find air to breathe, focusing on themselves.

Charli’s hands had pulled the shorts down his hips, practically not even giving attention to the stiff cock that laid against him—ready for her at any moment. Their lips intertwined again; he had missed the sweetness, knowing that it was such a part of their collective. She sighed against him, loving the feeling of his facial hair against her skin—the rough pleasure of it.

Harry laid, his back arching from the hardness of the ground, his hands on her hips as she moved to straddle him. Charli placed her shaking hand around his length, pumping him a few times, eyeing it for a moment before the sensual want of her eyes caught his. Harry bit his lip at the way that she looked; her disguise of innocence was just that.

Her head leaned down, a gentle lick under the head of his cock just to set his skin ablaze. Her eyes matched his, the eye contact far too superior. His eyes watched the hunger that captivated her, each moment longer than the next as she rested her weight on his chest before she lifted herself to sink down onto him instead.

The control he didn’t have was obvious now; he gripped onto the flesh of her hips, jaw tight. His eyes shut as he tried to come to terms with the already built feeling that settled within him. It had built up to an indecent amount, and his mind was blurring with thoughts that continue to poke and prod.

It was quick—an instant, really. No thoughts, no inhibitions, just surrender and want.

“God, fuck,” He cursed, letting her settle as her torso seemed to go for miles, he looked up. “You’re so fucking wet. Christ.”

Charli lolled her head back at the feeling of him, her hips moving back and forth just to grab onto the tension that was building. Her hair fell onto her back as she let out a breath, her hands resting on his chest to hold herself up as Harry watched her practically rub herself onto him.

His eyes wandered up her chest, watching as she arched her back to pull herself towards him. Harry’s hands landed on her ass, spreading her apart as he bucked his hips into her, his length poking in and out of her enough to create a guttural response in the back of her throat.

Harry lifted his fingers to grab at the back of her neck, pulling her head forward. His thumb pressed gently into her lips as they pouted outwards, letting his fingers coat themselves in the wetness of her bottom lip. Their hips rocked together; he grabbed her ass, pulling her upwards before he slammed his hips into her.

It was fun—it was one of the most diabolical moments he could remember, considering he knew that they could be caught at any moment in the most compromising of positions. He bit his lip to stifle the smile that pushed on his face as Charli looked down towards him, biting her own lip with ease.

“You are such fucking trouble,” Harry’s tongue was hot all the sudden, “Going to be the end of me.”

Charli hummed, laying forward to let her lips crash against Harry’s once against, a sea of teeth and scrapes as she let her nose rest against his for a moment.

“Been trying to tell you for years,” She breathed out while keeping their rocking motion of thrusts, their in-sync motions letting her breath heighten, “Too stubborn.”

“Bullshit,” Harry moved her hips against him, looking up at her, “You haven’t shown a bit of interest in me.”

Charli threw her hair to the other side of her head, letting her lips move down to the base of Harry’s jaw to suck gently—he lifted his head a bit to let her work.

“You’re clueless, then,” She chuckled under her breath, “I always wanted you to be my first kiss, you know. I had the biggest crush on you.”

The slight ping of vulnerability that hits the air lets Harry’s eyes flicker back to her; his hands roaming the fleshiness of her hips, fingernails scraping against her skin, details of her touch were kept in his mind.

“Had?”

They seem to be the only words that Harry can muster out before he watches her blush, pulling her head down into his neck as they both moan in unison from the way that she pulls up, moving down a bit more forcefully.

“Shit, you can’t keep doing that—” Harry starts to warn before she does it again, eliciting a reaction as he holds onto her waist so she can’t move any further. Charli can’t help it though, she’s pushing herself back at the feeling, knowing the one that she’s chasing is enough to give herself another orgasm.

She pushes back again a few more times—Harry’s inhibitions and self-control have formally flung out of the air; he’s never felt more obliterated and unwell. Focusing on her for a moment, he shakes his head as he recognizes that he’s not at all in the right headspace. The powder usually calms him and gives him more self-control, but something about this feels different.

Something about her.

“Fuck, fuck—I’m gonna,” He pulled her hips up, lifting her from him before ribbons of cum were left on her lower tummy and thigh, and his stomach as he held his length to finish himself off. “Fuck.”

It was a senseless act, knowing that their response time had already been stunted from the high that they were on top of the world with. His muscles contracted heavily, watching as she held herself up, straddling his lap around the mess that coated both. It’s a moment of silence, a bit of regret at the now messy situation that has them both sitting for a moment with shaky breaths and uncontrollable heart rates.

“Oh, god,” He breaths, letting his head fall back onto the pillow.

His eyes feel like they’re moving a mile a minute, trying to settle as they look at Charli on top of him. She’s bent over now, laying on top of him with their chests intertwined.

“Let me,” He offers, pushing her up a bit. He grabs the shirt he had been wearing, wiping it along himself, and her.

A few passes with the fabric, he throws it to the other side of the tent. At this point, his body feels like it’s become quite exhausted—it may have been dehydration, it may have been the high that had been wearing off. Harry licks over his lips as he feels Charli move from his body and down to his side. His arm reaches to grab the blanket that they had both been laying on top of, now moving it over their bodies as he felt her shivering next to him.

The high had been wearing off; her eyes shut and heavy as she laid on her side away from him. Her body tangled itself into the blankets, forming a cocoon of sorts to lay comfortably against him.

“Stay?” Her words were almost a question; one that he wasn’t sure was for him, or a confirmation from her that she would be. Instead, he pulled the blanket up to her shoulders, shielding her body that was out in the open. His breath inhaled her scent, nose nudging at her shoulder before he nodded.

“Stay.” He confirmed.

Harry clenched his jaw as he shut his eyes; the sleep that was impending came sooner than expected for the both of them.

When Harry opened his eyes next, the light from the tent had been bursting in. The heat of the fabric had given his skin a sheen of sweat as he pulled the blanket from his chest. The way that his head pounded was a stark recollection of the previous night and the person he had wished most to see when he turned over.

But the space next to him was empty—the tent was empty.

He sat up, horrified by the way that he felt—knowing that he shouldn’t have participated in the coke with Charli, but knowing that what came out of it was stuck in his memory for the rest of his life. He wondered if she regret it; walking away from him without waking up next to him felt like something someone with regret would do.

Harry pulled his shorts on, as he hadn’t redressed the night prior. Crawling towards the zipped-up door, he opened it, finding himself squinting at the bright lights that had been trying to make their way through the fabric of the tent.

The pavilion was covered, and the familiar voices spoke outwardly with familiarity.

“Well, look who it is.” Jack’s words echoed out as Harry approached the small circle then. The small circle was the two people that he had not wanted to explicitly talk to right away. “Crazy night, huh? Couldn’t even come back to my tent, you must’ve been going all night. Lucky lady.”

He noticed Charli sitting there, her legs pulled up to her chest, wearing a large t-shirt and shorts that were most definitely men’s boxers. He swallowed hard, not wanting to take a closer look but being almost completely certain that they were his.

Their eyes met for a moment; Charli lifted her hand to bite the skin around her thumb to keep herself from asserting any type of notion that either of them had a clue about what Jack had been talking about.

Instead, Harry nodded simply.

“Yeah, something like that.” His pulse threatened to burst at the thought of her; at the thought of them. “Yeah—I, uh, think that’s the first time that won’t be a one-time thing.”

Charli’s interest piqued, her eyes focusing on him for a moment before Jack hit his shoulder, chuckling out softly before he shook his head.

“She must’ve stolen your heart for you to say something like that.” Jack exclaimed, taking a bite of his breakfast, offering Harry a plate before he took it willingly. Charli, sitting there trying to mind her own had a simple smile on her face, trying her best to not give away any details of the previous night.

But her mind took her back to falling asleep next to him; the quiet snores, the softness of his skin, the warmth of his embrace. She tucked some hair that had been falling out of her ponytail, biting her lip as she sniffled softly.

“Yeah,” Harry nodded a few times, the smile encapsulating his face, “Something like that.”

383 notes · View notes

writeraven · 3 months ago

Text

BILL WEASLEY AND THE DEATHLY DILEMMA

“Don’t die old, die empty. That’s the goal of life. Go to the cemetery and disappoint the graveyard.” — Myles Munroe

TAGS: [ ravenael. » A Series of Unrelated Events ]

LINKS: [ Tumblr » Collection, Fandom | AO3 » Work, Collection, Series ]

FANDOM: Wizarding World » Harry Potter (Golden Trio).

STATUS: Complete; 1 chapter (2 parts).

GENRES: Flash Fiction, Dark Comedy.

COUNT: 832 words.

SHIPS: None. CAST: Bill Weasley, OC.

ACCOLADE ― JUDGES’ PICK: WINNING ENTRY.

HOST: [FFnet] The Houses Competition.

CATEGORY: [Y1R4] Drabble — Character Restriction: Bill Weasley.

PROMPT: [Setting] Graveyard.

As much as he loved the thrill of adventure that came with his dream job, Bill Weasley was not expecting to make his debut as a Curse-Breaker for Gringotts—at a graveyard, of all places. Stuffing a trembling hand into his pocket, he tightened his grip around his wand, suppressing the nervousness at the eerie silence around him.

“Scared, Weasley?”

The redhead shot a sideways glare at his partner—at a wizard three years older than him, by the name of Henry Caldecott. Bill was assigned to the latter as an assistant while undergoing his on-job training. Henry was a tall, burly man; his well-defined chest muscles and six packs were clearly visible on his tight T-shirt. He also appeared way older than his actual age with a mustache and a full beard, and his long grisly hair was pulled back with a green bandana.

“No more than you are,” Bill replied coolly, running a free hand through his long ginger locks as he surveyed the graveyard with wary eyes. “So, what are we supposed to do tonight?”

Henry let out a barking laugh, the sound echoing across the misty cemetery with an odd ring in the chilly air. “What do you think we’ll do in this kind of place? Raid a bloody tomb, of course.”

The grave in question was the oldest one at the furthest end of the death garden, situated under a majestic oak tree. The words on the stone plaque were difficult to discern, but it was clearly not English. The pair pulled out their wands and shifted the earth aside, then they levitated the coffin out of the hole in the ground.

The coffin seemed ordinary, made of the same material as the tree hovering over its grave. Bill frowned at the smooth exterior. Henry caught the questioning look in his face and tapped his wand on the heavy wooden lid. It began to glow, the white lines snaking across the whole coffin to form an intricate pattern of sorts.

“Heard you’re the top student in Arithmancy and Ancient Runes,” Henry sniggered, pulling out a cigarette from his pocket and lit it with his wand. “Get your arse to work and solve the puzzle, then.”

Shrugging, Bill did as he was told, studying the symbols on the coffin with unblinking eyes. Meanwhile, the fog around them was thickening; the eldest Weasley shivered involuntarily at the chill. Even Henry dropped the smirk on his face and straightened up, a hint of fear flashing in his dark beady eyes.

This is a trap.

The pair raised their wands before them, their eyes darting around for any signs of movement. Bill could make an intelligent guess of whatever that was—were—coming for them as he watched a layer of frost covering the coffin.

Henry wasn’t as stupid as he seemed, either. “Bloody Dementors,” he hissed, beads of cold sweat glistening on his forehead. His thick beard was freezing over, too. “You wouldn’t think they’d be interested in a couple of dead bodies.”

Bill gulped and tightened his grip on his wand to stop his hand from shaking. He could produce an incorporeal Patronus, but it wasn’t going to be of much help against a murder of Dementors. “Well, have you got any better ideas?”

“I thought you’re the genius here, boy!”

If the situation wasn’t so dire, Bill would have prepared a wry comeback for Henry’s snark, but they didn’t have time to waste on verbal insults. Exhaling slowly, the intern cast the only spell that would work against the Dementors, but the wispy form simply melted into the mist and lit up the surrounding with a soft, bluish hue. “How did they even get here? Aren’t they supposed to guard Azkaban?”

“Someone must’ve sent them here,” Henry muttered, eyeing the approaching Dementors with a narrowed glare. “Someone at the Ministry. His supporters are still out there, biding their time for You-Know-Who’s resurrection…”

The mention of the dark wizard that was vanquished by Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, made Bill set his jaw with a grim expression. “Whatever the reason is, unless you can cast a better Patronus Charm than I do, we can kiss our souls goodbye.”

A creak behind the bickering duo made them jump and they whipped around, their eyes widening as the coffin lid slowly pushed itself open…

“Who dares to wake me up from my slumber—oh,” a young man with deathly pale face yawned as he got up to his feet slowly. Black smoke swirled around him before transforming into a set of black robes on his bony frame. Then he raised his eyebrows at the Dementors swooping overhead. “Oh ho-ho, what a welcome party we have here!”

Bill was the first to recover from the shocking, unexpected development. “Why didn’t you tell me that we’re going to unseal a bloody vampire?”

Henry only gave him a long, hard look.

“…I think this weirdo is the least of our worries compared to the ones circling above us.”

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#ravenael.#hp; a series of unrelated events #bill weasley #hp golden trio #harry potter fanfiction #— ffnet; thc #— accolades #— events #— complete

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chryzure-archive · 2 years ago

Text

a century later, and now you ask?

ALT TITLE: somebody take pet names away from gil. he literally has anxiety?

AUTHOR’S NOTE: got a little too serious thinking abt chrysi’s death and the way it makes her think of azure while writing this. suddenly i am thinking abt chryzure instead of chrysigil. on chrysigil day. oh no :((

———

The first time Oz yelled at Gilbert after they reunited was on a lovely spring day, deep into one of Chrysi’s week-long spring cleanings. She’d assigned the three of them—Oz, Alice, and Gilbert—the kitchen, citing that the last time she’d tried to deep clean the kitchen, Gilbert had yelled at her.

He vaguely recalled the incident—not being able to find anything in the entire kitchen from Chrysi’s relocation of every implement, plate, and spice, for reasons she hadn’t specified—but he had half a mind that Chrysi dramatized the whole incident.

Either way, it meant that Gilbert wouldn’t have to brave the children’s closets and the dusty mess under their beds. He, himself, had been yelled at by Oz when they’d been children, and he would rather have Chrysi be the one to deal with accidentally throwing away some item of dubious value to Oz than have it be him ever again.

At least, he had—before the argument.

Oz slammed down the cast-iron pan with enough force to make Gilbert worry for the granite countertops.

“What do you mean you don’t call Chrysi by any pet names?” Oz cried.

Gilbert didn’t know how they’d gotten here. He also didn’t know why it upset Oz so much. It was a bad time for it to come up—when he was looking particularly ridiculous with a polka-dot bandana pushing back his hair (tied with a bow, courtesy of Chrysi), large yellow rubber gloves (well, glove—Gilbert didn’t like wearing the prosthetic after the majority of 100 years spent with one arm), and a blue gingham apron (he didn’t want to comment on this. He’d been gifted it by Chrysi sometime fifty years into their wait, and it held up remarkably—even if now it was only good as a clean-up apron).

“Now, wait a second,” he started. He held up the scrub brush in his hand as a defense. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“Yeah,” Alice chimed in from atop the counter, not helping in the slightest, “what do you mean you don’t have pet names for her?”

Gilbert shot Alice a harried scowl. “You don’t actually care about that.”

Alice smiled wide in that feral, Alice way of hers. “Answer the question, Seaweed Head.”

He opened his mouth, but Oz cut him off before he could say anything.

“And even if she doesn’t, I do.” He crossed his arms over his chest, face twisted in disapproval. “Why has she even stayed with you for so long?

Heat shot across his face in an old, familiar way that he hadn’t experienced in well over 100 years.

“We don’t need anything like that between us,” Gilbert protested.

Oz clicked his tongue in annoyance and rolled his eyes. The cross of his arms tightened in unison with the eye roll.

“Serious,” he continued, feeling more defensive by the second, and his ears burning hotter still. “She’s never said anything one way or the other. It doesn’t matter.”

Alice sighed noisily from her perch. Gilbert glanced at her to find that she had stretched her hand up to the top shelf to search for the cookie jar he’d hidden up there.

Catching his look, she narrowed her eyes at him. Daring him to call her out.

He pursed his lips. With one arm, he didn’t think he could chastise her the way he used to—complete with lifting her entirely off the ground and setting her elsewhere. And besides, he had a rubber glove on. It made his grip less certain.

Her eyes narrowed further, all the way to slits. Whatever she saw there made her scoff.

“Useless,” she proclaimed decidedly.

Gilbert was not going to be insulted by the girl with her hand in the literal cookie jar. “Hey—”

“Indeed,” agreed Oz.

Electricity jolted through him, a hurt he didn’t know he could sustain after so long. He turned to find Oz’s eyes glinting like shards of green glass.

At his attention, Oz lifted his chin, a fearsome jut of his jaw.

“You said you waited for Alice and I until you guys got married, but who’s to say you’ll even get married when you don’t care enough to give her a pet name?”

Gilbert bit the inside of his cheek. “What—do you not want us married?”

The thought made him want to cry.

Expression darkening further, Oz snapped, “Of course I do! That’s why I’m trying to fix your mistakes!”

The ceramic lid of the cookie jar clattered shut behind them, followed closely by the sound of Alice flopping back into a more comfortable seat than before.

From his periphery, he could see Alice holding four cookies in hand. In any normal situation, he’d be nagging at her that too many cookies would make her stomach hurt. In this situation, he would’ve nagged at her.

But then Alice said, “Even that blonde bastard has a nickname for Chrysi already.” She crunched down on a cookie thoughtfully, her normal arrogant expression swapping for a simpler, wide-eyed look at the ceiling. Her mouth twisted to one side. “He calls her Princess.”

Oz recoiled at this information. “Still?” He shot Gilbert a dubious look. “You let him call her that?”

Gilbert shifted, heat collecting under his collar. He’d become a bit more comfortable with Jacks’s presence in recent years. To deny Chrysi’s friendship with him was to abandon her as a lover—though sometimes Jacks made it a little too clear that he’d rather that happen.

Whatever. He dealt with Jacks’s obsession with Chrysi, and Chrysi dealt with his brother with the same patience. Well—probably with more patience than Gilbert dealt with Jacks.

“It doesn’t mean anything,” he protested.

Oz stared at him pityingly.

“100 years didn’t change anything,” he said. “You’re still totally hopeless.”

Alice chomped on her cookie in agreement.

And though Gilbert wanted to argue, he couldn’t help but look at himself from the outside view—with his ridiculous bandana headband, a 1950s apron, and his single arm with its single rubber glove—and he, too, wondered why Chrysi was still with him.

Should he have given her a pet name?

—

“What about lovebug?” Alice offered from her position at Gilbert’s left shoulder, her hand poking from the spot where his left hand once had been. She held a pen aloft in her hand, despite the fact that it wasn’t her dominant hand in the slightest.

Together they sat on the ground—Gilbert in cross-legged front, and Alice kneeling behind him. Oz bent over the paper from his perch on the couch. And Alice’s arm moved in the space that Gilbert’s left arm once took up, one hundred years ago.

The way her hand moved gave Gilbert the impression that he’d gotten a possessed fifteen-year-old’s arm grafted in the place of his old one. What was that movie Chrysi forced him to go see in the theatres twenty years ago?

…He couldn’t remember. But the hand was possessed, and the way Alice decided she’d play his left arm for the day brought back memories of the cool air of the theatre and Chrysi leaning her face into Gilbert’s shoulder sleepily.

“Um,” he said.

So far, the brainstorm for pet names hadn’t brought up anything that really caught his eye. Sweetheart sounded too childish for Chrysi, darling too formal, and Gilbert had never really been able to call anybody sunshine, for how absurd the nickname sounded in his voice.

“Write it down,” Oz said. He eyed Gilbert doubtfully. “We’ll need any help we can get.”

Gilbert frowned up at Oz as Alice dutifully scratched out the letters onto the paper. “I don’t know how many of these really seem like names that Chrysi would like.”

Like… any of them. Not a single one suited her.

At least, not coming from him.

“You don’t know that,” Alice said cheerfully, her face pressed somewhere behind Gilbert’s left shoulder. Her hand scribbled out something else sightlessly. “I think she might like buttercup.”

“Like the girl from The Princess Bride?”

She paused. “The hell’s that?”

Gilbert took a deep breath.

Oz peered over Alice’s half of the list before Gilbert could chastise Alice.

“Well, you know,” he said, voice breezy, “I don’t think that lice is a very kind pet name.”

“What?”

After an uncomfortable moment of jostling around Gilbert’s left side—his scars still bothered him at times—Alice poked her head out from under his shoulder. Now it looked like he’d grown a mutant head in addition to a possessed arm.

He closed his eyes. That wasn’t a very pleasant thought.

The paper crinkled in Alice’s hand.

“No, that says love!” Indignance colored her tone.

Tilting his head, Oz squinted at it.

“Oh. Never mind. That’s a good suggestion.”

Gilbert eyed the scratchings on the left margins of the page. He still couldn’t quite figure out which one was meant to read as love—or lice, as Oz thought it read.

Suddenly, Gilbert was exhausted.

“Is this really such a good idea?” he asked, thinking of the happy moments with Chrysi reading a book aloud and talking to him from her perch on the kitchen island. They’d gotten by just fine.

Oz’s sharp green eyes cut to him and narrowed.

“Jacks has a nickname for her,” he reminded him.

Ugh.

“Gil?” Chrysi called from the floor above.

His head snapped up. That same horrible anxiety he’d thought he’d left behind reared its ugly head in his chest, wrapping about his heart in a stranglehold.

“Yes?” he called back. Fortunately, the only hint of his inner turmoil was a slight tremor.

Oz jabbed him in the side.

He bit down on a yelp, but he couldn’t help the spasm that wracked his body. Instinctively, he curved around the electric shock in his side—a delayed attempt to protect himself from Oz’s sudden attack. Instead, he merely crashed onto his side.

Alice pitched forward onto their page of pet names. The paper protested—it had already been subjected to worse and worser nicknames, scribbled out in both the heavy, non-dominant hand of a fifteen-year-old and the morose hand of a century-old man.

It took Gilbert a moment, but he managed to flip onto his back to shoot Oz a glare, feeling distinctly like a beetle at the hands of a cruel kid-god.

“Are you going to help with laundry or not?”

Oz indicated their brainstorming page, crinkled underneath Alice’s scrambling limbs.

Biting down on a heavy sigh, Gilbert crossed his arm across his chest like a corpse in a sarcophagus.

“I’ll be right up, dear.”

“Oh.” Chrysi hesitated. “Alright?”

His eyes drifted closed.

Inwardly, he scratched dear off their list.

—

“Good morning,” Gilbert tried on another day, “darling.”

Chrysi rolled over in the bed to shoot him a narrow-eyed look.

“What did you do wrong?”

“What?”

“Sorry. Knee-jerk reaction.” She sat up, her eyes still narrowed in the sunlight. “Why’d you let me sleep in so late?”

Gilbert didn’t want to answer, mostly because he was curious about what could’ve possibly happened before he’d been with Chrysi to instill such a strong auto-response that it persisted after a century.

Well, no matter.

Clearly darling wasn’t in the cards either.

—

Oz came skittering around the corner before Chrysi did. Though even if it had been Chrysi, Gilbert still would’ve sent the hot pan into the air from the jolt that went through his body.

The pancake he’d been making (caramel M&Ms sprinkled in, because Alice had insisted on using up a packet she’d brought home from school) flew straight up into the air. It hit the ceiling with a hearty thwack. And up there, it stayed.

The same couldn’t be said for the pan.

Gilbert leapt back from the stove before the burning metal hit his feet, a colorful curse on his tongue.

Oz screeched to a halt, his mouth open in an O. “Are you alright?”

Well, as luck would have it, Gilbert was not alright. It was one thing after another, ever since he’d woken that morning to their cat on his face (one hundred years with Chrysi aside, there was still an element of anxiety up close and personal to a cat—especially when said cat was suffocating him under his weight), he’d had to take a call from Glen and set up an out-of-town trip for the end of that very week (annoying, since he’d been actually excited to go to Oz and Alice’s first parent-teacher conference), and he was certain a rainstorm was rolling in (on account of his whole left side set ablaze with agony. The usual.)

He took a deep breath, then exhaled.

“I’m,” he said, “fine.”

Oz looked unconvinced. Gilbert couldn’t blame him. It took a deep inhale-exhale for him to speak a single word.

He ached to grab his lighter and his box of cigarettes, but Chrysi’d been trying to keep him from overdoing it most days—and besides, Gilbert didn’t like smoking while he was preparing food.

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Gilbert stepped back from the remnants of disaster.

“I can help?” Oz said, uncertainly.

“No!”

Oz drew up short.

“It’s okay,” came Chrysi’s voice around the corner—then she was there, holding a bag of groceries that Gilbert needed to finish their dinner. She smiled when Oz looked guiltily at her, her eyebrow arched. “Unless you’re looking for an excuse to procrastinate on your homework?”

His eyes brightened. “Are you offering?”

“Nope.” Her gaze flashed over the state of the kitchen—pausing on the ceiling. Her eyebrow raised incrementally.

Gilbert flushed.

She continued, “But I bet you could finish it in ten minutes, tops. Then you won’t have to worry about it for the rest of the night.”

Oz loitered at the base of the stairs, frowning.

Chrysi rolled her head in his direction. Her smile dropped in favor of a vaguely amused line at her mouth and an unimpressed heavy-lidded look. “Go on.”

“Fine.” But that didn’t stop his desperate glance at Gilbert, begging him to set him free.

Gilbert mostly couldn’t stop wondering if and when the pancake would peel off from the ceiling and fall atop his head. It would be the icing on the cake of this miserable, miserable day.

What was more concerning was that it wasn’t coming off at all.

Oz tramped up the stairs, footsteps dejected.

Chrysi waited until he’d reached the top before she turned to Gilbert.

“You’d think I’d doomed him to essay work,” she drawled, “when I know for a fact Mrs. Lee only hands out fill-in-the-blank assignments and a video to go along with it.”

He cracked an anemic smile, then flicked off the burner. No need for the house to go up in flame too. “I think Oz would prefer an essay. He’s too smart for fill-in-the-blank.”

“Good point.”

Chrysi walked into the kitchen and set down her bag of groceries. Gilbert saw her eyes catch on the pancake again. Her mouth twitched.

“Don’t laugh,” he begged. He didn’t know if he’d laugh with her or cry instead.

“I wouldn’t dream of it.” She bit her lower lip to battle the hitched corner of her lips. Her eyes remained glued to the ceiling. “Do you think that’s going to come down at any point?”

Gilbert couldn’t say.

“Maybe we could get a chisel,” she suggested, as if he’d answered. “Or Goo-Gone. Do you think Goo-Gone works on something like that?”

He shrugged. “Who knows?”

Chrysi planted her hands on her hips. Her eyes grew thoughtful as she gazed up at the half-cooked pancake. Whatever she saw there made her come to a decision.

“Yeah, okay,” she said after a beat. “I think I can get a ladder and a sponge and Goo-Gone it away.”

Wait, what?

“Er…” He stared at her worriedly. “Don’t do that. Don’t break your neck, love.”

“I wouldn’t… Huh?”

Gilbert blinked. “What?”

“What did you call me?”

And that was strike three.

—

He didn’t even know what he was doing anymore. He’d become tense at the thought of Chrysi coming around the corner, uneasy with the rapidly narrowing list. Lovebug, as suggested by Alice, reminded Chrysi of ladybugs, and he’d spent the rest of the day squinting in the sunlight while Chrysi hunted for them in their garden. Buttercup ended similarly, though then Gilbert had to also help Chrysi with the weeding—and his shoulder ached from the prothstetic he forgot he didn’t like as much as going one-handed about the world. Angel made Chrysi laugh, and sweetpea made her groan so loud that he’d forgotten what his sentence was going to be in the first place.

His head hurt.

Just when he was going to call it—Oz would be displeased, but Gilbert truly didn’t want to try and fight Jacks with an equally groan-worthy pet name—Chrysi walked into the living room with a sheaf of papers in her hand. Clearly aggravated, she rubbed her forehead.

“Can you take a look at these, Raven?” she asked.

Gilbert leapt up, stiff as a board.

“Absolutely,” he said. Then, unnaturality burning acidic on his tongue, he rushed out, “Honey.”

Hand still tangled in her hair, Chrysi paused to shoot him an odd look.

He froze. He hadn’t even reached out for the papers. Now they were just staring at each other, the word he’d uttered sitting between them like an awkward child that accidentally ran to the wrong parents.

Her gaze flickered over him, mouth hitching. In what sort of expression, Gilbert couldn’t say. Anxiety black-spotted his vision—another mainstay of a set of nervous, humiliated emotions he hadn’t felt with Chrysi since last century.

Why’d Oz have to bring up something like that?

“Oka-a-ay,” Chrysi replied. She tilted her head. “Thanks, peanut butter.”

He furrowed his brows. “What?”

She handed him the papers instead of replying.

“Alice bit another kid at school yesterday. We have a meeting with the teacher.” She paused. “Again.”

And with that cheery note, Chrysi walked from the room.

—

Chrysi still had nightmares sometimes. They both did.

They’d gotten better over time, but…

Well, Gilbert had no clue what Chrysi went through when she’d died. All he knew was that he was grateful she didn’t stay dead.

If she had, he thought he might’ve gone insane waiting for Oz and Alice alone.

That night, Gilbert woke to a suspicious lack of Chrysi in the bed, and he knew precisely what sort of nightmare had struck her this time. She always went wandering whenever she dreamt of that night in the Abyss—before it had returned to the golden-lit dreamscape with Alice’s twin sister, the Intention, and they’d visited regularly with the rest of the Baskerville clan.

Normally, he let her wander. But, with Oz’s fear of Gilbert losing Chrysi, he also found himself wondering if maybe he hadn’t been attentive enough to Chrysi’s needs.

So he pried himself off the bed and stumbled blearily through the house. No amount of rubbing at his eyes cleared his vision—which was just as well, with the blackness of the house. It wasn’t like he needed to see anything anyway.

He found Chrysi in the downstairs living room. She hunched over on the edge of the couch, holding a rod with a string and a feather on the other end, only the light of a lamp perched on the set of drawers to see by.

Half-heartedly flicking the feather, Chrysi looked blindly over the room.

Gilbert eyed the shadows—but not even their orange tabby showed himself. Odd.

“What’re you doing?” he whispered.

“Oh.” She stopped waving the feather around. Slowly, she leaned back in the couch, until she reclined over the armrest, her eyes foggy with sleep still. “Raven. You’re awake.”

He stared down at her, worry tightening in his chest. “What’s wrong?”

“Can’t a girl play with shadow cats on her own time without being questioned?”

“What?”

She smiled wryly. “Don’t worry about it. Here.” She scooted a bit on the couch and patted the spot next to her. “Come here.”

Gilbert obliged—mostly because standing there in the shadows alone unnerved him, just a little. Though Chrysi seemingly wasn’t playing with their cat, he couldn’t be certain Megalomaniac wouldn’t come pouncing out of the shadows to attack his leg. It he did, they’d have a cat flung off into the nothingness and two kids wondering why someone yowled like the damned in the middle of the night.

Squeezed between Chrysi and the arm rest, Gilbert thought only of the way their shoulders pressed tightly together. Sometimes, only that connection made things manageable.

He breathed out long and low. He laid his head atop Chrysi’s.

She paused, then leaned her head down slightly, pressed into his shoulder.

Gilbert’s neck would protest later, but for right now, he didn’t mind.

“What was it tonight?” he asked softly.

“What is it any night?” she replied. She pressed harder against him. “Just… before.”

Gilbert waited for her to elaborate, but she didn’t.

How frequently did she do that? How frequently did Gilbert let her do it?

“Before what?”

Her sadness filled her voice, made distant by her fatigue. “Before everything became something I could handle again.”

Oh. He knew what that meant.

Back when Azure died.

Gilbert didn’t get anxious or jealous anymore. Sometimes, he even wondered if he would’ve gotten along with Chrysi’s dead fiancé, if they’d ever had more than two conversations. He hoped so. At least he knew that, in the last moments of clarity, Azure was happy that Gilbert could be there for Chrysi.

But he knew what those nightmares did to Chrysi. She’d been the one to find his body and she’d been forced to take the brunt of Azure’s father's rage when she did. He couldn’t even fathom the agony she felt when she realized that it was Mordecai LaFaye who had his own son killed.

“I’m sorry,” was what he mumbled.

She sighed and shrugged—something he felt more than he saw. “It’s over now. At least when I’m awake.”

Gilbert frowned.

He wrapped his arm around her, feeling distinctly useless. This was the best he could do.

He wished he could do more.

Chrysi began nodding off, nestled against his shoulder. She pressed into his side.

The weight and warmth of her felt so familiar that Gilbert wanted to fall asleep here too. The temptation only tempered itself with the knowledge that they’d both wake up sore and uncomfortable.

What cruel god made it so that a position comfortable enough to fall asleep in would only mean pain upon waking?

“Alright,” Gilbert said, fighting the sleep threatening to overtake him. “Let’s get up, dream girl.”

With a half-asleep, delirious laugh, she stirred against his shoulder.

“Dream girl?” Her voice lilted like a lullaby, unfiltered from the cleverness that normally trapped her in the daytime hours. “You have never called me that before.”

She wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him down for a quick kiss across the lips.

When they pulled away, she looked at him with sleepy, gold-sparkling eyes.

“Where in the world has your head been lately, Gil?”

Heat colored his cheeks, but Gilbert allowed himself a tiny, sheepish smile.

“Worth a shot?”

“Sure.” She laid her head on his collarbone.

Gilbert anchored her to him with his arm and stood. With her grip around his neck, he lifted her easily. “Never again?”

Chrysi hummed sleepily against his neck.

“No,” she answered. “Probably not.”

No surprises there.

Gilbert sighed.

—

Chrysi finally snapped after a week. Honestly, Gilbert couldn’t blame her for it. He wasn’t quite sure why he’d chosen that particular pet name, besides utter desperation. Even Oz called it a last resort—but they couldn’t have known that Chrysi would have such an aversion to all the other, more acceptable nicknames.

He walked in from the en suite bathroom, toweling his hair dry. Chrysi sat on the bed, reading. Lamplight haloed her curls and gilded the slight furrow to her brow.

Gilbert couldn’t tell what that meant. Once, it was abject horror in response to step-cousins being reincarnated lovers. Another time, it was delight at a character being blown up in half by gingerbread-scented smoke. Just because Chrysi was an expressive reader didn’t mean that he knew what the expressions meant.

She didn’t look up as he came in. “Are you coming to bed?”

“Yeah, babe.”

Ugh. Even just saying it, Gilbert wanted to crawl out of his skin. Like all the others, it sounded wrong coming from him.

Lifting her chin, the book in her hands snapped shut. Chrysi tossed it onto the nightstand and sat back, threading her fingers together in her lap. She eyed him seriously.

“Okay, what’s wrong?”

Gilbert hesitated, the towel slipping over one of his eyes. His heart rate kicked up. “What’re you talking about?”

She opened her hand and gestured vaguely. “I have not heard my name from you in over a week. What’s going on?”

The whole week crashed down on him. The nervousness that he hated, that he’d tried to leave behind, and the weird looks Chrysi shot him, and the entirety of Oz bothering him over it. His limbs trembled, weak from coiling and tensing like a wrung-out towel.

He dropped the towel to the ground and crawled onto the bed.

On instinct, Chrysi opened her arms.

He gladly took the invitation.

Gilbert laid his head on her chest, curling his arm around her. Her heart steadily beat under his ear, warm with each breath she took.

Fingers already carding through his hair, Chrysi asked, “So what’s been going on, Gil?”

Shame flushed his cheeks. Somehow, he’d gotten swept into one of Oz’s ridiculous schemes. Things really didn’t change, not even after a century apart.

But he didn’t want to admit that to Chrysi.

“I feel bad,” he said instead.

Her hand swept his hair away from his face. “Oh yeah? Why would that be?”

He tilted his head, just so that his ear pressed closer to the thrum of her heartbeat.

He’d almost lost that once. No, scratch that—he had lost it, once. And still, despite that, he’d never given Chrysi a term of endearment. What was wrong with him?

“Jacks calls you princess,” he mumbled.

This made her soothing strokes pause.

“Hmm.” The noise vibrated through her chest like a purr.

Gilbert allowed his eyes to close as he settled into it. One hundred years with Chrysi meant a bit of desensitization to his fear of cats.

“He does,” she agreed. She tapped a thoughtful pattern over his skull. “Does it bother you? ‘Cause I can get him to stop. Easy.”

He shook his head. He wasn’t expressing himself right.

“No, I mean… the pet name… thing.” Ugh. He wished he didn’t have to explain this. Even just speaking it aloud made his face burn. “It’s just… I feel bad.”

“You already said that. I also still don’t know why.”

He wanted to bury himself in Chrysi’s arms and not think about it. The honeys and the sweethearts and the dears, darlings, loves. For some reason, none of them sounded right when he thought about using them in the place of Chrysi’s name.

Gilbert mumbled, “We’ve been together for over one hundred years and I still only call you Chrysi.”

She paused. “Well… yeah.” Her nails scratched lightly at his scalp. “Have you ever considered that I like being called Chrysi?”

He didn’t say anything. He hadn’t, not really. He hadn’t thought about the way he referred to Chrysi in the first place—the first time that it had been brought to his attention was when Oz complained about it.

She laughed and it warmed Gilbert’s ear.

“We’ve been together for over a century, Gil. I guarantee you, that’s more than enough time for me to have brought it up, if it really bothered me.”

He shifted. “Really?”

The smile in her voice wrapped around him like another hug. “Of course. Why, did Oz make you feel bad about it?”

He didn’t say anything.

“Oh, Raven,” Chrysi groaned. “Oz said you needed to propose to me publicly with a diamond ring, remember? That didn’t work out, now did it?”

“Well,” he started.

“He also dressed up like a girl and followed you when you went out with Dahlia to ruin your relationship with her,” she reminded him.

He grimaced. It wasn’t his best moment. “Oz really wants you as a sister-in-law.”

“And he’s super sweet for that. But he’s already got me as one.”

Gilbert lifted his head.

Chrysi’s eyes lingered on the ceiling, lamplight making her eyelashes angelic. Her mouth relaxed into a faint smile.

“Yeah?” he asked, hopeful.

Her eyes flashed down to him, the curve of her mouth twisting uneven.

“Well, I didn’t stay with you for over a century for no reason. Just call me Chrysi like you always do, and there won’t be any problems.”

He smiled embarrassedly. “It is a bit silly, isn’t it?”

“Oh, Gil.” Chrysi beamed at him. “That’s why I fell for you in the first place.”

#w.mine #s.chrysigil #happy anniversary :) i do not think gil is capable of giving pet names actually

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johndeerequeer · 2 years ago

Text

Chapter 1

Jailbreak

Masterlist

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x Original Female Character

Warnings: mild violence, gunfights

Read on Ao3

Time passed at a snail’s pace. Everything seemed so still, she convinced herself she could feel the earthing rotating.

Between the lines of questioning, picture taking, and information gathering, there was nothing to do but wallow in her thoughts and drive herself mad. Guilt is it’s own kind of torture. It gnawed at her like a feral beast. She would die here, she was sure of it. Her time on trial would never come, and she would be left to rot in this cell till the end of time, and then rot some more. A day stretched into an eternity, like a living damnation.

The dying light of the sun had vanished long ago. The day was done and the station was quiet once more, as it was when she first arrived. Only one man remained in the other three cells, who had been escorted in by a bounty hunter this morning. Everyone else had been transferred or released.

Though he snored like a roaring bear, she couldn’t complain. Better that than soul-sucking silence.

A cry for help broke through the snores and her agitated thoughts. She shot to attention and glanced at the officer who took over for sergeant Lambert at the end of his shift. He rose to his feet and paused, eyes searching through the windows, waiting for another cry to assure him he wasn’t hearing things. It came, more desperate this time. A man called for help.

“Nelson,” the officer from the desk called to the guard at the other end of the room. He gestured for him to investigate.

The guard nodded and made his way through the back doors. She brought her face to the bars to watch this unfold, craning to peek through the glass doors. A faint shuffling could be heard, then silence lingered for a moment. And then another moment. And another.

“Nelson,” the officer called.

He received no response.

He turned to the guard on his right.

“Glinski, take Harris, somethings wrong.”

The two officers from either end of the room proceeded to the back.

“Everything alright?” the officer in the foyer called.

“Working on it,” the officer at the desk called back.

“Nelson’s out cold!” one of the officers reported.

A moment passed.

“Hey!” one of them cried, followed by a gunshot and a scuffle.

The faint sounds of grunts and punches landing reached her ears. She backed away from the bars, as panic swelled in her chest.

The desk officer grabbed his pistol from his holster.

“Fitz! I need your help back here,” the officer called as he made his way to the back.

She turned to the foyer. The guard was gone. Uncertainty swirled in her belly. She couldn’t tear her eyes away as a dark figure emerged from the second set of doors leading into the station; a tall masked man, bearing a worn leather hat and a rifle. Familiarity lingered in the back of her mind. He stalked forward, quiet as a mouse and deadly as a panther.

“Fitz is busy,” the man called with a thick, southern cadence, “I’ll have to do.”

The desk officer turned quickly on his heel with his pistol raised. Terror froze her in place as she watched this unfold.

“Drop it,” the man commanded with his rifle aimed.

The officer hesitated. She watched in horror as another masked man with long, dark hair emerged from the back doors and slammed the butt of his rifle to the back of his head. His limp body crumbled with a thump to the marble floors. She didn’t make a sound.

The figure of death made his way to her cell. The second figure followed.

“Check the desk, see what you can find,” he told the second man.

He unlocked her cell door with a loud clang.

“Please, please, don’t!” she yelped as he moved forward with a hand extended to her.

“Easy, you’re all right,” he cooed.

She shrunk to the ground without another word and scrambled to the corner.

“My name’s Arthur,” he told her as he crouched to her level, then her gestured to the second man “that’s Charles. We’re here to help.”

He pulled down his bandana and pulled off his hat. The lingering familiarity cemented as she recalled the eyes peering into her own. The bounty hunter from this morning.

“You remember me?” he asked softly, his voice rough as gravel, yet smooth like honey, “I was here this morning. Lambert told me what happened to ya.”

His eyes, the colour of sea glass, held her there, kept her present when all she wanted was to shrink to the floor and lay there to die. She managed the smallest of nods.

“Before I left, that feller came in, the one cussin’ you out?” he asked, “I overheard him and his goons. He wants you dead. We came to get you outta here.”

She opened her mouth to speak but nothing came out.

“You gotta trust us,” Charles urged as he returned from the desk.

“I-”

The front doors rattled violently, followed by heavy banging. Every head turned towards it.

“Sergeant!” A man bellowed, “you got somethin’ we want! You hand her over, and no one’s gonna get hurt!”

Her eyes shot back to Arthur, with terror lingering in her features.

“It’s now or never, darlin’,” he urged, “that door ain’t gonna hold forever.”

She took the deepest breath her constrained chest would allow. She lifted her hand, which he met in a calloused, yet tender grip.

“Atta girl,” he cooed.

He hoisted her to her feet and brought a gentle hand to the small of her back as he guided her through the door. They moved quickly out the back, his touch never leaving her. Her eyes fell on the guards that lay among the alley, barely conscious.

“Hey!” A man barked, “Ed, they’re breaking her out!”

Her head whipped back to catch sight of Ed Roscoe and his goons rounding the station at the mouth of the alley. Her stomach dropped. A man she only met once, when he came storming into the station just this morning, in a state of furious grief at the loss of his brother. She couldn’t shake all the horrible things he screamed at her. A part of her believed she deserved it.

“Over the wall,” Arthur ordered, “I’ll cover you.”

She met Ed’s eyes only for a moment before she turned to escape, and the rage behind them scorched her soul. He wanted her dead.

Charles helped her step up onto a nearby crate and hoist herself up as Arthur opened fire. The sound rang in her ears. She shuffled over the slope of roof and laid flat. The men fired back. She couldn’t bear to look. Charles pulled himself onto the roof with a grunt, and loaded his rifle to take aim.

“Arthur,” he called, while rapidly firing.

Arthur pulled back and climbed up as well.

“Let’s go,” he called.

They shuffled to the other end of the roof. He turned back to her with his arms extended. She hesitated.

“I got ya, sweetheart,” he told her, “jump.”

She obeyed. His arms softened the descent. Their surroundings blurred past as they made their way through the back alleys of the city. Adrenaline washed through her as the night's cool breeze brushed past her face. She felt alive. More alive than she had felt in the last 24 hours. They reached two horses tied to a post, a few blocks away from the station.

They stowed their rifles as they approached.

“You ridden before?” Arthur asked.

She shook her head, wrapping her arms around herself to fight the chill in the air. He watched her, and then shrugged off his brown leather jacket, walked to her and flipped it around her shoulders. Her head tilted back to watch him intently as he neared her, measuring his every move. She tensed as his arms hovered around her: the feeling was uncomfortably familiar. A sickly panic squeezed her chest.

He let the jacket fall and pulled himself away quickly. The warmth lingering in the fabric spread around her and soothed the chill like snow melting on a sun-beat road. Her shoulders relaxed under the weight of it.

“It’s real easy, watch how I do it.”

In one fluid motion, he stepped his left foot into the stirrup, and launched up and over the side of the horse. She approached the horse as he did, and fished her arms through his jacket. He offered his hand to her. She took hold of him, hooked her left foot in the stirrup, and took a big breath. She did as he did but slammed onto the saddle with force and started to careen over the other side.

“That’s it,” he praised, his right hand shooting behind him to her side to push her back into place, “I got ya.”

The sensation was foreign, wildly uncomfortable, and so incredibly high. She gingerly snaked her hands through his arms to wrap around his torso, but quickly pulled back.

“You’re alright. Hold onto me tight if you like, sweetheart, I don’t bite,” he offered over his shoulder.

She slowly snaked her hands through again, leaning forward and bracing herself against his back. Her hands met each other at his middle and then splayed across him with firm pressure. She sighed quietly in relief.

The moon shone a ghoulish white cast on the hills of Lemoyne, as the three thieves stole away into the night. No one breathed a word until they had reached the other side of the bridge, not until they were certain they were in the clear. The ambient and incessant buzzing of cicadas filled the air. They hummed along to the beat of their horses’ hooves clopping against dirt. A few wild pigs squealed in shrill anguish as they passed.

“Well, that went better than expected,” Arthur cleared his throat as he broke the silence.

Charles shot him a look over his shoulder.

She couldn’t muster any kind of response, not that she even had one in mind to offer. She simply held onto him in a steady embrace, jostling about on the back of his horse. Somehow, the rough ride soothed her, much the same as the bumpy wagon ride to the police station.

She breathed a deep sigh and a multitude of scents filled her nose. Mainly sweat, smoke, and gunpowder.

“What’s your name?” Charles asked.

She considered her reply for a moment.

“Mads,” she replied, “call me Mads.”

They slowed their pace as they cut down a dirt path and approached the entrance of a large property. The murky lights of lanterns flickered in the haze of the swamp like fireflies beyond the gateway.

“Who’s there?” a man called from the tree line.

The sharp bark startled her to attention.

“It's us,” Charles called back, “Charles and Arthur.”

As they continued down the path, they approached a shabby, colonial mansion, crawling with vines, sat amongst a large clearing by the edge of a swamp. A homestead, seemingly abandoned, now sprawling with life. Wagons and canopies littered the site. People bustled about.

They cantered steadily over the wood slats of the path, coming to a stop at the hitching posts. Charles dismounted first, hitched his horse and Arthur’s, and then made his way towards the house.

“I’ll let Dutch know,” he offered as he passed.

Arthur nodded and then turned his attention to her.

“I think it’d be best if you hopped off first,” he said.

She pulled back and passed a glance between him and herself.

“Just do what ya did before but backwards,” he removed his foot from the right stirrup so she could place her foot there, “nice and easy.”

She took another deep breath, hooked her foot in the stirrup and swung herself off, hitting the ground with hefty force again. A stinging ache reverberated through her foot as she wobbled backwards and grabbed the saddle to steady herself.

He did the same but was significantly more graceful. He landed beside her, and she felt the warmth of his body brush past her with a whoosh. She hadn’t realized how much she enjoyed it until they parted.

“Let’s uh, introduce you to the group,” Arthur offered with a hand extended in the same direction Charles had walked off to.

She nodded and willed her feet to carry her forward, despite her trepidation. Arthur followed closely behind, keeping a small distance between them. Charles appeared in the doorway of the grand house, followed by a sharply dressed man.

“Arthur, I understand you’ve brought us someone,” the man greeted.

“Dutch, this is Mads. Mads, this is Dutch, he’s the… head man around here.”

Dutch. The name lingered in her ear with familiarity. She swallowed her unease.

“Good to meet you, Mads,” Dutch greeted with a hand extended. She pried her cold hand away from her side. He grasped it firmly, but gentle, much the same as Arthur, and they shook hands. Yet again, all she could offer was a nod.

“Make yourself at home, my dear. Arthur, I need to steal you for a moment, there’s some… interesting news I’ve got to share with you,” Dutch spoke, slightly stilted, wary of the mixed company.

“Sure Dutch, I just-” he paused, tossing a small glance at Mads.

“I’ll show her around,” Charles offered.

Arthur nodded.

She followed after Charles, casting a small glance back at Arthur. He glanced back too, as Dutch ushered him away with a pat on the back.

#arthur morgan x original female character #red dead redemption 2 #red dead fanfic #arthur morgan smut

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harrystylesslutt · 3 years ago

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no cz how can someone be this cute?

#cute harry #harry styles one shot #harry styles #harry styles blurb #harry styles fluff #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles smut #hs1 #frat harry #bandana harry

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callmeblake · 5 years ago

Photo

Kerrang Poster (from ebay)

My Chemical Romance as the Killjoys

Photo Credit: Paul harries

See the shot with no shine.

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subhlibrary · 3 years ago

Note

can u rec fics where harry is really slutty

this is basically all of my recs lmao but here’s some more <33

Your God Shaped Hole Tonight by objectlesson (8k)

Harry gets railed by five huge cocks at public play party.

Desperate for it by blankiehxrry (2k)

Harry doesn't believe it when the boys tell him that he's loud during sex. He asks Louis to prove it to him. Things might get out of hand. everything from this author tbh

Double the Fun by stretchmybones (1k)

Based on the photo of Harry in NYC wearing the blue bandana and pearl necklace simultaneously. My brain screamed "day collars" at me and then I wrote this lil fic.

A slut in my eyes by blankiehxrry (2k)

Harry is a Playboy bunny.

I have often prayed for an angel by orphan_account (2k)

the one in which Louis fucks Harry in the VS wings after he wears them onstage. i might’ve recced this before but idc it’s a fave

Medicine by thisisafamilyshow_orisit (3k)

Another very self-indulgent fic featuring Harry with an oral fixation and Louis being Daddy af.

We Were Too Young by alurringmind (2k)

Louis expected that to satiate Harry. Much to his dismay, it did not. They ran late to the interview, as Harry decided to take his time showering and picking out clothes. During the interview, he kept talking over the other boys, avoiding questions, goofing off, and making countless sexual innuendos. Management chastised him several times, but it didn't stop there. In the dressing room after the interview, the boys were all sitting on the couch as Harry was wrestling Niall to the ground after ruining Liam's new shoes and fucking up Zayn's hair.

He was gonna get it.

FUCKING BRAT!!! by wannabebestseller (2k)

Louis is a busy CEO now and Harry wants attention so he becomes a monster brat.

When The Wolves Come Out by rosemarianthyme (1k)

It didn’t matter that Louis would never once pop a knot or that Harry’s slick was always artificial. When Harry was whining desperately against his neck and Louis was growling low in his chest he could only grab Harry’s hips and pant out 'Omega.'

You Love the Way I Ride It by stylinsexualxo (1k)

Its just a smutty one shot in which Louis gets bored and Harry gets horny on the way home.

ain't this what you came for (don't you wish you came) by sugarbabyharry (2k)

Harry is married and Louis happened to be his secret lover who's really good at fucking.

Black Flowers Blossom, Fearless on My Breath by cupcakentea (4k)

Louis and Harry shotgun in public, a very private moment ensues

i heard you had a slut mouth by lohoron (32k)

Louis fucks Harry once at a frat party and suddenly forgets how to act. i definitely recced this before but it’s my favorite smut fic ever sorry

Thank You, Daddy by fournipplesau (10k)

Harry's hot, wet mouth is around him before Louis even has the chance to blink, and it feels so good, the icy sting of the frozen dessert disappearing as Harry's soft tongue laps it up. After Harry swallows, he pulls off the head of Louis' cock and then dips down to trail his tongue up the shaft, collecting the bits that dribbled down. "Yummy. Thank you, daddy." He hums pleasantly.

Or the one where Louis gets an idea, and Harry wears panties this whole series tbh

scream for air to breathe by toplinson (5k)

harry gives louis five orgasms for his birthday

smile in slow motion by istajmaal (24k)

“It’s 2011, Niall. People can fuck their friends’ faces without it meaning anything more than that.”

or, Louis is Harry's dom and maybe also his soulmate

it's all for you, everything i do by moonshinelouis (2k)

Harry's needy, Louis plays bored.

Whoever, However by Brooklyn_Babylon (8k)

Louis could feel his heart rate pick up as he positioned the camera and Harry slowly stood up. They both knew what came next –– it had been clearly outlined in the advert Harry answered. The studio Louis worked for was filming a new series of camboy videos. Louis’ job was to make it look like amateur porn –– sweaty, sensual, dirty –– but well lit and edited. He was an artist, thank you very much.

Or: Louis has a much better day at work than he’d expected.

give it to me like i want it by orphan_account (1k)

Harry is overwhelmed by Louis's size and after being fucked by him, he just can't stop wanting to have him inside of him at every opportunity.

#this ask was so funny for no reason #bottom harry

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ialwaysknewyouwerepunk · 2 years ago

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late night talking mv: some observations of mine (so far) besides the most obvious ones we've already discussed

the polka dots are green and blue. in the first pair of pjs the shirt is always open, revealing a ribbed top; the brown pjs always stay closed

the jewellery constantly changes: starts off with only the cross/dicklace, without rings. then he's crawling in the duvet, there's a fit change and he has the pearls on, but no rings. when he comes back up, he's in a velvety bed (resembling stage curtains), incl rings now

postcard with a big ass tree - ref to garden of eden and the tree of knowledge? paradise (lost)?

old trees also a symbol of long, deep-rooted love

in bed with female-presenting person, who seems to be wearing the tshirt that was crumpled up in his room at the beginning of the mv (so 'reality'? despite this partner being there too in his performative/fictitious life? so maybe the initial scene is also muddled by dreams/stories/gossip? no harsh distinction between what's real/fiction). spotlight is on them but they're watching the scene too. no rings

blue polkadot pjs (while on a bed that's more like a parade float) with a scarf in the colors of his first pjs (reality?). so when he's performing/pretending/... he likes adding details of his reality to his wardrobe? // blue bandana, baby blue... -> more muddled. bc real life is muddled and messy. but these moves are also calculated. it's both golf swing and a trampoline

in bed with female-presenting ppl who are wearing less clothes than he is (// in the huge ass bed from the third scene) - 'reality' pjs, no pearls, BUT RINGS

queer wedding: pearls, no rings

lilies in his lapels - different sizes - bigger when he's officiating the queer wedding. used as well in the fine line cover shoot, with the nude. symbol of love, devotion, purity and fertility. rejuvenation, new beginnings. commitment. rebirth. pink lilies: femininity, love, adoration

note about the permanence of the pyjamas: suit jackets and coats can go on top, but the pjs always stay on. bc ppl, whatever he wears or does, will focus on his bedroom activities anyway? as if he's a full-time sleeper? // his bed being a museum exhibit + the spotlight being on him while he's at the theatre <-> the date with the male-presenting person in blue is private and dimly lit

queer wedding goes wrong, despite the couple being super happy - they only freak out once harry disappears after lightning strikes, and then it's like he's shot out of the sky

at first he's freaking out, falling down, but then he relaxes and accepts it as he lies down and chills basically. // falling stars (otb), falling (song).

queer paradise is up in the clouds (over the rainbow.. where he wants to fly to all the fuckin time...) but forces he can't control keep him from enjoying life up there (?)

#lnt #my posts #late night talking

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bopbopstyles · 4 years ago

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BEHIND THE BAR

RATING: R/smut (sex, heavy alcohol use, lots of cursing, heavy banter)

WORD COUNT: 17.3k (she long and you may need to read on desktop)

CATEGORIES: bartender!y/n, fratboy!harry

a/n: the long awaited bartender!y/n fic has ARRIVED! thank you to my fabulous anons who dreamt up bartender!y/n and made me fall so in love with her and fratboy!harry’s dynamic that i had to write her. she is tattooed, sassy, and full of spunk and i ADORE her. if you need more of her and harry, check out the inspo tag which has all the discourse. concepts for these two are ALWAYS open. s/o to @harrystylescherry, @stellarboystyles, @harrysclementines, @havethetimeofyourstyles for beta reading and @bfharry for providing harry’s dad joke 😘

“Cheers, Birthday Princess,” you told him, and then you bumped your glass against his, before tipping it back. Harry slammed the glass down on the counter and shook his head as the alcohol coursed through his veins.

Then, he leaned forward on the bar, resting his elbows on the alcohol-covered surface. You tried to keep it clean, but there was no way to keep up with it all. “How about a birthday kiss, Madam Bartender?”

“In your dreams,” you answered, realizing what you had said only after the words left your mouth.

Harry smirked, a dimple poking out. “We’ve already talked about dreams, Y/N. You know you’re already in them, so no need to beg for it.”

Y/N is a bartender and Harry’s obsessed with her

pls reblog and share with your friends 💕

In hindsight, perhaps taking a job as a bartender at the campus bar as a freshman wasn’t your smartest idea. You had to spend most of your weekend nights behind the bar trying to hear orders from slurring frat boys ordering the cheapest beer on tap and got shit tips because apparently your classmates didn’t care about tipping their bartenders. But at the same time, it was a great way to always drink for free and make friends, both with the other bartenders and with students who frequented the bar, as well as the neighborhood regulars earlier in the evening.

The thing you loved most about it, though, was the power you held behind the bar. It was your space, space where you made the rules and could throw out any person who messed with you. Which, as a stunningly gorgeous 21-year-old girl serving alcohol at a popular bar, happened plenty. You and Mike, the bouncer who usually shared shifts with you, had a hand signal that you could give him whenever someone was causing problems, and he would happily come to the bar and throw out whatever obnoxious man was giving you trouble. You frequently considered that Mike actually enjoyed throwing people out of the bar.

It was a Saturday night, the busiest night of the week and nearing one AM. The bar was packed, bodies pushing past one another to get to the bar, girls drumming their fingers on the fake wood counter. Tendrils of your long black hair stuck to the back of your neck, the result of constantly being on the move from the moment the rush hit until the bar closed. A cropped black tank top stuck to your skin, the sliver of skin between the hem of the shirt and the top of your black skinny jeans not enough to keep your body cool. Your ponytail swung back and forth as you moved, winding around Matt, the other bartender tonight, with ease. The two of you usually shared shifts, both being students and having the same availability. Generally, he was a good guy, taking the drunk guys so you didn’t have to deal with them and always making sure people didn’t give you trouble. The one downside to Matt, though, was his frat brothers. They appeared every shift without fail, bringing with them chaos and an inordinate amount of drink orders. They loved to annoy you, asking you the contents of every fancy drink they could think of and asking about your love life.

Tonight, it seemed, was no different.

You noticed the minute they entered the bar, a collection of t-shirts, a couple of jerseys you despised, and a button down shirt or two, all of them talking and yelling at each other. “Matt, your fan club is here!” You called down the bar, and Matt laughed as he grabbed the vodka off the wall to make a drink for two girls that were staring at him with wide eyes.

You grabbed two shot glasses and the handle of tequila from where you’d left it below the bar. “Salt and limes?” You asked the girls who had ordered the shots. They were most definitely not twenty-one, but then again, serving underage college students was how the bar made any business. The girls nodded, and so after you had poured the shots, you grabbed the salt shaker and two cut limes, pressing the limes into the rim of the glasses and pushing all the items across the bar. One of the girls handed you her card and you heard the words “Keep it open!” over Taste by Tyga and Offset that was blaring in the bar. It was your playlist, one that you’d perfectly curated for the bar with input from the other bartenders, and you were pretty proud of it.

After swiping the girl’s card and adding it to the stack of open tabs, you whirled back around to take the next customer. The sight of his brown curly mop and gleaming green eyes made you sigh—it was Harry. He, frankly, was a bit obsessed with you, but he was Matt’s little so you let it slide. Also, Harry’s attention didn’t make your skin crawl, instead it made your belly clench and witty comebacks fall easily from your mouth. The two of you had settled into a consistently flirtatious banter and you didn’t mind it, frankly. Sometimes, it was the highlight of your night.

The first time you ever met Harry, you noticed him long before he finally spoke to you. He was sitting at a booth not too long after your shift started, so it wasn’t super busy yet. He had caught your eye because he wouldn’t stop staring at you and he had a weird bandana wrapped up in his hair. (Or was it even a bandana? Maybe a scarf? You couldn’t be sure.) It wasn’t the creepy kind of stare that made you call the bouncer over, but the kind that made you blush against your every attempt not to. When Matt came in, a bit late as usual, Harry beelined to the bar, sitting down in front of him.

“Y/N, this is Harry,” Matt had said, grabbing the bottle of Jack from the wall and pouring some in a glass, then adding Coke to it before pushing the glass towards Harry. “He’s my little.”

You leaned onto the bar, the surface still dry since it wasn’t packed yet. “I was waiting for you to say hi. Saw you staring for the past fifteen minutes.”

The blush that rose to Harry’s cheeks made you smile at him, and Matt chuckled. “Staring isn’t nice, H.”

“Wasn’t staring,” Harry mumbled. “Just watching you make drinks.”

Your eyebrows lifted. “Have you never seen a bartender before?”

“No, fuck,” he said to himself and you internally grinned at making him a bit embarrassed. He was easy to mess with, especially now that you had confirmed that he had, in fact, been watching you. “You’re just good at it.”

You looked to Matt. “He thinks I make good drinks,” you informed your co-worker. “What do you think, Harry? Am I better than your big?”

Harry could tell he had dug himself into a hole, his eyes sweeping between you and Matt. “I—I don’t know—maybe?” Matt’s eyes widened and Harry stumbled over his words, trying to correct course. “No, no, Matt’s better. Matt is definitely better.”

You leaned forward a bit more, inching closer to Harry. “Thought you said I was good at it?”

You could feel his eyes drift to where your cleavage was exposed from the deep-v of your black t-shirt. “You are.”

“So which one of us is better?”

“You.”

Matt groaned and you moved away, a triumphant grin on your face. “Not fair,” Matt said. “Harry’s got a crush on you, of course he’d say you’re better!”

Harry choked on his drink and you raised your eyebrows at him. “A crush, huh?”

“Shit,” Matt said. “I wasn’t supposed to say that.”

You bumped your hip against his. “It’s ok, Matty boy. I figured that out when he wouldn’t stop staring at me.”

Harry blushed and you moved away, tending to the other customers at the bar.

That night had begun the back-and-forth between you and Harry, a playful dynamic of flirtation and jokes that usually left you triumphant and Harry blushing at the bar. He kept showing up early and Matt would tell you things like “Oh, he’s just coming by to drop off my charger” or “He just wants to chat.” All of them were excuses for Harry to be in the bar with just you, Matt, and a couple of customers, him having your relatively undivided attention. He’d tell you terrible jokes and ask you questions about your classes or family, most of which you ignored. You never asked him questions back, just let him talk and you listened, although you pretended like you didn’t, because you didn’t want to encourage him.

The truth was, though, you didn’t mind him. You kind of looked forward to those conversations. When he got really drunk he was a bit more annoying, repeating your name until you finally paid attention to him, only for him to say nothing except “You’re cute” or something along those lines. He entertained you, at least, and that was more than could be said for most of the patrons.

Tonight, it seemed, was no different than usual. “Y/N!” He said, shoving himself between two people who had managed to snag one of the green vinyl covered bar stools. His hair was messy, perhaps a bit sweaty, and he was swearing a black t-shirt, a silver chain tucked under his shirt. You could immediately tell he was decently drunk already, based on the glassy expression in his eyes and the grin on his face. “Want to hear a joke?”

You wiped off the bar with the towel over your shoulder before answering him. “Sure.”

“What did the therapist say when a naked man wrapped in cling film went into their office?”

“I don’t know,” you answered, resting your hands on the bar and looking at him dead on. “What did they say?”

Harry was grinning at you, eyes twinkling with mischief. “Clearly I can see your nuts.”

You groaned and Harry just guffawed. “Harry, that was horrible.”

“You just have no sense of humor.”

“Says the guy making jokes like that,” you shot back. “Now, what do you want?”

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a black leather wallet. “Five fireball shots.”

You had to take a second before replying because the thought of a fireball shot makes you want to vomit. The combination of the cinnamon flavor and the burn it sent down your throat was one you hated, but it seemed Harry enjoyed it. “Really, Harry? Fireball?”

“What? It’s good!”

You shook your head, but grabbed shot glasses, laying them out in a line on the bar. “You’re insane.” You turned, grabbed the bottle of Fireball, and then returned to him.

“Make it six,” he said, slashing you a smirk.

“If it’s for me I am not drinking it.”

“You’re no fun.”

“I’m plenty of fun,” you told him, cocking your hip. “And I have good taste in alcohol.”

“Y/N, please,” he begged, pouting slightly for you.

Sometimes he was such a child, you thought as you gave in, grabbing another shot glass. “Fine,” you told him. “But this is the only time.” He grinned at you, and you just poured the shots, drawing a line down the glasses with the alcohol.

He snagged one of the shot glasses and you took one at the end. “Cheers,” he said, lifting his shot, and you did the same, knocking the glasses together enough for a clink to ring out.

You tipped the shot back, letting the burn of the cinnamon whiskey fall down your throat. You swallowed, dropped the shot glass to the counter, and looked to Harry. He was grinning, his empty shot glass on the bar. “Satisfied?”

“Very.” Then he picked up the shots, holding them together in his two massive hands, his rings clinking against the glass. You watched him walk away, his shirt disappearing into the throng of people, and then your attention was caught by another patron, asking you for a Long Island iced tea that made you laugh once you had turned away from them.

The night passed with many empty bottles of vodka and gin, the drinks of choice for all the girls who came up to the bar, and you nearly ran out of Budweiser, since it was on tap and the cheapest beer. You were bopping your head along with your playlist, Piece Of Your Heart by MEDUZA ringing through the speakers. The electronic music was supposed to help keep your energy up, but it was three AM and you were beginning to tire, the whiskey and coke you made yourself doing little to keep you going.

People were starting to filter out of the bar, groups heading to get a late night snack or head home. You were thankful for it—if you could start cleaning before official close you would be happy, perhaps being able to get home sooner.

“Can I get another whiskey coke?” You turned and Harry was sitting in a barstool at the bar, right in front of you.

You nodded, grabbing a glass and the handle of whiskey. “Where’d all your friends go?”

“They left.” He drummed his fingers against the wood, the light of the bar catching on the silver of his rings. You were a bit fascinated by them, if you were being honest. Why he wore them, where they came from, what they meant. The same questions rang in your head in reference to the tattoos that littered his arms and peeked out from under his shirt.

“You didn’t go with?” You pushed his drink towards him and returned the jack to its spot on the wall.

He shook his head, taking a sip of the drink you made him. “I was going to wait for Matt.”

You raised your eyebrows and then nodded towards where Matt was leaning over the bar, talking to some girl whose drink had long since been emptied. “I think he’s already got someone waiting for him.”

Harry looked to where Matt was and then shrugged, before turning his gaze back to you. “Guess I’ll just hang out with you, then.”

“Oh really?” You took some empty glasses off the bar where people had left them and dropped them into the bucket under the bar to be taken back to get cleaned.

“You’re more interesting than him anyway.”

You laughed, grabbing an empty shot glass and putting it in the bucket. “And why is that?”

“You’re hot.” He didn’t even pause before he replied.

He licked across his bottom lip after he said it and you couldn’t help but watch the action. It wasn’t like you didn’t know Harry thought you were attractive—you did. It was just that he had never outright told you, or been quite this forward. Usually he was skating around the topic and now that he wasn’t you didn’t quite know what to say. So you said the first thing that popped into your head. “Have you been behind a bar?”

“Only at the house.”

“Your frat house does not count as a bar.”

“I don’t know about that.”

“It is not a bar, Harry.”

“Fine. Then no, I haven’t.”

You took a step away from him and waved your hand at the space. “Would you like to?”

This time, it was him raising his eyebrows at you. “What am I going to be doing?”

“I’ll teach you to make drinks.”

“I know how to make drinks,” he scoffed.

“Jungle juice doesn’t count.”

He huffed and then pushed away from the bar, standing to his full height. “You’re being mean,” he stated, but walked to the end of the bar and came around the side anyways. “It feels so different from back here.”

You turned, one hand on the bar and the other on your hip. “What do you mean?”

“Dunno. Feel…powerful, I guess.”

You nodded, knowing exactly what he meant. “So, Mr. Bartender, what do you want to make first?”

Harry considered his options, looking around the bar and taking in the options in front of him. He looked a bit overwhelmed, if you were honest. You glanced around, checking on how busy it was, and you were thankful that it was pretty much empty, so no one would probably be bothering you and Harry. “I’ve always wanted to make an Old Fashioned.”

“Can do,” you answered, grabbing the proper glass from the shelf, and a bottle of your favorite bourbon, setting both on the counter in front of you. “Do you know what’s in one?” He shook his head, a slight blush on his cheeks, and you smiled to yourself. He could be so goddamned cute sometimes. “It’s whiskey, bitters, and a bit of sugar. Do you know how to muddle?” He shook his head again, and you nodded, grabbing the rest of the supplies you would need.

You spread it out in front of you, popping a sugar cube in the old fashioned glass. “So this is the bitters we’re going to use,” you informed him, passing him the bottle of Angostura bitters. “Put two dashes of that in the glass over the sugar.”

“What the fuck is a ‘dash’?”

“A bit,” you told him. “Just do it.”

He did as you asked, tapping bitters into the glass. “Is that enough?”

You nodded, and then grabbed the soda gun and pressed the button for water, adding a bit to the glass. Then, you passed him the muddler, which got very little use at this bar. In fact, you hadn’t made an Old Fashioned in ages—it wasn’t exactly the drink of choice for most college-aged people. “Now, you’re going to muddle this—like mix them together, crushing the sugar.”

“Why does mixology have the weirdest terms?” He said under his breath and you snorted. He did as you said, listening to your instructions, crushing the sugar and mixing it with the bitters in the glass, the sugar dissolving in the glass.

“Good. Now you add the ice.”

You pulled back the top of the cooler that held the ice, and Harry grinned as he picked up some with the scooper and filled the glass with it. “Always wanted to do that.”

“And now you have.” You shut the top of the cooler and passed him the bourbon and a jigger. “An ounce and a half of bourbon,” you informed him.

He reached over and took the bottle and jigger, and his close proximity made you inhale. You could smell cologne, a bit of sweat from the party he was at earlier, and a trace of smoke as he moved. The scent had your spine straightening, your mind just as muddled as the contents of the glass. How did he smell so good? He was a college boy. Who gave him the right to be so goddamned attractive and smell this delicious? His long hair, the length not quite reaching his shoulders but close, swung slightly in your face as he pulled away, the tips of his curls brushing against your cheek. He was so close that if he turned his head, your lips would meet.

You tried not to think about that.

But he lingered close to you as he poured the bourbon in the jigger, your sides nearly touching, just half a step away from one another. If the music hadn’t been playing, you probably would’ve been able to hear him breathe and he could’ve heard your breath hitch when his bicep flexed as he held the bourbon. Your eyes trailed over the tattoos on his arms, dancing over the ship and the rose at his elbow, all the way down to the anchor at his wrist.

“Now you’re the one watching me.”

Your eyes snapped up to his, where he was looking at you, smirking. “Pour the shot in, Harry.”

He looked back to the jigger he was holding, and tipped it into the glass, the amber liquid dropping through the glass. You handed him the stirrer and he twirled it in the glass, before setting it back down on the bar. The sound of his rings hitting the glass sounded in your ears as he grasped the drink, bringing it to his lips.

His eyes were on yours as he tipped it back slightly, letting the alcohol pass between his lips. You tried not to focus on his Adam’s apple bobbing as he sipped. When he lowered the glass, his tongue darted out, wetting his bottom lip, and it made you tug your own into your mouth softly. Then you asked, “How is it?”

With his gaze trained on your mouth, he answered, “Delicious.”

“Y/N!” Your head bounced up to see Mike darting his head inside. “Time for close.”

You looked up at the clock on the wall and realized he was right—more time had passed than you realized. “Shit—yeah, sorry Mike. Matt,” you called down the bar to your co-worker who was very caught up in his flirtation. “Will you kick all of these people out for me?”

“Even me?” Harry asked and you roll your eyes at him.

“You can stay,” you told him and he gave you a smile, taking another sip of his drink. “As long as you help me clean up.”

While Matt kicked the remaining stragglers out, making sure the ones that are too drunk get in an Uber, you and Harry cleaned up. He helped you flip chairs on top of tables and pick up the glasses littered across surfaces, even in the bathroom. You filled the bin with the glasses and took them into the kitchen, filling the industrial dishwasher to the brim. He even took a rag and wiped down the tables, singing along to the Tame Impala you’d turned on and finishing off his Old Fashioned. You put the bitters away and the remnants of the drink he had made, and toss some lime rinds into the trash, wiping off the last bit of the bar.

“I’m going to head out,” Matt called to you from the door. He’s got his arm wrapped around the girl’s shoulders, a wide smile on both of their faces. “You good, H?”

Harry nodded. “Yeah, I’m going to walk Y/N home.”

This was news to you. “I drove,” you replied.

“Then can I snag a ride?” He asked, and you shrugged. It wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world. Also, the idea of making him walk didn’t sound like a good idea, even though the frat house wasn’t too far from the bar.

“Sure.” You grabbed your purse and leather jacket from where you’d stashed them under the bar, and pulled them on. “C’mon, let’s go.”

You waved goodbye to Mike, who was left to lock up, and walked around back to where your car was parked. It was a must have for you, not wanting to walk home at four in the morning after a long night of working. Plus, you never drank much while you worked—all you had had was that disgusting Fireball shot earlier in the night and a whiskey coke throughout the evening. Harry followed behind you, his hands in his pockets as he walked, the faint light from the street lamp illuminating the sidewalk leading to the parking lot.

“It’s dark,” he said when you turned into the lot.

You unlocked your car and turned to look at him. “It’s four AM. Of course it’s dark.”

He moved towards the car, pulling open the passenger side door. “No, I just mean that it’s dark for you to be walking to your car alone.”

“Oh.” You tossed your purse into the backseat and slid into the driver’s side, flipping on the ignition. “Matt or Mike walk me to my car most nights.”

His long legs ended up a bit cramped in the passenger seat of your car and it made the corner of your mouth turn up. “Good,” is all he said before pulling on the seatbelt and clicking it. You reversed out of the spot, your phone automatically connecting to the Bluetooth as you flipped on your turn signal. “That’s the wrong way.”

You turned and looked at him. “Don’t you live at the house?”

He shook his head though. “No, I’ve got an apartment with some brothers on the West side of campus. Take a left here.”

You absorb this information and switch the turn signal. “Why don’t you live there? I thought most people did.”

“I like the privacy, I guess. When you live with all your brothers, they tend to know every bit of your business.” He was looking out the front windshield and you did the same, eyes on the dark streets in front of you. Being this close to him in the car had your body temperature spiking a bit, although you wouldn’t have admitted that to anyone. Harry was just the boy who flirted with you every chance he got and was Matt’s little. He was just someone to entertain you on slow nights or when you were stressed. Right?

“Take a left at the light,” he said, breaking you out of your trance. You flicked on your turn signal and eased into the turn lane, swinging your car onto a side street. “I’m having a birthday party next weekend at the house if you want to come,” he suddenly said.

Your eyes bounced to Harry, who wasn’t looking at you, his palms resting on his knees. You could sense the tension in his body—was he nervous? Did you make him nervous? “Is it your 21st?”

He quirked a smile at that. “How’d you know?”

“Well, you’re a junior. I just assumed.” Matt also might’ve mentioned it once or twice, but you didn’t tell Harry that.

A blush crept across his cheeks. “I—uh—it’s on Saturday at nine. We’re hitting the bars after, but the thing at the house is just going to be brothers and drinks and some music. Pretty low-key, I think.”

“I’ve got work,” you told him. “But I’ll try and stop by before my shift. I’m not supposed to be there until ten.”

He nodded quickly and you tried not to think about the fact that Matt was never going to let you live this down. What were you even doing, saying yes to Harry? You weren’t even interested in him. He was just a boy to flirt with, someone who told you bad jokes and ordered Fireball shots. “It’s right up here,” he said, pointing to a house off to the right.

You slowed the car in front of a one-story bungalow, a couple of cars in the driveway and lawn chairs on the front lawn. “You live in a house?”

“Somehow it was actually cheaper,” he explained, unbuckling his seatbelt. “Plus, kind of nice not having people complaining about the noise.”

The area was definitely still on campus, but you didn’t know anyone who lived over here. “Are your neighbors all students too?”

He nodded. “Some other brothers have a place a couple houses down, there’s a house of Pi Phis over there. But yeah, it’s all students. On game days it’s a fucking mess.”

You put the car in park, and turned off the ignition. “I can imagine.” Harry didn’t make any moves to get out of the car, just sitting there staring at the dashboard of your old Toyota, his hands fidgeting on his thighs. “Harry?”

“Fuck,” he exhaled, catching his bottom lip in his teeth. “I...” Then he glanced over at you, and under the dim streetlamp you could see the expression in his eyes. It’s one you knew well. It’s the look he gave you when you wore your favorite lace bodysuit that was conservative enough to wear out, or when you gave him just as flirtatious of a comeback as the one he served you.

Then, all of a sudden he was moving towards you, his hand curving around the back of your neck and pulling you towards him. It was awkward, the seatbelt holding back your shoulder, but it didn’t stop you from leaning towards him, meeting him halfway. His lips tasted like bourbon and bitters, a trace of Fireball when you nibbled on his bottom lip that was just tucked between his teeth. He was sweet with an edge of fire, and when he tilted his chin slightly to change the angle, rotating his head just enough to kiss you deeper, you knew you were fucked.

For so long, you had been trying to keep him at a distance. Just let him exist as a flirtation, nothing more than that. You’d ignored the thoughts that blazed through your mind when you were drunk with your friends and saw him at a party, his lips on some girl, and you wondered what they would taste like on yours. Now that he was kissing you and you knew what they tasted like, there was no way you would be able to forget.

Especially the way his fingers threaded through your hair, his rings cool against your warm scalp. How he tugged on your lip with his teeth and you let out a soft whine, pulling him closer by the neck of his shirt. The fact that it was nearing four thirty in the morning and you were in your car making out, your seatbelt still on, didn’t seem to matter. The exhaustion that had been all-consuming earlier was gone, your body rushing with adrenaline from the feeling of his mouth tucked against yours, his hands on your skin and the way his lips searched for yours when you pulled away for air.

“I should go home,” you said, breathing heavily as you moved back into your seat.

Harry was looking at you intensely, his lips slick from your saliva, his cheeks flushed from kissing you. His hands still lingered on your neck and hip, and you weren’t ready for him to let go. However, you needed sleep, otherwise the rest of the day was not going to be pretty. You had a paper due on Tuesday you had to write and if that didn’t happen this afternoon after you slept you were fucked. “Yeah,” he finally answered, pulling away. “It’s late.” He shuffled in the seat, turning to push open the door. “Get home safe, okay?”

You nodded, and with one lingering look at you, Harry slid out of the car and shut the door behind him. Under the dim lights you watched him walk to his front door, pulling open the screen door and unlocking it. Once he was inside, you finally turned back on your car and put it in drive, peeling away from the curb without a glance back.

On Tuesday, you were knee-deep in edits for your paper when your phone screen lit up with a text. Despite the fact that you told yourself you would be ignoring any notifications that flashed across your screen, you were intrigued by this message because it was from a number you didn’t recognize. So you leaned back in the uncomfortable wooden chair you were sitting in (chosen to make sure you stayed awake) and grabbed your phone.

The sight of the message made you choke on air.

Hey, Y/N, this is Harry. Matt gave me your number, I hope that’s ok?

That was it. The whole message. What the fuck were you supposed to do with that? “Fuck,” you muttered to yourself, because now you couldn’t ignore it. You had your read receipts on, something you turned on one time when you were breaking up with an ex and wanted him to know that you were ignoring his messages on purpose, and never turned off. So now Harry knew you had read his message.

So you typed back, hey! what’s up?

The typing dots appeared and you had the sudden urge to throw your phone halfway across the room as you waited for his reply. But you didn’t, because Harry’s text popped through before you could take any actions to make it seem as though you weren’t staring at your phone waiting for his text.

Just wanted to say thanks for the ride home on Saturday. Then, in a separate message, Also, the invite for my birthday party still stands, but no pressure.

You nibbled on the edge of your thumb nail, your other thumb poised over the screen as you considered what to reply. You decided on coy. i'll see how it goes :) you wrote out, and then thumbs up reacted to his thank you text.

Looking forward to it is what he replied with, and that felt like the end of the conversation, so you locked your phone, turned it on Do Not Disturb, and tried to re-focus on the paper open on your computer screen.

It took everything in your body not to check your phone a couple more times, just to see if he’d kept the conversation going. You had no idea what to say to him—he was the one who texted you in the first place. It seemed like his job to keep the conversation going, not yours. So you let the conversation linger, not even saving his number in your phone.

When Saturday rolled around, you considered for a long time whether or not you were going to go to Harry’s birthday party. Matt had texted you too, combining the text with a notice that he wasn’t working that night and Lucy was covering his shift, which meant you were going to be doing all the heavy lifting. Lucy was a freshman, new to bartending, and most definitely was hired so she would be ready to replace you when you graduated next year. The fact that Matt texted you told you that Harry must really want you to come, even if it was just for a bit.

So you turned on your getting ready playlist and grabbed your favorite bodysuit—it was long sleeved and high necked with a mesh leopard print, meaning that when you wore your black bralette underneath it, it would show through. It was enough to get eyes on you (you could neither confirm nor deny if you specifically meant Harry’s eyes), but not too much that you felt completely exposed, thanks to the long sleeves. You grabbed your black jeans, even though in an ideal world you would’ve chosen your leather skirt instead, but the last thing you wanted was alcohol stuck to your legs all night or some asshole seeing up your skirt when you bent over for ice.

You kept your makeup simple, but in line with the outfit—a light smokey eye, eyeliner, and a tinge of a deep red to your lips. Rhea, your roommate, let you use her dry shampoo, so you sprayed it at your roots, giving your day-old hair some revival. With a pair of gold hoops and a pep talk, you were ready, your phone and wallet slipped into the pocket of your trusty leather jacket.

You had never been to a frat house when you couldn’t hear the music pounding from outside. But as you walked up the grassy front lawn to the KDR house, it seemed quiet—all the lights on, even. You rapped on the door twice, running your hand through your hair as you waited for the door to open. When it did, a guy was standing there who you were pretty sure you recognized from the bar—he was close with Matt and Harry, you thought.

“You’re the bartender, Y/N!” He said, pointing at you with his index finger, lifting it from the red solo cup he held in his hand.

“I am,” you replied. “Harry and Matt invited me.”

“Yeah, I know,” he said, and you tried not to read into that too much. “Come on in, I’m Caleb, Harry’s little.” And that, you realized, was why he was always hanging out with Harry and Matt. You followed Caleb down the hall, which had composite photos on the wall going back to the 70s and 80s. It was weird being inside the house with all the lights on, because you could actually see everything for the first time. You saw what was usually a coat room and discovered it was actually a study of sorts, bookshelves with textbooks and random course books lining the shelves and a couple of old leather chairs in the corner that you usually stashed your jacket on.

He turned into the long living room and kitchen, which was where most of the parties happened in their house, and you were met by a pong table and a collection of boys, many of whom you recognized from the bar. Your eyes scanned over the group, and you found that you were, unsurprisingly, one of four girls in attendance. The others were next to brothers, an arm slung around their shoulders. You found Matt and Harry easily in the crowd, Matt saying something to Harry with his palm pressed to Harry’s chest, his other hand gripping a can of Natty Light. How he could drink such watered down piss while being a bartender you didn’t know and you quickly decided you would be ragging on him for it the next time you worked together.

“Bartender girl!” One of the guys called out, and that made Harry and Matt’s heads immediately swivel towards where you were standing. The discomfort that had been lingering was suddenly there in full force. You hated being the center of attention, something most people never expected since you thrived at the bar. The key part of being a bartender, though, was you had the bar between you and the patrons. It was a safety net, something that gave you power and confidence. Without it, though, you felt naked in a situation like this.

The sight of a tiara on Harry’s head, though, immediately made you feel more at ease. The words Birthday Princess were printed on the tiara in bright pink writing, and the sight of it resting in Harry’s hair brought a smile to your face.

Matt immediately broke into a grin and widened his arms, which you rolled your eyes at. “Y/N! You made it!”

You walked over to him, having nothing else to do, but didn’t give him a hug. “Barely. I can’t stay long—I’m supposed to be there at 10 so Lucy doesn’t kill someone with her heavy handed pouring.”

He chuckled, and then gave Harry a clap on the back. “I’m going to go check on the beer. Have fun, H.”

It left you and Harry alone—or as alone as you could be in a crowded room. Your eyes roamed his body, the black silky shirt drawing in your eyes, white stitching that spelled out his last name on the chest, the way it was unbuttoned low. It was the first time you’d been able to see his tattoos—the edges of what seemed to be wings on his collarbones that you wanted to see the rest of, and a silver chain with a cross hanging on it lying on his chest. You could feel his eyes on you too, and steeled yourself under his gaze, trying to remain confident as you stood in front of him.

“Nice tiara,” you said, breaking the silence.

He blushed, reflexively reaching up to touch it. “I was hoping you didn’t notice.”

“It’s literally a bright pink tiara on your head, Harry, how could I not notice?”

“Matt and Caleb made me wear it. My other little, Tyler, bought it and insisted.”

“Can’t let the family down?” You said, the corners of his lips lifting.

“Guess not.” A silence fell between you again and you busied yourself by investigating the space you were in. The worn couches on the wall, a massive dining table with alcohol covering it, dishes in the sink and a stack of red solo cups on the counter. It seemed like exactly what you would expect from a fraternity house, even if there wasn’t a party going on. Finally, he cleared his throat and thickly asked you, “Want to play pong?”

You blinked, not expecting the question, but shrugged. “Sure.”

“I’ll drink any you don’t want to,” he said.

“Why? Think I’m not any good?”

“No—I just—you drove, right?” He was stumbling over his words and it made you give him a small smile. You decided to be a bit of a tease, and brushed your fingers over the stitches on his shirt, just to mess with his brain a bit.

“I did,” you answered. “But I don’t think I’ll be drinking too much.”

His eyes widened a tad and you watched as he swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing. “Let’s see your skills, then,” he finally said and you followed him over the table, where they were setting up for another round. He set down his cup on the side of the table and you fiddled with the cups, making the lines straighter. “Ready?” He asked you, his body shifting closer to yours. There was just a hair of space between your hips and you sucked in a breath before nodding.

You hadn’t thought this through, you quickly realized, because pong meant that there was barely any space between the two of you, and he kept brushing against your back and arm as he moved around. When he passed you the ball his fingers touched yours and your eyes would flit to his, only to find his green irises looking right back. The scent of his cologne and the alcohol on his breath wrapped around you when he laughed close to your ear, the contact of his skin on yours when he gave you a high five and lightly gripped your hand for just a beat too long sent shivers down your spine. When he picked up a cup to drink from it, you watched as his lips—the ones you had kissed exactly a week ago—wrapped around the rim and the beer slid down his throat. You were actively trying not to think about kissing down the column of his neck as you looked back to your cups on the other side of the table.

“Can I get gentlemen’s?” You asked and next to you, Harry nodded, agreeing with your decision to re-rack. The guys playing you quickly reshuffled your cups and you dropped the beer-covered ball into a cup of water to your right. When you picked up the ball and rolled it between your fingers, you decided to tease Harry a bit more, because it was your favorite pastime. You offered the ball to him, clasped between your thumb and forefinger, and looked him dead in the eyes. “Blow on it for good luck?”

His eyes widened, but then a cocky grin drifted across his cheeks. He leaned in and blew softly on the white pong ball, his pupils dark and focused on yours. Then, at a volume only you could hear, he whispered, “Sure you don’t want me to blow something else?”

Rather than give him the satisfaction of knowing he had your pulse stuttering, you licked your lips and replied with, “Let’s see if you’re so cocky when I’m on my knees.” You turned back to the cups and with ease, you threw the ball as it sank into a cup. You peeked a glance up at Harry, only to find him already staring at you, blinking in rapid succession. “Your turn, Styles.” You grabbed the other ball and pressed it to the stitching on his chest and his lips quirked up, snatching the ball from your grasp.

“Kiss for good luck?” Your eyebrows lifted at his words and he was smiling at you, a cocky gaze fixed on you.

“In your dreams,” you answered with an eye roll.

“Oh, baby, you’re already in them,” he whispered as he tossed the ball. It hit the rim of your one remaining cup before falling in perfectly.

His words rang loudly in your ears as Harry raised his arms above his head in success, ignoring the words he just had said to you. You, however, couldn’t say the same. They were running through your head on a loop. He dreamt about you? You wanted to know more, wanted to know every bit of his dreams, what they looked like and what you did in them.

At the sound of your name you blinked, pushing yourself out of your daydreams. “Yeah?”

It was Harry, his palm resting on your lower back and burning the skin with his touch. “It’s almost ten.”

“Fuck,” you breathed out, pulling your phone from your jacket. “I—shit I have to go. Sorry.”

He shook his head. “S’fine. I’ll walk you to the door.”

You waved goodbye to your opponents and some of the other boys you had been introduced to. Harry’s hand left your body as you both walked, and you couldn’t help but be disappointed. “Happy Birthday, by the way,” you said as you turned into the hallway, the chatter of the boys over the music fading a bit.

Harry dug his hands into his pockets and smiled at you. “Thank you. And thanks for coming. It—it was nice, having you here.”

The softness in his tone was in direct conflict with the banter at the pong table, but you didn’t mind. You kind of liked that the two of you had this duality, the ability to go each direction. “I had fun.” You pulled your car keys out of your pocket and turned the knob on the door. “I’ll have a birthday Fireball shot waiting with your name on it, Birthday Princess.”

That made his smile turn into a grin, his dimples popping out as you stepped across the threshold and onto the front porch. “Looking forward to it, love.”

As you walked away, you tried not to let his term of endearment fill your every thought, but it was hard, especially when you looked back and he was standing in the doorway, watching you walk to your car. You exhaled and opened the driver’s side door, realizing that you had dug yourself into quite the mess with this boy.

You had been watching the door out of the corner of your eye all night, waiting for Harry and all of his friends to arrive. Lucy had noticed and pestered you about it, but you hadn’t given in. You didn’t feel like the entire bar staff knowing your personal business—Matt was plenty. You busied yourself by serving patrons, making an absurd number of vodka tonics (which you despised, but you had found freshman girls preferred them to gin, for some reason) and opening bottle after bottle of beer.

You were humming along to Broken Clocks by SZA when the door opened and your name was called over the bar, Matt’s voice booming in the space. “Y/N, I need a shot for the birthday boy!” Harry was standing next to him, Matt’s arm thrown over his shoulder, a grin on his face.

You turned and quickly queued In Da Club by 50 Cent, before grabbing the bottle of Fireball off the shelf. When you turned back to the bar, Harry was standing in front of you, the Birthday Princess tiara unfortunately absent. “Where’s your crown, Birthday Princess?” You asked, pouring the dark liquid into a shot glass for him.

“It’s a tiara, Y/N,” he corrected, snatching the shot. “And Caleb accidentally broke it.” You could tell by the twinkle in his eyes and the color in his cheeks that he was more than a few drinks in, no doubt doing shots with the rest of the party before hitting the bars.

“Good to know,” you answered, and just because he was so goddamned cute, you grabbed another shot glass and poured yourself a shot of Fireball.

“Takin’ a shot with me?”

“It’s your birthday, isn’t it?”

Harry was about to say something when the music changed and he let out a cheer, Matt and Caleb and another boy, who you assumed was Tyler, pounded on the bar on either side of him. Then, they began to sing and you could help but guffaw.

“Go, go, go, go go, go, go, shawty/It's your birthday/We gon' party like it's yo birthday/We gon' sip Bacardi like it's your birthday/And you know we don't give a fuck/It's not your birthday!” They sang, and you couldn’t help but join in at the end.

“Shots, shots, shots!” Matt cheered, and Harry lifted his shot glass, raising his eyebrow at you.

“In your dreams,” you answered, realizing what you had said only after the words left your mouth.

Harry smirked, a dimple poking out. “We’ve already talked about dreams, Y/N. You know you’re already in them, so no need to beg for it.”

You rolled your eyes at him and pushed lightly on his cheek, a pout settling onto his lips. “Shut up, Styles.”

“Meanie,” he said, moving back to rest normally against the bar. “You have to be nice to the birthday boy, didn’t you hear?”

“Not if he’s a prick,” you informed him, resting your hands on the lip of the bar and locking your elbows, leaning slightly forward. “Now, do you guys want anything else, or are you just going to annoy me all night?”

“Four whiskey cokes,” Matt told you. “And make ‘em strong.”

Throughout the night, their group achieved higher and higher levels of drunkenness. They started singing a Cheetah Girls song in their corner booth, much to your enjoyment, and Matt got on the table, something Mike only allowed because he was an employee, and made the entire bar sing Harry Birthday to Harry. When Mamma Mia came on, Tyler—who you were increasingly discovering was pure chaos in a body, perhaps even more chaotic than Harry and Matt combined—tried to start a conga line through the bar. Not only was he stopped by Mike, but also by the sheer number of people packed into the space.

Meanwhile, you were left behind the bar, fielding drink requests and racking up students’ credit cards with drinks they probably would forget ordering in the morning. You even had one Beer Baptism, an exciting element of the night, when some hockey player informed you he has drank every beer on tap, meaning he had achieved his Beer Baptism status. Harry and Matt lost their shit in the corner when you announced it and rang the bell over the bar, before grabbing two full pints of the hockey player’s requested beer of choice—Budweiser, for some fucking reason—and poured it over his head.

After three, the bar had started to empty out, but the four musketeers in the corner were still going strong. Harry kept coming up to you and asking for a shot of this or such and such drink, and even requested to make an Old Fashioned behind the bar again. You told him he was too drunk to make it right, but next time he could. Every time he came up he offered some sexual innuendo or bad joke, a lingering touch on your hand when you passed him his drink, or a wink that left u scowling at him. He even unbuttoned his shirt a few more buttons so by the time it was just him and his lineage in the corner, it was barely even on him. The whole idea of “No shoes, no shirt, no service” was quickly becoming a possible line you could use, especially when he kicked his feet up on the table and Caleb was trying to grab at his boots and pull them off, much to your amusement.

At 3:45, there were no patrons left except for the booth full of boys, so you had Lucy start cleaning up while you grabbed a beer—your first drink of the night other than the shot you did with Harry—and walked over to the boys. Harry was on the end, since he kept on coming and going from the booth, his knees spread wide and one arm slung over the back of the seat. At the sight of you approaching, he straightened up and set his drink down on the table.

“Hey,” he said, drawing out the Y as you slid in next to him, his arm falling easily around your shoulders.

“Hello,” you answered, nudging his knee with yours. “You’re man spreading all over my booth, Styles.”

Tyler snorted and Harry shifted, pulling his knees in closer together. “Didn’t know it was your booth.”

“I work here, you know.”

“I noticed,” he answered, tongue running over his lip as he looked at you. “I like this top you’ve got on.”

You sipped on your beer before replying, “It’s a bodysuit, actually.”

“So I’ve got a genuine question,” Matt said, leaning in towards you from across the table. “How do you pee with that on?”

“It’s got snaps on the crotch.” For some reason Tyler and Caleb blush at the word crotch and it makes you smile internally. “Can be a bitch to take on and off, though.”

“Huh.” Matt leaned his cheek on his palm. “I never fully understood the appeal.”

“Well,” you said, placing your beer on the table. “They tuck into pants and skirts so there’s smooth lines. But also it kind of feels like you’re wearing lingerie.”

That had all the boys blushing, including Harry, who said, “So that’s like lingerie to you?”

You glanced down at the lace long-sleeved bodysuit you wore and shrugged. “Guess so.”

“I always thought lingerie involved less material, not full on sleeves.”

You mulled this over, and decided to push his buttons a bit more. “So is a babydoll not considered lingerie to you?”

His eyebrows scrunched up and if you were being honest, the expression was positively adorable. You wondered if it was the face he gave when he couldn’t figure out a math problem or was looking at IKEA instructions. “The fuck’s a babydoll?”

“Other than a pet name?” You threw back and Harry quirked a smile. “It’s like a…sexy nightgown, I guess you could say.”

“Sexy nightgown.” Harry stated, mulling over the thought in his head, and you watched as he brushed a hand through his hair, considering the concept. “And that would have more material than what you’re wearing right now?”

You shrugged and took another sip of your beer. “Arguably.”

“Then yeah, I guess that’s still considered lingerie. A sexy nightgown, huh?” He blew out a breath of air and looked to the boys across the booth from you. “Damn, the girls I’ve been seeing have been holding out on me.”

The boys laughed, but you wanted Harry’s attention back on you. Maybe it was the close proximity of his body or the smell of his cologne that overwhelmed your senses, or the way you could see the butterfly tattoo on his abdomen and the low rise of his incredibly tight skinny jeans, but you wanted him. Badly.

So you reached down and placed a hand on his thigh, high enough to make his breath catch but not too high where you were actually touching him. Just close enough to make him consider the prospect. “You’ve been picking the wrong girls, then,” you said, the words low in your chest and Harry’s eyes were on you in an instant. Immediately there was movement on the other side of the booth, Tyler, Caleb and Matt sliding out one by one. “Leaving, boys?”

Matt nodded. “H?”

Harry’s eyes hadn’t left your face and the weight of his gaze had your heart pumping a mile a minute. “I think I’m going to stay.”

His fingers moved from the booth seat next to him to cover your hand that rested on his thigh, slowly inching it up his pant leg. “I’ll take him home,” you said, glancing back to Matt. “I’ll let you know when he’s home, okay?”

Matt gave Harry another look, and then nodded, obviously trusting you to take care of his friend. “Let me know if you need anything.” With that, he turned away, waving to Lucy and giving Mike a slap on the back on his way out.

Your attention turned back to Harry, who had somehow slid closer to you on the seat. “What was all that talk about lingerie, hmm?” He asked, the hand that rested next to your shoulder moving to rub the top of your arm, heat surging through your veins at his touch. “You always chew me out for sayin’ shit to you, and then you go and say that. In front of my friends, no less.”

You drummed your fingers on his inner thigh and caught the way he swallowed thickly at the feeling. “I wanted to see what you’d say, I guess.”

“And?”

“I now know you’ve never seen a babydoll. Or nearly enough lingerie.”

He sucked in a breath and then leaned his head down, his lips brushing against your earlobe. “Is that your way of asking me if I’d like to see your collection?”

Your heartbeat was thudding in your ears as he grazed your hair with his nose, eyes fluttering shut at the feeling. He had your insides moving in circles like they were on a merry-go-round, consumed in nothing but him. Slowly, you lifted your leg closest to his so it hooked over his knee, tugging yourself closer to him. “Perhaps.”

Under the low lights of the bar, the green of his eyes twinkled at you, your coyness making him grab at your knee, kneading his thumb into your skin over your jeans. “You told Matt you’d take me home.”

“I did.”

“What’s the likelihood we could change the destination on that ride home?”

Your hand moved from his thigh to his torso, skittering over his shirt and tucking against his exposed skin, his butterfly tattoo flexing under your touch. “I could be convinced. What did you have in mind?”

“Your place,” he said, hand squeezing your knee tightly when you scratched his skin softly. “Fuck, Y/N.”

“You’re drunk,” you told him simply.

With a combination of tenderness and need that had you desperate for him, he nudged your temple with his nose and said, “I won’t be in the morning.”

“Is that right?” The feeling of his breath in your ear made you grab at his side, pulling at his skin with your hand, wanting just to feel him in some way. You were sober and yet he had you feeling drunk, drunk on need and desire. “Then come on, Birthday Princess.”

The wood of your front door slammed against your back the second you shut the door behind you, Harry’s body pinning you to the door. His hands tugged on your hips and your hands were in his hair and the sounds falling from your mouth were positively sinful. The way he pulled on your bottom lip and sucked on it, making you press up into his body, hands tugging at his shirt, how his hands fell to your ass and squeezed, you squeaking into his mouth. How he lifted one of your legs and hooked it around his hips, allowing your centers to meet, and he shakily exhaled. It was consuming, kissing Harry, trying to keep track of what he was doing and then finally giving up and just losing yourself in him, in the way he touched you and made your entire body erupt in flames.

“Jump,” he said, pulling at your other thigh and you did so immediately, not even wasting a beat before hooking your ankles around his hips and letting him grind into you.

You let out a wanton moan at the feeling of the friction from your jeans meeting and rubbing into you, and from the way his breath caught, you knew he was just as affected as you were. His necklace swung on its chain as he pulled away and sucked a line of kisses down your neck, just as you had thought about doing to him earlier. When he prodded at your pulse point with his teeth and then licked over the spot you tugged on his hair, his name a broken whimper on your lips.

Hands met skin, both of you needing more and more. You pushed at his shirt, the predominantly unbuttoned garment falling easily from his shoulders and pooling at his elbows. The fresh skin served as an opportunity, and you took it, bending your head and licking across his collarbones, his head tipping back at the feeling. You sucked a mark onto the protruding bone, right over the wing of one of his swallows, and blew on it when you were done, Harry hissing above you.

From the way his fingers were digging into your jeans and you were panting in his hold, you knew that if you didn’t slow things down they were going to get out of hand—and quickly. So you lightly pushed at his shoulders, his gaze bouncing up to your eyes. “We should stop,” you mumbled, sucking in air finally. “Just—just sleep for now. Yeah?”

“‘m feeling more sober now,” he said, diving back into your neck, but you pulled on his hair, hauling him away.

“I had to literally help you walk to my car.”

He pouted at you. “That was a weak moment.”

But you shook your head at him, having none of it. “I want you at full capacity,” you told him, and his jaw dropped slightly, just enough to part his lips and you to press a finger into the space. His teeth tugged on your nail and finger pad, eyes on yours. “Want you fully sober so I can see what I’ve been waiting for.” Then you dropped your finger from his lips and ran it along his jawline, watching his eyes try to take in every one of your motions. “Plus, I want you to be able to remember my lingerie collection when I model it for you.”

When Harry groaned, it was deep and unrestrained, a demand from the most feral part of him. His head dropped to your chest and you pushed through his locks, his panting breath on your skin through your bodysuit. “I’m not gonna be able to sleep with that image running through my head.”

You rested your hands on his shoulders and pressed down on them so you could unhook your ankles and drop to the floor. “I think you’ll manage. Now, c’mon, let’s get ready for bed.”

His fingers threaded through yours as you pulled him through your apartment, thankful Rhea was spending the night at her boyfriend’s so she wouldn’t be awoken from the giggles that left your mouth when Harry tripped over your shoes and the corner of your bookcase in the living room. You led him to your bedroom and left the door open, walking over to your dresser, kicking off your booties on your way. “Are you going to take this off?” His fingers graced over the top of your shoulder and you inhaled sharply.

“Yes.” You unhooked your hoop earrings and dropped them into your jewelry box. “Is that a problem?”

“Slightly,” he answered, fingers trailing down your arm. “I was hoping to do that myself.”

You turned around so he was facing you, eyes blown out in desire and cheeks flushed from the copious amounts of alcohol he had consumed that night. “Then do it.”

His tongue darted out quickly, licking the center of his lips, and then he smiled at you, a boyish look of delight. “Is this my birthday gift?” Fingers brushed the top of your jeans and you nodded. “Goddamn, aren’t I lucky.” He popped the button and drew your zipper down, eyes fluttering to yours to make sure you were okay as he moved his hands to your hips, pushing the material down. “Holy fuck,” he suddenly breathed out and you glanced down.

The tattoo on your left hip had caught his attention, his palm resting just above where it started, his eyes trained on the ink on your skin. “What? You’ve got plenty of them.”

A chuckle left his mouth, and then he just shook his head. “You keep on surprising me.” His fingers crept down your skin, brushing against the chrysanthemums that covered from where your bodysuit sat on the rise of your hips to a bit down your thigh. “Does it mean anything?”

You nodded slowly. “It was my grandmother’s favorite flower.”

He must have noticed your word choice, because he quietly said, “I’m sorry,” before bending down and kissing over your tattoo. You inhaled sharply and watched as he tugged your jeans the rest of the way down your legs. Once you’d stepped out of them, he rose back to full height. “Can I take this thing off?” He asked, pulling softly on the hem of your bodysuit.

“Yes.”

“Snaps, hmm?” He ducked his head and you widened your legs enough for him to be able to tuck his hand between your legs. The pads of his fingers brushed over your clit and you couldn’t help the whimper that felt from your lips, the sound of it making Harry smile. “I can feel you.” He pressed lightly to your center through the two layers of material and you gripped the dresser you were leaning against.

You hadn’t been this wet, this in need of someone in such an all consuming way, in ages. Most people would have probably been embarrassed, but you just nodded, affirming his statement. Yes, you were wet, and yes it was all for him.

In a flourish, he gripped your bodysuit where the snaps laid and pulled, the sound of the fastenings coming undone cascading through your silent room. “Convenient,” he muttered to himself. Then, his hands pushed the mesh fabric up, revealing your black lace thong and the stretch of your bare stomach. “You know,” he said, squeezing at the curve of your torso, “I quite liked this thing. All that mesh. Could see your bra all night and it drove me fucking crazy just having to watch and not be able to touch you.”

When he pushed it above your breasts, revealing your lacy bralette, you lifted your arms and let him pull it over your head, the fabric falling to the ground. “Well, now you can,” you informed him.

The gaze he fixed you made your skin tingle. Without another beat, his hands were on your breasts, fingers brushing across your skin and then dipping into the material. With your breasts exposed, he whispered your name, forgotten on his tongue when he leaned in and fastened his lips to your nipple, the skin hardening immediately from the wetness on his tongue.

Curses left your mouth in a string, hands tugging on his hair as he prodded at your skin. He didn’t linger there though, seeming to be too focused on the greater task, because he lifted his head from your chest after a minute or so. And then his hands were at your back, unhooking your bralette and pulling it from your body, revealing your nearly fully naked body to him. His thumbs brushed over the solar system tattooed on your ribcage and you shuddered at the feeling.

“You’re so fucking gorgeous,” he mumbled, eyes taking you in. “Good god.”

The heat that rushed to your cheeks you couldn’t stop, so instead you distracted yourself with teasing him. “Take your shirt off.” His eyebrows raised, but he followed your directions, unbuttoning the final button and pulling the material off of his shoulders. As he was about to drop it to the ground you stopped him, taking the fabric in your hands. He watched in fascination as you pulled it over your shoulders, buttoned the middle two buttons, and then looked up at him. The shirt covered most of your ass, the tops of your thighs and your tattoo exposed.

“Like my shirt, huh?”

You nodded, and then decided it was your turn to touch his skin. Your hands criss-crossed across his exposed chest, brushing across the marks you had left and down, tracing his nipples until they pebbled, and then down to the laurels on his pelvis, barely peeking out from the top of his jeans. Then, you popped the button on his jeans, and when he didn’t stop you, you pushed them down his legs, struggling a bit with how tight they were, but succeeding finally. He was left in nothing but his briefs, a lion tattoo on his thigh exposed to your eyes and some small ink on his knees you thought was cute. You wondered how drunk he was when he did it, but decided not to ask.

“What happened to getting ready for bed?” He asked, hands running up and down your arms.

“We’re dressed for bed, aren’t we?” You turned around though, and led him out of your room and down the hall to where the bathroom was. “Go ahead—I’m going to get us some water. Use anything you want, except my toothbrush. There’s spares under the sink.”

You left him to his own devices and made your way through your apartment, grabbing two glasses and filling them with water, tucking a bottle of ibuprofen under your arm. He would need it in the morning. After leaving them on your bedside table, you headed for the bathroom where the door was open, Harry brushing his teeth at the sink. You slid in next to him and he moved to the side, allowing you to grab your face wash and splash water on your face, swiping the liquid in circles over your skin. After your moisturizer and eye cream, you started brushing your teeth, trying not to focus on how Harry was just leaning against the wall watching you.

“You good over there?” You asked, spitting into the sink and rinsing off your toothbrush before dropping it into the jar on the sink that held them.

He nodded. “This is going to sound weird,” he said, “but I feel…comfortable with you. Like this kind of shit,” he gestured to the bathroom, “I’ve never done this.”

“Brushed your teeth?”

“No,” he grumbled, grabbing for your hips. “I don’t usually get ready for bed when I spend the night with girls.”

You tried not to read into that statement, to wonder if you were some normal hookup or something more. Instead, you leaned in and pecked his lips, before tugging him out of the bathroom and towards your room. “Water’s on the table,” you told him, shutting the door behind you as you stepped inside. “And some ibuprofen, if you want it.”

He walked over to the opposite side of the bed and gulped down the water, tossing some of the medicine on his tongue and finishing off the water. “Thanks.”

“Of course,” you answered, and then pulled back the covers on your bed. You settled in between the sheets, and watched as Harry slid in beside you, obviously trying to gauge what you wanted. Once he was comfortable, you shuffled towards him, and without thinking too much into it, you rested your head on his chest. He immediately brought his arm around your body, holding you close to him. “Night,” you mumbled.

“Night, Y/N.” His voice was gravelly from exhaustion and alcohol, and you shut your eyes, falling asleep to the rise and fall of his chest.

You blinked, eyelids heavy from exhaustion, as you woke up. Sunlight was streaming in your curtains, which despite being blackout curtains, could do little to hold back at the sun in the morning. As you gathered your senses, you realized that the other side of your bed was empty. Picking up your head, you took inventory of the room—Harry’s boots on the floor, your clothes haphazardly tossed in your laundry basket, your phone charging on your bedside table and a full water glass sitting there.

You had finished yours last night, if you remembered correctly. But you shrugged and grabbed the water, chugging it as you unplugged your phone and checked the time. It was noon, which was the normal time you woke up after a shift, meaning you’d had somewhere between seven and eight hours of sleep. You could’ve slept for hours, but what was more urgent than a couple more hours of sleep was where Harry had run off to. Slowly you pulled yourself up, Harry’s shirt still adorning your body, and walked out of your room and into the hallway, where the smell of coffee hit your nose immediately.

“Morning sleepyhead,” Harry said when you walked into the open plan kitchen and living room. He was sitting at the bar that divided the room in half, a cup of coffee in his hand and a bottle of Pedialyte on the counter next to him. “I’m glad you found the water. I was getting pretty close to waking you up.”

“Thanks for that,” you said, raising the glass to him. You meandered past him into the kitchen, where you grabbed a coffee cup—this one was from a National Park you’d visited the summer before with your family—and filled it with coffee. “How long have you been up?”

“Two hours,” he answered. “I have a hard time sleeping after a big night out.”

“Pedialyte?” You asked, nodding to the bottle on the counter.

He grimaced and set down his cup. “Yeah. I went out and got it while you were asleep.”

Sun was streaming in the white curtains in the living room, casting the whole apartment in a bright mid-day glow. Harry was in just his jeans, no shirt, and you couldn’t help but wonder what he had worn out. “Did you wear that out?”

He glanced down at himself. “Yeah. Stole one of your big sweatshirts, too.”

“Did you now?” You shifted away from the counter, rounding the counter so you stood in front of him. “Which one?”

Green eyes followed your hand as it landed on his knee, moving it away from the other one to create space. When you took a step forward, you could hear his breath hitch and gave him a coy smile, your free hand sliding up his thigh. “Your green one. Said Obsession on it, or something—it was the only one that fit me.”

You chuckled softly. “It’s my ex’s.”

He huffed. “S’mine, now.”

“Is it now?” You asked, setting your cup on the counter next to Harry’s. “Planning on taking over for him?”

“As an ex?”

You shook your head, hands drifting up his torso. “As the guy who gets to wear my clothes.” You tried not to think about what those words meant, what you were asking him, because your mind was too wrapped up in him to even be thinking about your intent.

“Happily.” His hands finally landed on your waist, ring-clad fingers pressing into the skin covered by his shirt. “You know, you look good in this.” Fingers slipped under the material of his shirt, the white Styles on the chest stretching over your breast as you breathed.

“It’s black,” you told him, trying to keep your breathing even. “Everyone would look in it.”

“Hmm,” he hummed, kneading your sides. “Dunno about that.”

Both your hands and Harry’s explored each other’s skin, taking inventory of every rise and fall, roll of skin, the places that made each other gasp just a bit. It felt good, being this intimate with someone just like this, nothing but one another’s hands. “Then what’s so special about me wearing it?”

Palms cupped your breasts, squeezing delicately, his full forearms tucked underneath the fabric of his shirt. “That you’re the one in it,” he murmured, voice dropping an octave. “You, wearing my shirt, my last name on your chest.” He blew out a breath and you tweaked one of his nipples in reply. “Fuck, Y/N, you’re a dream.”

“How about we move this to my bedroom,” you said, slipping your hands up to his shoulders. “And I finally show you my lingerie collection?” You didn’t have to ask him twice. He was standing, your hand in his, and pulling you in the direction of your room immediately, a giggle leaving your lips at the sudden movement. “Somebody’s eager.”

“You’ve been talking about this lingerie for like twelve hours, love,” he said, shutting your door behind you. “I fuckin’ dreamed about it.”

You pulled out of his grasp and he fell down to your bed, where the sheets were twisted from sleep. His messy long hair and shirtless torso drew in your gaze, the way he leaned against your pillows, watching you. “Did you now?” You turned to your dresser and pulled out your top drawer, where your lingerie lived. “Close your eyes,” you told him, peeking back at where he laid.

Once he followed your instructions, grumbling about missing out on half the show, you pulled out your first item—a dark blue babydoll, lace appliqué covering the skirt and a bow nestled between the molded cups, a matching g-string that you slid over your hips. You fluffed your hair, suddenly wishing you had had the forethought to wash your face before you took on this endeavor.

“Open,” you told Harry, and turned in his direction.

“Holy fuck,” he said in one breath, sitting up immediately, as if a jolt of electricity had ripped through his body. “Is this a babydoll?”

“Good memory,” you replied, leaning against your dresser. You didn’t know what to do with your body other than just stand there and let his eyes trail over you. “Thoughts?”

“How would you feel about never wearing clothes again?” He asked, gnawing at his lip. “Just that.”

You blushed, and picked at the hem of it. “I think I might get cold.”

“I’ll give you a jacket.”

“How kind.” You turned around and when he whined, you turned just your head to him. “There’s more sets to show you, you know. Close those eyes, mister.” He did as you asked and you pulled off the lingerie, lovingly folding it back into your dresser. Your fingers ran over the lace in front of you, trying to decide which one of your, admittedly many, sets you wanted to show him next. Finally, you settled on a pink lace set that was essentially see-through. You’d never worn it before—it was one of your newer purchases, one you’d chosen after a successful test grade.

You pulled up the panties and hooked the bra behind your back, sliding the straps up your arms until they settled comfortably on the dip of your shoulders. Then, you turned and at the sight of Harry sitting there, patiently waiting, you decided to reward him a bit. You walked towards him, and when you reached his form, you settled your hands on his shoulders. The touch made his eyes flutter open, and the second he saw your body his eyes widened. “Wow,” was all he could say as he studied the material covering your skin.

“What do you think?” The more his eyes lingered on you, the more you loved how you burned under his gaze.

He licked his lips and reached out, thumbing across the top of the lace thong you wore. “How is this one even better?”

You tilted your head to the side and pressed closer to him, his palms falling down your sides as you stepped between his knees. “You’re the first person to see this one.”

“Really?” He seemed like a kid in a candy store after being told he could buy whatever he wanted. “I’m honored.” You pulled away from his grasp and he groaned, snatching your hips back between his hands. “Where are you going?”

“I’ve got more to show you,” you informed him, pulling his hands off of you. “Patience, Styles.”

“Baby,” he rasped, the pet name falling from his mouth with ease, and you wondered if you would ever forget how it sounded. “I don’t know if I can survive much more.”

Your eyes fell to his pants, where you could see his hard-on, the outline of his dick straining against the tight denim. “Somebody’s desperate.”

“Tease,” he shot back. “I’m serious, though. I’ll let you finish later.”

You considered his proposal, but ended up pulling away. “One more. It’ll be worth it, I promise.”

He groaned, but nodded, shutting his eyes obediently as you moved away from him. At your dresser, you found the set you were looking for, a dark green set. The bra was a balconette cut, lace appliqué covering the cups and running up the straps. You pulled on the suspender belt that matched, the straps dangling down your legs as you put on the thong next. Then, you grabbed a pair of black stockings and clipped them to the bottom of the suspenders. You fluffed your hair a bit and then turned back around.

“Open,” you instructed and when Harry’s eyes opened the moan that left his mouth ran down your spine like fire.

“Fuck.” The word was all he could say, his jaw literally dropping at the sight of you standing there. “Come here.” You didn’t move, though, wanting to hear him beg for you. This set had your confidence soaring through the roof, the combination of the material on your skin and Harry’s gaze making you want to see what you could make him do for you. “Please,” he finally said, shifting towards you.

So you walked over to him, slowly, keeping your shoulders back so the bra strained across your chest. When you reached him you placed a hand on his bare chest, pressing him slightly back so he rested on his hands, eyes staring up at you as you rested a knee on either side of his thighs, sitting down on his lap. “Worth the wait?”

His hands immediately moved, settling on your hips, sliding over the green lace. “You’re going to kill me,” he rasped, words rough in his throat. The sight of his pupils blown out in desire, chest rising and falling under your palm as he took in your body in this set made you grasp the back of his neck and pull his lips towards yours.

The two of you met in a blaze of fire, need flowing between you as he tugged you closer, your center brushing over the denim of his jeans. When you whimpered he suckled on your lip and you pulled at the roots of his hair, needing to hear him groan into your mouth. You wanted to hear every one of his sounds, to take inventory of him and store it away for later when he wasn’t right there in front of you. Lips met and parted, slotting together with ease as you both surged towards one another, begging for more.

His hands were covering every inch of you, pulling and grabbing and scratching at your skin, somehow bringing you closer and closer to him. When you began to rock against his jeans he let out a hiss, pulling your hips down onto his even more. Then his head dipped, nudging up your chin as he found your neck, nibbling and biting at your skin before licking along his marks, leaving you a whining mess in his lap. You were cradling his head, not wanting it to end, just to make him continue and continue and continue.

Now that you had him, you realized how long you had been waiting for this, even if you pretended like you weren’t. You had wanted him since the first time he made a bad joke and told you you looked beautiful, when he responded with a quick remark, countering your sass with plenty of his own. He met you tit for tat, ebbing and flowing with you like waves on a beach.

Your fingers wound around his cross necklace and tugged, just enough to get his lips to leave your skin and look up at you. “Tryin’ to get my attention?” He teased, squeezing at your waist, tight enough that he would probably leave marks but you didn’t mind. In fact, you looked forward to inspecting each inch of your body and seeing what he had left behind.

“Your jeans,” you mumbled. “I want them off.”

He chuckled lightly. “Now who’s the desperate one?”

“Shut up,” you said and he just smiled at you, his dimples poking out.

“Go on, then.” He watched as you slid back on his thighs and popped the button on his jeans, before getting up so you could pull them all the way off. Once they were on the ground, you moved towards him, but he stopped you. “Lay down for me, love,” he said, eyes trailing down your body as you stood in front of him.

You didn’t bother with sass, just falling to the twisted sheets and looking at him as he crawled towards you. His fingers found the clips of your suspenders, and you nodded at him, giving him silent permission to begin to undress you. When he released the stockings and began to pull them down, he kissed every inch of your revealed skin, creating a line down your calf that had your breath coming out in pants. “Harry,” you said, the last syllable of his name trailing off as he did the same thing to your other leg.

“Yes?” He asked, eyes popping up to you. His hair was a mess from your hands and you loved it—the sight of him with wide eyes and puffy dark pink lips, color in his cheeks and marks on his chest from your nails. When you didn’t respond, unable to even create words as he slipped his hands up your body and tugged down the suspender belt that sat at your waist, he said, “You’re going to have to speak up if you’ve got something to say, baby.”

That pet name. It was going to be the death of you and you had no idea why. Maybe because of the emotions swirling in your chest as you looked down at him, the way you wanted to simultaneously lie in his arms for hours and jump his bones, but also just hold his hand and hear him talk to you. Perhaps it was the fact that no one had ever called you that like he did, with desire and passion laced in the word, a tenderness and an edge to it that made you weak in the knees. “I need you,” you finally uttered.

“Do you now,” he responded, leaning forward on his knees so he hovered over you. “Can you be more specific?” Impatient, you grabbed his hand and pressed his fingers to your center, where you had soaked through your thong long ago. A low groan fell from his chest at the feeling of your wetness, and he peeked up at you from where he was touching you. “You’re soaked through,” he said in awe, brushing against your center and making your back arch up. “Fuck, Y/N. Is this for me? Did I get you like this?”

“Yes,” you drawled, pushing down onto his finger. Your mind was spinning, eyes fluttering shut and just losing yourself in the feeling of finally having contact where you needed him most. “Please,” you begged finally, rocking against him with your hips, chasing more.

Harry moved without pause, pulling your underwear down your legs and running his finger between your folds. The feeling of his touch on your warm flesh had you squirming, his name mixed in with curses as he rubbed softly in a circle. “That feel good?” He asked and you could feel his eyes traveling over your body even though your eyes were squeezed shut from the feeling. When he brushed his index finger against your hole which was dripping for him, you gasped, hips jutting down against him so the tip of his finger brushed inside of you. “God, you’re so wet,” he mumbled, almost to himself.

Then, he dipped a finger inside of you and you cried out, desperate and needy for him, unable to contain the sounds falling your lips as he built up a momentum, curling his finger inside of you and hitting your sweet spot. “Another,” you said, eyes finally opening so you could see him.

And the sight didn’t disappoint. His eyes were on your center, watching his finger move in and out of you, and you could see the outline of his bulge in his briefs, a small wet spot where his tip was. The fact that he was leaking while fingering you somehow just added to your pleasure. He added a second finger and pressed them deep inside of you, the cool metal of his rings brushing against your entrance and making you buck up against his fingers. You were squirming on the bed, unable to stay still because he was building an orgasm inside of you like no one else ever had. You could feel your belly tightening and your high was rising, sweat beads forming at the back of your neck.

When he rubbed on your front wall you let out a helpless cry. He had found the spot that made you go insane and you could tell he was happy, a smile stretching across his face. “I’m close,” you panted.

“What do you need?” His words were low and they just made you want him more.

“Your mouth.” The words were broken, but he seemed to understand because he shifted immediately, falling to his stomach between your legs and pulling you towards him. He decided to go harder, because he slammed his fingers into you at a brutal pace and matched it by licking at your nub, sucking and pulling at the sensitive skin. His tongue was sin against your skin, circling your clit and making you cry out. You dug your fingers into his hair and tugged at the strands, his name tumbling from your lips in a beg and a whine and a prayer all in one.

It didn’t take long before you were coming, the feeling rushing up without you even realizing, your back arching and hips bucking against his fingers and mouth. He lapped at you through it, eyes open and watching your orgasm, the shudder that left your mouth and how you fell into the mattress when you came down. When he pulled his fingers from you, you hissed, and he just kissed your pelvic bone, before sitting back on his heels and dipping his fingers into his mouth, swirling his tongue around the digits that were covered in your juices.

“Get over here,” you demanded, hooking your foot around his hips and pulling him towards you.

He clamored over you, his lips finding yours once again, and you sighed into the kiss, pulling his mouth closer to you. You needed him like you had never needed anyone else, a feeling that took over your body and ran your mind. When his head dipped and he tugged on your earlobe you whined. “Can I have you,” he asked into your skin. “Please? I waited and I just…fuck, I can’t wait anymore.”

“Yes,” you told him, hands falling to his waist and pushing down his briefs. “Condoms are in my bedside table.”

His head bounced up at that and he reached over, wrenching open the drawer and searching blindly for a packet. When his fingers found one he moved back over you, the foil falling next to your head. Then, he pushed his briefs the rest of the way down his legs, letting the material fall to the floor with the rest of your clothes. Next was your bra, his hands moving to your back and deftly unhooking it, pulling the lace from your skin. “Beautiful,” he hummed, nestling his face between your breasts.

You chuckled, brushing his hair back. “I swear, boys and boobs,” you said.

“Hey,” he replied, picking up his head. “Don’t make me out to be some horny teenager.”

“Aren’t you?” You teased, picking up the condom between your fingers.

“No.” He took the packet and ripped it open with his teeth. “I’m twenty-one, baby.” Then, he rolled the condom down his length and you watched, absorbing his fully naked body for the first time. The cut of the muscles under his skin, the way his tattoos stretched across his torso, the full length of him that you decided you wanted in your mouth after.

He brushed his tip against your slit and you whined unabashedly, rocking towards him. “H,” you mumbled, “please.” That was all he needed, because without another pause he was pressing into you, bottoming out in one go. You let out an unrestrained moan, grappling at his shoulders as he sunk onto his elbows, his face hovering above yours. As he pulled out and pushed back in, a groan from his lips filling the space between you, you watched his face. The way his eyebrows pulled together and he bent his head, resting his forehead against your collarbone as he found his rhythm.

Once he did, it was heaven. His sweaty skin meeting yours as he drove into you at a brutal pace, but one that felt fucking incredible. Your ankles hooked around his hips and held him close inside of you, and you tugged on his necklace to pull his lips to yours, needing the softness of his tongue inside your mouth again. Your hands twisted in his hair, yanking on his strands when he pushed in particularly hard, and he groaned. He liked his hair being pulled, you discovered, and you decided to keep at it, threading your hands through his locks and pulling whenever he hit that spongy spot that made you see stars.

“Like that,” you rasped when he latched his lips to your neck, most definitely leaving a mark on your skin. “Yes, H, just like that. Fuck, you’re so deep.” Your words were a mess, just a stream of consciousness, but he didn’t seem to mind. Instead, he slammed into you harder and pulled your leg higher, tugging it so that your foot rested over his shoulder and your hamstrings stretched. And when he pushed back in, you scrambled at his back, drawing harsh lines down his skin at the feeling of him reaching a new depth.

“Feel so good,” he mumbled, words broken as they spilled from his lips. “Y/N, god, so good.” His hands fisted in the sheets and you dug your nails into his shoulders when he swiveled his hips slightly, brushing every inch of you. When you squeezed him, his head tipped back, exposing his neck and you leaned up, ignoring the burn in your hamstring, and licked up his throat. He rasped your name as you pulled at the skin at the juncture of his shoulder and neck, making a mark of your own for him to enjoy later.

You fell back down and slipped your leg from its spot on his shoulder, and pulled him close to you, wanting to kiss him again. His lips seemed to be your new obsession, wanting nothing more than to be touching them constantly. He didn’t seem to have a problem with it, slotting your lips between his and kissing you fiercely as he pistoned in and out of you.

There were going to be bruises on your inner thighs, you were sure of it. You would be feeling the impact of his hips on your thighs for days, every time you sat down the muscles would ache and you would remember this—him moving in and out of you and panting in your ear, mumbling about how good you felt around him, how gorgeous you were, how much he loved fucking you. The prospect of feeling him for days was one you looked forward to.

When he gave a particularly deep thrust you moved up on the sheets, grabbing hold of his neck to hold yourself steady, and he moaned. You peeked down at him and as he moved back in, you asked, “Did you like that?”

“Yeah,” he replied, a broken confirmation. “Again, please.”

You’d never really done this before, so you decided to be careful with him, just a bit of pressure using your fingers. With four fingers on one side of his neck and your thumb on the other, halfway down his neck, you pressed down on his skin when he drove back into you and his eyes fluttered shut at the feeling. The heel of your palm rested on the hollow of his neck as your fingers squeezed on either side of his neck, watching in rapture as he fucked into you harder and leaned into your touch. Slowly, you loosened and then tightened your grip, changing it up to make sure he was getting enough air.

“Is that good?” You asked, trying to focus as he drove harshly into you, the sound of his hips slapping your skin filling the room. He bobbed his head and pressed into your palm, so you squeezed your fingers again, wanting to give him what he asked for.

“I’m close,” he said, voice husky.

“Me too,” you answered, kicking your heels higher around his waist and pressing up into him so he reached even deeper inside of you. You could feel that same high building inside of you, an intensity waiting on the brink as he pressed into you, your fingers pressing into his throat again and again.

Then he pulled away slightly, rising up so his arms were fully extended and you couldn’t quite choke him anymore, so your hand fell to his bicep, squeezing at his skin as he somehow moved both faster and deeper inside of you. His hands dug into the sheets and he drove in and out of you at a pace unmatched, your head falling back to the mattress. You were panting, eyes glued to the sight of his necklace swinging back and forth as he moved, the tension in his muscles and the sheen of sweat covering his skin. He was utterly, breathtakingly beautiful.

You couldn’t take it anymore, and reached down between you two, rubbing your fingers over your clit because you were just seconds from the edge and you needed it. Harry’s eyes took in the sight in awe, and his jaw dropped slightly, a curse ripping through his throat as you clenched around him and threw back your head, a deep moan falling through the air. You were squirming underneath him, Harry’s hands having to hold onto your torso to keep you steady as he thrusted into you, finishing himself off as you came, tightening around him. His name left your lips in a beg and he picked up your hand, bringing it back to his throat.

With a tight squeeze, your fingers wrapped around his throat like before, he bucked into you once more and then was practically growling as he emptied himself into the condom, body shaking against you. You unwrapped your hand from his neck and ran your fingers through his hair, before pulling him down to your chest, wanting him close as he pulled out of you. “Holy shit,” he mumbled into your shoulder, and you laughed softly.

“You ever had someone choke you before?” You asked, brushing your fingers up and down his spine as he settled.

“No,” he said, his lips puckering against your throat, light kisses to your skin. “Kind of liked it, though.”

“Kind of?” You squeezed his butt cheek in jest, and he squeaked against you, making you fully laugh, body rumbling against him. “You literally picked up my hand and put it there.”

He tucked his face deeper into your neck and you could tell he was embarrassed. “Okay fine, I really liked it.”

You hummed and pressed a kiss to his shoulder. “I did too. It was my first time doing that.”

“Yeah?” He picked up his head and propped it up on his palm, looking at you. “Was it okay?”

Pushing back the hair from his forehead, you nodded. “I thought it was really hot.”

A smile quirked up on his lips. “You mean you think I’m really hot.”

You whacked his shoulder and he feigned pain, jaw dropping slightly. “Stop fishing for compliments.” He rolled his eyes at you, but moved off of your body, sitting on the edge of the bed and pulling off the condom, tying the end and tossing it in the trash. Red marks covered his back from your nails and you ran your hand over them, watching as he shivered from the sensitivity. “If anyone sees your back they’re going to think you got fucking mauled by a bear.”

He turned his head and raised his eyebrow at you. “A bear, huh? I thought it was just this really hot girl.”

“Good to know you think I’m hot too.” He laughed and turned fully around, crawling back into bed with you.

The sheets were sweaty but you didn’t mind, you just wanted to be close to him. He laid down on his back and pulled you in, your leg draping over his and your breasts pushing up against his side. Your head rested on his shoulder and you let out a breath, relaxing into his hold.

After you’d been lying there for a few minutes, he cleared his throat and you looked up at him. “You know,” he said, “I don’t know if this was obvious, but I really like you.”

His ring-clad fingers trailed up your back, drawing circles against your skin. You considered his words, rolling them over in your head, and considered your own feelings. Where did you stand? You knew you liked him based on how you felt around him, this just constant desire to have his hands on you. The way you could joke around with him and the banter between you made you feel at ease, a kind of comfort with him that you hadn’t found with anyone else. He was gorgeous and kind and a bit of an idiot, but you found it endearing. You also, admittedly, loved how obsessed he was with you. “I like you too,” you replied, turning your head so you could fully look at him, your chin resting on his chest.

He looked down at you, sliding his forearm under his head. “Yeah?”

“Mhm,” you hummed, kissing the skin nearest to you. “Really like you, even.”

“Well thank god,” he said, pinching your skin slightly. “It would’ve been really awkward if you didn’t.”

“Why is that?”

He smiled at you. “I might’ve introduced myself as your boyfriend to your doorman.”

You rolled your eyes at him and pushed up, moving so you could hover over him fully, hands on either side of his head. “Does this mean I have to go to all of your formals and shit with you?”

“Obviously,” he replied, pushing a strand of your hair behind your ear. “And my drinks at 260 are going to be free.” You huffed at his request for you to make all his drinks at the bar you worked at to be free, but Harry was having none of it. “Come on, baby, I’ll come to every one of your shifts.”

“Fine,” you answered, sliding your knees up his sides so you could sit squarely over the laurels on his pelvis. “But you have to bring me a snack.”

“Oh,” he said, quirking up his lips in a smirk, “baby I’m a full meal.” You swatted at his chest and he laughed, grabbing your hand and pressing a kiss to your palm, before tugging you back into him. You fell into him with ease, unable to hold up any walls to him anymore. Somehow, he had busted through each one of them and you didn’t want to rebuild them. Having him wrapped up in your heart was perfectly fine with you, you thought to yourself when he kissed the top of your head and asked if you wanted pancakes.

Yeah, you decided, you could get used to this.

fill my inbox with your favorite moments, lines, things you’re having ~feels~ about, or other concepts you’re dreaming up for bartender!y/n!!!!

#harry styles fan fiction #harry styles fic #harry styles one shot #harry styles drabble #harry styles writing #harry styles x reader #harry styles x mc #harry styles smut #college au #college harry styles #harry styles #fratboy harry #frat boy au #fratboy!harry #frat boy fan fiction #fratboy!harry fan fiction #bartender!y/n

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cinemastyles-blog · 2 years ago

Text

Summary: This was a request by: moonlixhtbae17 on Wattpad - "can u write one where y/n is really insecure and she's really upset about it and h makes her feel better and feel so loved i think that would be cute"

Warnings: soft and sensual smut18+, insecurities, rude/mean comments, some strong language, oral, fingering, unprotected sex, fluff

Master

∘₊✧── 𝑒𝓃𝒿𝑜𝓎 ──✧₊∘

"Have a good meeting, Harry." I smile and tuck a curl under his bandana. He smiles and leans in to kiss me, "I'll try." He leans back, "You good?"

I nod, "I'm great."

He raise an eyebrow, "y/n." He cups my cheeks, "If anything is bothering you.. you can tell me."

Something is bothering. Something he can't really help. Something that comes with being Harry Styles' girlfriend.

"I'm okay." I smile and lean up to kiss him, "I'll see you after your meeting, okay?" He nods and kisses my forehead, "It shouldn't be long at all. We just have to go over the set list and stuff for the show in a few days." He grabs his keys and turns around once he reaches the door, "You sure you're good? I can't stay ho-"

I cut him off, "I promise. I'm okay. Really." I smile and tilt my head, "Now go before I call Niall to come get you."

He laughs and shakes his head, "I love you."

"I love you." I blow him a kiss before he shuts the door and I let out a loud sigh, almost like I was holding my breathe.

I run a hand through my hair and close my eyes, "No. No. No." I anxiously pick at my fingers and pace back and fourth.

The hate. The hate. The hate.

It's all I see half the time and it makes me sick to my stomach, I don't want to be hated. I don't want Harry being hated for being with me.

The last few days, I've been in my head. Insecure.

I keep reminding myself that I'm the one with Harry. He loves me or else he wouldn't be with me.

I hate talking to him about it because it feels so repetitive I don't want to annoy him and have him get fed up with it.

It scares me, my own insecurities scare me and I'm caught in this.. this mental war zone with myself and every single hate comment that gets burnt into my memory.

I walk over to the couch, grabbing the big blanket Harry got me for Christmas this past year and wrap it around me. I click the tv on and skip through the channels, eying my phone as the thought to look crosses my mind.

I hurt myself by doing it, I know, but I can't help but to read what they're saying.

If they're saying anything about Harry.

I put on a random show and toss the remote down, grabbing my phone. I throw myself back into the blanket and pull up twitter.

I can't believe he's with someone like her. I mean, i haven't even heard of her, she's a nobody, one person tweeted.

I think she's very pretty and not everyone you obsess about has to date someone with a size zero waist, another person comments, actually coming to my defense.

I scroll and scroll, finding more hate than love.

I close twitter and go to Instagram, same thing.

I throw my phone down and wrap the blanket around me, tears silently falling down my cheeks.

My phone dings and I look, it's a text from Harry,

I'll be home soon, baby. We're about done here.

I smile slightly and send back the smile and kissy face emojis.

I set my phone down, defeating the urge to keep looking. I try to focus and watch the show that I put on but as soon as I let out a sigh to try and calm down, it's over.

I sit up, trying to catch my breathe. I put my head in my hands and just sob.

I let it all out.

Harry's been home the last couple days so I had to keep it together, pretend like everything is okay.

I grab the blanket and lay it over my mouth, staring at the floor and sniffling.

I hear a car door shut and I quickly get up and run to the downstairs bathroom, wiping my tears and snot away as I go.

"Baby?" Harry yells as he shuts the door, "Y/N?"

I splash cold water on my face and shake my head in defeat, laughing at my self before I start to cry again.

There's a faint knock on the door, "Y/N? You in there?"

I hold my breathe, trying to calm the shakiness in my voice but I cant, "Y-Yeah."

"Can I come in?" He asks, waiting for my answer.

"Yeah." I wipe my face and turn away as the door slowly opens.

"Hey." He whispers walking over to me, pulling me and holding me against his chest. His arms wrap around my body and his cheek rests on the top of my head.

I start to cry again and I grab his white shirt, that probably now has mascara on it, balling it up in my hands.

"Shh. Shh." He strokes my hair and sways me back and fourth with him, "It's okay." He assures me, "You're okay."

After a few moments I lean back, "I'm sorry." I wipe my cheek with my wrist, "I-I'm so-" I start to sniffle again and I close my eyes as I place my hands over my face.

"Y/N.." he takes me into his arms again, spinning around to he can sit on the edge of the tub, "Hey." He pulls me down and sits me on his lap, "Talk to me, please. What's going on in that beautiful head of yours?"

"Why are you with me?" I mumble against his chest.

"What?" Harry asks kinda shocked by my question.

I let out a sigh and sit up, "Why are you with me?" I look up at him and his eyes scan over my face. He smiles slightly and cups my cheeks with his hands, "Because I love you."

"But I'm a nobody."

His brows furrow and he tilts his head, "Who the hell said that?"

I shrug and raise my hand, moving it around, "All your fans. The people that adore you."

He rolls his eyes and makes me look at him, "Yeah, I love the fans, but that doesn't even come close to the love I have for you." I he pulls me closer to him, "I mean that y/n."

I nod and wipe under my eyes, "Im sorry. I just.. these lasts few days.. I just.."

He brushes hair from my face and nods, "I know. I know. Trust me, I wish I would do something about it, but people are always going to have an opinion. You know why?"

"Why?"

"Because they're not you."

I smile and look down, "Oh. Sorry, Harry."

He looks down and pulls his shirt down, inspecting the black streaks of mascara on his white shirt. He shrugs, "I can get a new one. I'm more worried about you, not a stupid t shirt."

I smile slightly and he taps my leg to stand up. He walks over to the drawer and pulls a makeup wipe from the pack, "Come over here. Let me get you fixed up."

I walks over and look in the mirror, my face falls slightly as I see how red and puffy my face is.

Harry turns my head toward him, "Look at me." My eyes stay on him as he gently wipes my face.

"Still so beautiful." He smiles and kisses my head, "and amazing." He kisses my lips, "And my favorite person in the entire world." He kisses me again and I smile, "Keep talking."

"You, my love, are by far the best thing that's ever happened to me." I wrap my arms around his neck, "as are you to me." He smiles and kisses me again.

We slowly turn it into a make out session. He lifts me up and sets me on top of the sink, "Everything.. about you.. fascinates me." He says in between kisses.

"Yeah?"

He nods and kisses back my jaw, "You're so caring." I moan quietly as he kisses a spot and sucks lightly, "You're super sexy.. and smart." He plays with the hem of my shirt before slipping his hands under.

"You're body is perfect in every. Single. Way." His fingers pinch at my nipples, "So perfect."

He leans in and kisses me, "These lips. I could kiss them all day everyday." I smile and bite my lip.

"The way you walk and talk.. Mm." He moans slightly, "I'd let you walk away from me just so I can see that butt of yours."

I laugh slightly, "Harry."

"But I'll chase you. Always." He slides his hands down my sides and pulls my hips towards him, "I could listen to you talk and laugh about anything."

I smile and shake my head, "I love you."

He kisses me and pulls my body against his, wrapping his arms right around me, "I love you." He says against my lips, "So, so, so much." He leans back, "Please don't ever forget that."

I shake my head, "I won't."

"You just need to take a breather.." he lifts me up, "Forget about the world for a little while." He takes me upstairs and into our bedroom. He lays me down on the bed and brushes hair off my forehead, "I know the perfect way to help you. Would it be okay if I showed you?"

I nod with a smile and he smiles, "Okay." He lifts my shirt up and kisses down my stomach. He slips his fingers into the band of my sweats and gently pulls them down. I lift my hips to help him get them off.

His slowly slide his hands up from my ankles and gently lays them on my thighs, "Just lay back and let me know if this helps, yeah?"

I bite my lip and nod.

He leans in and slowly locks up and down my pussy. His tongue slides between my folds and I moan at his touch.

"Harry." I moan arching my back, "Yes." He sucks on my clit for a little while, his eyes locking on mine. My mouth falls open and my eyes roll back as he slips two fingers into me.

He slowly works them in and out, curling them up each time he enters.

I lay my head back, my hands going to his hair.

"Harry!" I pant, "So.. good." I let out a loud moan, moving my hips.

His lips stay attached to my clit, his fingers keep moving in and out slowly. I bite my lip and spread my legs slightly.

He takes his fingers out and slips his hands under my hips, holding me as his thumbs stroke my skin.

His tongue slips in and out of me and I moan, “Baby.”

He continues for a little bit longer and then he pulls away, smiling up at me. He licks his lips and stands up, “You feel better baby?”

I nod and shrug, “Yes and no.”

“Yes and no?” He chuckles, “What more do you want?”

I motion for him to come over to me and I reach out and grab his belt, “I need you right now.” He nods and slips his shirt off, his bandana holding perfect in his hair.

I smile and watch as he gets undressed.

“What?” He asks slowly positioning his body over mine. I shake my head and lay a hand on his cheek, “I just really appreciate you.”

He kisses me and slides his hand down my body to position himself at my entrance, “Anything to help you baby.”

His head falls onto my shoulder and he grips my leg as he slides in, “You feel so so good.” He moans, “So so good.”

I lay my leg over his back and wrap my arm around his neck. He slides his hand overtop of mine that lays on the mattress above my head and interlocks our fingers, “I love doing this with you.” He whispers as he starts to thrust.

I moan quietly into Harry’s ear and I can feel him smile against my shoulder, “You’re so good to me.” I whisper kissing his neck, “I love you.” I whimper as he pushes himself deep inside of me.

He looks at me and rests his forehead against mine, squeezing my hand gently, “I love you, y/n.” He picks up thrusting again, “So, so much.”

His fingertips press into my thigh, “You know why people are jealous of you?”

“Why, Harry?” I moan and tangle my fingers in his hair.

“Because not only do you get to do this with me every single day..” he moans against my lips as he kisses me, “I’m going to make you my wife some day.”

I smile and squeeze his hand, “Please.”

He kisses me, our lips move in sync as I pull myself closer to him, “I’m close, baby.” I whimper arching my back.

He nods and kisses down my neck, “I love being able to make you feel so good, y/n.”

“You’re absolutely perfect to me.” He moans and he pulls my thigh, “for me. Everything.”

His words he’ll push me off the edge into orgasm. I moan and whimper as he continues to thrust, “Fuck.” He gasps before quickly pulling out.

I lay there breathing heavy and watch his face twitch with pleasure as he reaches his point, “Shit.”

He leans down and kisses me a few times, “No one can ever replace you. You’re mine and I’m yours. Don’t let what others say get to you. Like I said, it’s because you got me and no one else does.” He rests his forehead on mine, “I’m not going anywhere.”

I nod and take a deep breathe as Harry goes and grabs a towel. He walks back in and cleans me up, “”Now. Movies and Pizza?”

I nod and point, “But only if we get to watch-“

“Already on the list.” He tosses me one of his shirts and slips on a pair of sweats, “Let’s go camp out on the couch for the rest of the day.”

I get up and slip on a pair of shorts before running over to Harry. He takes my hand in his and leads me to the couch.

——

Requests are accepted. Send me a message!

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cinemastyles-backup · 1 year ago

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Summary: This is a request by LamyaDuchane: "I think you should make a part 2 to Matter of time where they go to Harry's house for a round 2 then they just end up cuddling and watching movies then go for a round 3."

Warnings: SMUT18+, strong language, oral (f rec), hair pulling, unprotected sex, general filth

My original CinemaStyles-blog has been terminated, so I created a new one.

"Wanna come over?"

I let out a sigh and shut my bedroom door, "Aren't you supposed to be hanging out with my brother today?"

Harry chuckles on the other end of the phone, "Yeah, but I can always cancel, I'm sick today."

I laugh, "Sick. Okay."

Harry groans, "Come on, y/n.. I miss you."

My eyes flick back to the door and I bite my lip, "Fine."

——

Harry opens the door and rests his arm against the wall, "Well, hello."

His messy hair is pushed back with a bandana and he's in that green crew neck that I absolutely adore him in.

I smirk and roll my eyes, "Hello." I squeeze past him and go to walk in, but his hands grab my hips and he pushes me against the wall, shutting the door as he does, "I've missed you."

His lips find my neck, leaving open mouth kisses all over, "Fuck I've missed you." He pulls my hips to meet mine and I gasp as I feel his cock push against me, "Harry."

He chuckles and pulls me with him to the couch, "Y/N."

He lays back, pulling me on top of him. I straddle his hips and grind down on him. His lips part and a gasp escapes as his head tilts back. I lean down and kiss up and across his neck, "I love when you wear this sweatshirt." I whisper, "It looks so fucking good on you."

He lets out a slight moan and pushes my hips down on himself harder.

I run my hands through the hair on the top of his head and twirl it around my finger, "You're looking extra good today, Styles. What gives?"

He smiles and flips us so he's now on top of me, "I guess I just look better when I'm happy to see you."

I smile and pull him down to kiss me. He works at getting my pants off and he kisses up my stomach as he pushes my shirt up. I close my eyes and tilt my head back as he kisses back down to my hip.

He hooks his fingers inside of my panties and pulls them aside. I feel his tongue lick a stripe between my folds and I gasp and grip the back of the couch, "Harry.."

He moans against me and pulls me closer to him. I lay my other hand on the back of his head and arch my back, "Fuck."

His nose rubs against my clit and I can feel the orgasm building up in my stomach.

I clench around his tongue and let out a loud moan, screaming out his name as he continues to eat me out. He pulls away and stands up, quickly discarding his clothes as I take the rest of mine off.

He lays on top of me, perfectly positioned between my legs. His lips kissing up my check, neck and finally my lips. I moan as he rubs the head of his cock on my clit and gasp as he pushes in.

He groans against my skin and grips the outside of my thigh with his full hand, "Fuck."

I whimper as he just sits there, desperately praying he starts to move, "Ha-"

He pulls out and thrusts back in, quickly getting into a perfectly slow, but passionate pace. He brushes hair out of my face as his eyes scan over it. His brows furrow and his jaw goes slack as a moan leaves his lips, "Y/N, your pussy.. feels amazing."

I lay a hand on his cheek and bite my lip, watching as his face twitch with the pleasure I'm making him feel.

I wrap a leg around his waist and arch my back, the feeling of my second orgasm approaching quicker than the first.

"Cum for me. I can tell you're close, sweetheart."

His words caress and help pull me closer. I clench around his cock and dig my heel into his back. I dig my nails into his shoulder and bury my face into his neck as I cum.

I moan against his skin and cling to him as he guides me through my high, "That's it baby."

I lay my head back, breathing heavy as I look up at him. He smiles and bites his lip, his thrusts slowly getting sloppier, "Where?" He groans out.

I bite my lip, "Just-" I moan, "Anywhere."

He pushes as far into me as he can and I can feel his cock twitch. I moan at the feeling and tangle my fingers in his hair, kissing him as cums.

He lays his forehead on my shoulder and kisses my skin below him, "Sorry."

"Sorry?"

"I didn't-"

I laugh, "No, I know. It's okay."

He laughs and shakes his head before he lifts it up to look at me, "movie night?"

I nod once and smile, "Movie night."

——

I walk out of the bathroom and lean against the door frame, crossing my arms as I watch Harry go through movies, "Whatcha doin?"

He turns his head and does a double take, "I-Um." His eyes move up and down my body and he smiles, "That shirt looks good on you."

I look down at the shirt Harry gave me to wear and smirk, "Yeah, it's a pretty good shirt." I walk over and sit on the bed, "Oh, scary please."

"Think you can handle this?" He looks at me over his shoulder.

"Oh please. You'll be the one in my lap."

I was wrong. I was in fact the one in Harry's lap, covering my eyes at parts I thought would be scary. He keeps his arms around me and chuckles each time I jump.

"I told you." He whispers as he kisses my cheek. I sigh, "Yeah, yeah."

Harry's phone rings on the stand next to the couch and he laughs, "Oh look who it is." He holds it up and I see my brothers name.

"What's up, mate?" Harry looks over at me and smiles, "Oh yeah, I'm feeling much better now. Just give me a call tomorrow to wake me up and we can go then, yeah?"

He smirks and shakes his head, "I have no idea where your annoying little sister is." He winks and puckers his lips, "Yeah, okay. I'll see you tomorrow. Bye."

He hangs up the phone and sets it back down, "He has no idea where you are?"

"Oh my god, no. He'd kill us if he knew you were ruining his little sister in naughty ways." I laugh and lean in, "Plus. I like keeping this secret."

His hands grip my hips, "We can always finish the movie later."

I nod, "You're right."

He pulls me onto him and frees his cock from his sweats. He pulls my panties aside and I sink down into him with a moan.

I grip the back of the couch and start to slowly move my hips up and down, feeling every inch of his cock slide in and out.

"Shit, y/n." Harry tilts his head back as his bare chest starts rising and falling quicker with each breath. I lay a hand on the back of his head and the other on the side of his neck and start to bounce.

My fingers grip the hair at the nape of his neck and his arms slide around to my back, his hands holding me to keep me steady.

I lean down and kiss him, moaning into his mouth. He takes my bottom lip between my teeth and tilts his head back.

I gasp and push my hips down, resting there as I clench around him.

His hand slides around to my clit and rubs circles, "Cum for me. I'm gunna cum soon."

I nod and work his cock inside of me. Grinding my hips, pushing him further inside of me as he continues to circle my clit.

"Fuck." I gasp and crash my lips into his. He pulls me closer and thrusts his hips up. He moans as I feel him cum.

I lay on him and catch my breathe. He plays with my hair and kisses my head. I sit up and slowly pull myself off of him, fixing my panties as I sit back down on the couch.

He fixes his sweats and lays down, reaching out for me to lay with him. I lay down and he wraps and arm around my waist, "After this we'll go shower, hmm?"

I nod, "Sounds like a plan."

——

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kingstylesdaily · 4 years ago

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Playtime With Harry Styles

via vogue.com

THE MEN’S BATHING POND in London’s Hampstead Heath at daybreak on a gloomy September morning seemed such an unlikely locale for my first meeting with Harry Styles, music’s legendarily charm-heavy style czar, that I wondered perhaps if something had been lost in translation.

But then there is Styles, cheerily gung ho, hidden behind a festive yellow bandana mask and a sweatshirt of his own design, surprisingly printed with three portraits of his intellectual pinup, the author Alain de Botton. “I love his writing,” says Styles. “I just think he’s brilliant. I saw him give a talk about the keys to happiness, and how one of the keys is living among friends, and how real friendship stems from being vulnerable with someone.”

In turn, de Botton’s 2016 novel The Course of Love taught Styles that “when it comes to relationships, you just expect yourself to be good at it…[but] being in a real relationship with someone is a skill,” one that Styles himself has often had to hone in the unforgiving klieg light of public attention, and in the company of such high-profile paramours as Taylor Swift and—well, Styles is too much of a gentleman to name names.

That sweatshirt and the Columbia Records tracksuit bottoms are removed in the quaint wooden open-air changing room, with its Swallows and Amazons vibe. A handful of intrepid fellow patrons in various states of undress are blissfully unaware of the 26-year-old supernova in their midst, although I must admit I’m finding it rather difficult to take my eyes off him, try as I might. Styles has been on a six-day juice cleanse in readiness for Vogue’s photographer Tyler Mitchell. He practices Pilates (“I’ve got very tight hamstrings—trying to get those open”) and meditates twice a day. “It has changed my life,” he avers, “but it’s so subtle. It’s helped me just be more present. I feel like I’m able to enjoy the things that are happening right in front of me, even if it’s food or it’s coffee or it’s being with a friend—or a swim in a really cold pond!” Styles also feels that his meditation practices have helped him through the tumult of 2020: “Meditation just brings a stillness that has been really beneficial, I think, for my mental health.”

Styles has been a pescatarian for three years, inspired by the vegan food that several members of his current band prepared on tour. “My body definitely feels better for it,” he says. His shapely torso is prettily inscribed with the tattoos of a Victorian sailor—a rose, a galleon, a mermaid, an anchor, and a palm tree among them, and, straddling his clavicle, the dates 1967 and 1957 (the respective birth years of his mother and father). Frankly, I rather wish I’d packed a beach muumuu.

We take the piratical gangplank that juts into the water and dive in. Let me tell you, this is not the Aegean. The glacial water is a cloudy phlegm green beneath the surface, and clammy reeds slap one’s ankles. Styles, who admits he will try any fad, has recently had a couple of cryotherapy sessions and is evidently less susceptible to the cold. By the time we have swum a full circuit, however, body temperatures have adjusted, and the ice, you might say, has been broken. Duly invigorated, we are ready to face the day. Styles has thoughtfully brought a canister of coffee and some bottles of water in his backpack, and we sit at either end of a park bench for a socially distanced chat.

It seems that he has had a productive year. At the onset of lockdown, Styles found himself in his second home, in the canyons of Los Angeles. After a few days on his own, however, he moved in with a pod of three friends (and subsequently with two band members, Mitch Rowland and Sarah Jones). They “would put names in a hat and plan the week out,” Styles explains. “If you were Monday, you would choose the movie, dinner, and the activity for that day. I like to make soups, and there was a big array of movies; we went all over the board,” from Goodfellas to Clueless. The experience, says Styles, “has been a really good lesson in what makes me happy now. It’s such a good example of living in the moment. I honestly just like being around my friends,” he adds. “That’s been my biggest takeaway. Just being on my own the whole time, I would have been miserable.”

Styles is big on friendship groups and considers his former and legendarily hysteria-inducing boy band, One Direction, to have been one of them. “I think the typical thing is to come out of a band like that and almost feel like you have to apologize for being in it,” says Styles. “But I loved my time in it. It was all new to me, and I was trying to learn as much as I could. I wanted to soak it in…. I think that’s probably why I like traveling now—soaking stuff up.” In a post-COVID future, he is contemplating a temporary move to Tokyo, explaining that “there’s a respect and a stillness, a quietness that I really loved every time I’ve been there.”

In 1D, Styles was making music whenever he could. “After a show you’d go in a hotel room and put down some vocals,” he recalls. As a result, his first solo album, 2017’s Harry Styles, “was when I really fell in love with being in the studio,” he says. “I loved it as much as touring.” Today he favors isolating with his core group of collaborators, “our little bubble”—Rowland, Kid Harpoon (né Tom Hull), and Tyler Johnson. “A safe space,” as he describes it.

In the music he has been working on in 2020, Styles wants to capture the experimental spirit that informed his second album, last year’s Fine Line. With his debut album, “I was very much finding out what my sound was as a solo artist,” he says. “I can see all the places where it almost felt like I was bowling with the bumpers up. I think with the second album I let go of the fear of getting it wrong and…it was really joyous and really free. I think with music it’s so important to evolve—and that extends to clothes and videos and all that stuff. That’s why you look back at David Bowie with Ziggy Stardust or the Beatles and their different eras—that fearlessness is super inspiring.”

The seismic changes of 2020—including the Black Lives Matter uprising around racial justice—has also provided Styles with an opportunity for personal growth. “I think it’s a time for opening up and learning and listening,” he says. “I’ve been trying to read and educate myself so that in 20 years I’m still doing the right things and taking the right steps. I believe in karma, and I think it’s just a time right now where we could use a little more kindness and empathy and patience with people, be a little more prepared to listen and grow.”

Meanwhile, Styles’s euphoric single “Watermelon Sugar” became something of an escapist anthem for this dystopian summer of 2020. The video, featuring Styles (dressed in ’70s-flavored Gucci and Bode) cavorting with a pack of beach-babe girls and boys, was shot in January, before lockdown rules came into play. By the time it was ready to be released in May, a poignant epigraph had been added: “This video is dedicated to touching.”

Styles is looking forward to touring again, when “it’s safe for everyone,” because, as he notes, “being up against people is part of the whole thing. You can’t really re-create it in any way.” But it hasn’t always been so. Early in his career, Styles was so stricken with stage fright that he regularly threw up preperformance. “I just always thought I was going to mess up or something,” he remembers. “But I’ve felt really lucky to have a group of incredibly generous fans. They’re generous emotionally—and when they come to the show, they give so much that it creates this atmosphere that I’ve always found so loving and accepting.”

THIS SUMMER, when it was safe enough to travel, Styles returned to his London home, which is where he suggests we head now, setting off in his modish Primrose Yellow ’73 Jaguar that smells of gasoline and leatherette. “Me and my dad have always bonded over cars,” Styles explains. “I never thought I’d be someone who just went out for a leisurely drive, purely for enjoyment.” On sleepless jet-lagged nights he’ll drive through London’s quiet streets, seeing neighborhoods in a new way. “I find it quite relaxing,” he says.

Over the summer Styles took a road trip with his artist friend Tomo Campbell through France and Italy, setting off at four in the morning and spending the night in Geneva, where they jumped in the lake “to wake ourselves up.” (I see a pattern emerging.) At the end of the trip Styles drove home alone, accompanied by an upbeat playlist that included “Aretha Franklin, Parliament, and a lot of Stevie Wonder. It was really fun for me,” he says. “I don’t travel like that a lot. I’m usually in such a rush, but there was a stillness to it. I love the feeling of nobody knowing where I am, that kind of escape...and freedom.”

GROWING UP in a village in the North of England, Styles thought of London as a world apart: “It truly felt like a different country.” At a wide-eyed 16, he came down to the teeming metropolis after his mother entered him on the U.K. talent-search show The X Factor. “I went to the audition to find out if I could sing,” Styles recalls, “or if my mum was just being nice to me.” Styles was eliminated but subsequently brought back with other contestants—Niall Horan, Liam Payne, Louis Tomlinson, and Zayn Malik—to form a boy band that was named (on Styles’s suggestion) One Direction. The wily X Factor creator and judge, Simon Cowell, soon signed them to his label Syco Records, and the rest is history: 1D’s first four albums, supported by four world tours from 2011 to 2015, debuted at number one on the U.S. Billboard charts, and the band has sold 70 million records to date. At 18, Styles bought the London house he now calls home. “I was going to do two weeks’ work to it,” he remembers, “but when I came back there was no second floor,” so he moved in with adult friends who lived nearby till the renovation was complete. “Eighteen months,” he deadpans. “I’ve always seen that period as pretty pivotal for me, as there’s that moment at the party where it’s getting late, and half of the people would go upstairs to do drugs, and the other people go home. I was like, ‘I don’t really know this friend’s wife, so I’m not going to get all messy and then go home.’ I had to behave a bit, at a time where everything else about my life felt I didn’t have to behave really. I’ve been lucky to always feel I have this family unit somewhere.”

When Styles’s London renovation was finally done, “I went in for the first time and I cried,” he recalls. “Because I just felt like I had somewhere. L.A. feels like holiday, but this feels like home.”

Behind its pink door, Styles’s house has all the trappings of rock stardom—there’s a man cave filled with guitars, a Sex Pistols Never Mind the Bollocks poster (a moving-in gift from his decorator), a Stevie Nicks album cover. Fleetwood Mac’s “Dreams” was one of the first songs he knew the words to—“My parents were big fans”—and he and Nicks have formed something of a mutual-admiration society. At the beginning of lockdown, Nicks tweeted to her fans that she was taking inspiration from Fine Line: “Way to go, H,” she wrote. “It is your Rumours.” “She’s always there for you,” said Styles when he inducted Nicks into the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame in 2019. “She knows what you need—advice, a little wisdom, a blouse, a shawl; she’s got you covered.”

Styles makes us some tea in the light-filled kitchen and then wanders into the convivial living room, where he strikes an insouciant pose on the chesterfield sofa, upholstered in a turquoise velvet that perhaps not entirely coincidentally sets off his eyes. Styles admits that his lockdown lewk was “sweatpants, constantly,” and he is relishing the opportunity to dress up again. He doesn’t have to wait long: The following day, under the eaves of a Victorian mansion in Notting Hill, I arrive in the middle of fittings for Vogue’s shoot and discover Styles in his Y-fronts, patiently waiting to try on looks for fashion editor Camilla Nickerson and photographer Tyler Mitchell. Styles’s personal stylist, Harry Lambert, wearing a pearl necklace and his nails colored in various shades of green varnish, à la Sally Bowles, is providing helpful backup (Britain’s Rule of Six hasn’t yet been imposed).

Styles, who has thoughtfully brought me a copy of de Botton’s 2006 book The Architecture of Happiness, is instinctively and almost quaintly polite, in an old-fashioned, holding-open-doors and not-mentioning-lovers-by-name sort of way. He is astounded to discover that the Atlanta-born Mitchell has yet to experience a traditional British Sunday roast dinner. Assuring him that “it’s basically like Thanksgiving every Sunday,” Styles gives Mitchell the details of his favorite London restaurants in which to enjoy one. “It’s a good thing to be nice,” Mitchell tells me after a morning in Styles’s company.

MITCHELL has Lionel Wendt’s languorously homoerotic 1930s portraits of young Sri Lankan men on his mood board. Nickerson is thinking of Irving Penn’s legendary fall 1950 Paris haute couture collections sitting, where he photographed midcentury supermodels, including his wife, Lisa Fonssagrives, in high-style Dior and Balenciaga creations. Styles is up for all of it, and so, it would seem, is the menswear landscape of 2020: Jonathan Anderson has produced a trapeze coat anchored with a chunky gold martingale; John Galliano at Maison Margiela has fashioned a khaki trench with a portrait neckline in layers of colored tulle; and Harris Reed—a Saint Martins fashion student sleuthed by Lambert who ended up making some looks for Styles’s last tour—has spent a week making a broad-shouldered Smoking jacket with high-waisted, wide-leg pants that have become a Styles signature since he posed for Tim Walker for the cover of Fine Line wearing a Gucci pair—a silhouette that was repeated in the tour wardrobe. (“I liked the idea of having that uniform,” says Styles.) Reed’s version is worn with a hoopskirt draped in festoons of hot-pink satin that somehow suggests Deborah Kerr asking Yul Brynner’s King of Siam, “Shall we dance?”

Styles introduces me to the writer and eyewear designer Gemma Styles, “my sister from the same womb,” he says. She is also here for the fitting: The siblings plan to surprise their mother with the double portrait on these pages.

I ask her whether her brother had always been interested in clothes.

“My mum loved to dress us up,” she remembers. “I always hated it, and Harry was always quite into it. She did some really elaborate papier-mâché outfits: She made a giant mug and then painted an atlas on it, and that was Harry being ‘The World Cup.’ Harry also had a little dalmatian-dog outfit,” she adds, “a hand-me-down from our closest family friends. He would just spend an inordinate amount of time wearing that outfit. But then Mum dressed me up as Cruella de Vil. She was always looking for any opportunity!”

“As a kid I definitely liked fancy dress,” Styles says. There were school plays, the first of which cast him as Barney, a church mouse. “I was really young, and I wore tights for that,” he recalls. “I remember it was crazy to me that I was wearing a pair of tights. And that was maybe where it all kicked off!”

Acting has also remained a fundamental form of expression for Styles. His sister recalls that even on the eve of his life-changing X Factor audition, Styles could sing in public only in an assumed voice. “He used to do quite a good sort of Elvis warble,” she remembers. During the rehearsals in the family home, “he would sing in the bathroom because if it was him singing as himself, he just couldn’t have anyone looking at him! I love his voice now,” she adds. “I’m so glad that he makes music that I actually enjoy listening to.”

Styles’s role-playing continued soon after 1D went on permanent hiatus in 2016, and he was cast in Christopher Nolan’s Dunkirk, beating out dozens of professional actors for the role. “The good part was my character was a young soldier who didn’t really know what he was doing,” says Styles modestly. “The scale of the movie was so big that I was a tiny piece of the puzzle. It was definitely humbling. I just loved being outside of my comfort zone.”

His performance caught the eye of Olivia Wilde, who remembers that it “blew me away—the openness and commitment.” In turn, Styles loved Wilde’s directorial debut, Booksmart, and is “very honored” that she cast him in a leading role for her second feature, a thriller titled Don’t Worry Darling, which went into production this fall. Styles will play the husband to Florence Pugh in what Styles describes as “a 1950s utopia in the California desert.”

Wilde’s movie is costumed by Academy Award nominee Arianne Phillips. “She and I did a little victory dance when we heard that we officially had Harry in the film,” notes Wilde, “because we knew that he has a real appreciation for fashion and style. And this movie is incredibly stylistic. It’s very heightened and opulent, and I’m really grateful that he is so enthusiastic about that element of the process—some actors just don’t care.”

“I like playing dress-up in general,” Styles concurs, in a masterpiece of understatement: This is the man, after all, who cohosted the Met’s 2019 “Notes on Camp” gala attired in a nipple-freeing black organza blouse with a lace jabot, and pants so high-waisted that they cupped his pectorals. The ensemble, accessorized with the pearl-drop earring of a dandified Elizabethan courtier, was created for Styles by Gucci’s Alessandro Michele, whom he befriended in 2014. Styles, who has subsequently personified the brand as the face of the Gucci fragrance, finds Michele “fearless with his work and his imagination. It’s really inspiring to be around someone who works like that.”

The two first met in London over a cappuccino. “It was just a kind of PR appointment,” says Michele, “but something magical happened, and Harry is now a friend. He has the aura of an English rock-and-roll star—like a young Greek god with the attitude of James Dean and a little bit of Mick Jagger—but no one is sweeter. He is the image of a new era, of the way that a man can look.”

Styles credits his style transformation—from Jack Wills tracksuit-clad boy-band heartthrob to nonpareil fashionisto—to his meeting the droll young stylist Harry Lambert seven years ago. They hit it off at once and have conspired ever since, enjoying a playfully campy rapport and calling each other Sue and Susan as they parse the niceties of the scarlet lace Gucci man-bra that Michele has made for Vogue’s shoot, for instance, or a pair of Bode pants hand-painted with biographical images (Styles sent Emily Adams Bode images of his family, and a photograph he had found of David Hockney and Joni Mitchell. “The idea of those two being friends, to me, was really beautiful,” Styles explains).

“He just has fun with clothing, and that’s kind of where I’ve got it from,” says Styles of Lambert. “He doesn’t take it too seriously, which means I don’t take it too seriously.” The process has been evolutionary. At his first meeting with Lambert, the stylist proposed “a pair of flares, and I was like, ‘Flares? That’s fucking crazy,’ ” Styles remembers. Now he declares that “you can never be overdressed. There’s no such thing. The people that I looked up to in music—Prince and David Bowie and Elvis and Freddie Mercury and Elton John—they’re such showmen. As a kid it was completely mind-blowing. Now I’ll put on something that feels really flamboyant, and I don’t feel crazy wearing it. I think if you get something that you feel amazing in, it’s like a superhero outfit. Clothes are there to have fun with and experiment with and play with. What’s really exciting is that all of these lines are just kind of crumbling away. When you take away ‘There’s clothes for men and there’s clothes for women,’ once you remove any barriers, obviously you open up the arena in which you can play. I’ll go in shops sometimes, and I just find myself looking at the women’s clothes thinking they’re amazing. It’s like anything—anytime you’re putting barriers up in your own life, you’re just limiting yourself. There’s so much joy to be had in playing with clothes. I’ve never really thought too much about what it means—it just becomes this extended part of creating something.”

“He’s up for it,” confirms Lambert, who earlier this year, for instance, found a JW Anderson cardigan with the look of a Rubik’s Cube (“on sale at matches.com!”). Styles wore it, accessorized with his own pearl necklace, for a Today rehearsal in February and it went viral: His fans were soon knitting their own versions and posting the results on TikTok. Jonathan Anderson declared himself “so impressed and incredibly humbled by this trend” that he nimbly made the pattern available (complete with a YouTube tutorial) so that Styles’s fans could copy it for free. Meanwhile, London’s storied Victoria & Albert Museum has requested Styles’s original: an emblematic document of how people got creative during the COVID era. “It’s going to be in their permanent collection,” says Lambert exultantly. “Is that not sick? Is that not the most epic thing?”

“To me, he’s very modern,” says Wilde of Styles, “and I hope that this brand of confidence as a male that Harry has—truly devoid of any traces of toxic masculinity—is indicative of his generation and therefore the future of the world. I think he is in many ways championing that, spearheading that. It’s pretty powerful and kind of extraordinary to see someone in his position redefining what it can mean to be a man with confidence.”

“He’s really in touch with his feminine side because it’s something natural,” notes Michele. “And he’s a big inspiration to a younger generation—about how you can be in a totally free playground when you feel comfortable. I think that he’s a revolutionary.”

STYLES’S confidence is on full display the day after the fitting, which finds us all on the beautiful Sussex dales. Over the summit of the hill, with its trees blown horizontal by the fierce winds, lies the English Channel. Even though it’s a two-hour drive from London, the fresh-faced Styles, who went to bed at 9 p.m., has arrived on set early: He is famously early for everything. The team is installed in a traditional flint-stone barn. The giant doors have been replaced by glass and frame a bucolic view of distant grazing sheep. “Look at that field!” says Styles. “How lucky are we? This is our office! Smell the roses!” Lambert starts to sing “Kumbaya, my Lord.”

Hairdresser Malcolm Edwards is setting Styles’s hair in a Victory roll with silver clips, and until it is combed out he resembles Kathryn Grayson with stubble. His fingers are freighted with rings, and “he has a new army of mini purses,” says Lambert, gesturing to an accessory table heaving with examples including a mini sky-blue Gucci Diana bag discreetly monogrammed HS. Michele has also made Styles a dress for the shoot that Tissot might have liked to paint—acres of ice-blue ruffles, black Valenciennes lace, and suivez-moi, jeune homme ribbons. Erelong, Styles is gamely racing up a hill in it, dodging sheep scat, thistles, and shards of chalk, and striking a pose for Mitchell that manages to make ruffles a compelling new masculine proposition, just as Mr. Fish’s frothy white cotton dress—equal parts Romantic poet and Greek presidential guard—did for Mick Jagger when he wore it for The Rolling Stones’ free performance in Hyde Park in 1969, or as the suburban-mom floral housedress did for Kurt Cobain as he defined the iconoclastic grunge aesthetic. Styles is mischievously singing ABBA’s “Gimme! Gimme! Gimme! (A Man After Midnight)” to himself when Mitchell calls him outside to jump up and down on a trampoline in a Comme des Garçons buttoned wool kilt. “How did it look?” asks his sister when he comes in from the cold. “Divine,” says her brother in playful Lambert-speak.

As the wide sky is washed in pink, orange, and gray, like a Turner sunset, and Mitchell calls it a successful day, Styles is playing “Cherry” from Fine Line on his Fender acoustic on the hilltop. “He does his own stunts,” says his sister, laughing. The impromptu set is greeted with applause. “Thank you, Antwerp!” says Styles playfully, bowing to the crowd. “Thank you, fashion!”

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