#but also how great would it be if people had the same amount of discourse

[fourteentrout]

I say we stop or at least combat the gwynriel elriel discourse by completely 180-ing and shipping Azriel with every available MALE character. Azris? superb. flawless. no notes. im obssessed. lets go futher. Azriel x Tamlin. This one I'm genuinely considering. Hell, Azriel x ANY of the unmated High Lords. I've seen people suggest Beron (though I personally would never be able to like him, maybe getting dicked down by the hottest torturer of all time could spark a change of character). Azriel x Keir if we're sticking with the route of villain crackships. Azriel x Lord Devlon. Azriel x Jurian (shooting someone in the heart with a weapon sure to kill them can be very romantic actually). Azriel x Thesan AND his lover. Double wing duty for the Dawn Lord. Azriel x Graysen, elain's shitty ex fiancee. Shit, just give Az all the shitty ex fiancees. He can fix them, probably. or at least use them to help himself. Let my boy get some man power, maybe he'll stop practically jizzing his pants every time he smells elain if he's too busy getting railed til the walls come down.

[elexuscal]

the longer i stay in fandom, the longer i think a huge amount of bad takes and discourse come from an... abundance of identifying with a character

to be clear, i don't think it's bad to identify with a character. far from it! i think that's part of what makes fiction so powerful.

and it's only logical people often attach to a blorbo because they're just like me, for real. a person will see some element of themselves-- their race, their gender, their sexuality, their hobbies, their family life, their specific flavour of neurodivergence-- and something just resonates. it gives them a way to explore and name this important part of themselves, a part they maybe didn't even know existed before it.

and everything is well and good until some split between them and the character shows up

because of course, no character, except an explicit self-insert written by yourself, will ever be a perfect 1:1 for your own experiences. so sooner or later-- maybe in canon, maybe in a fanwork-- your blorbo diverges from your lived experience in a huge way.

I think this is why shipping culture in particular gets so toxic. While it is by no means the only way to indulge with shipping, a significant portion is 'if i was in that character's shoes, i would choose X'. the fight becomes for your own self-identity.

but this gets expanded in other ways. a character who is revealed to be black when the majority of the fandom had just assumed they were white. or revealed to be queer, or maybe the 'wrong' flavour of queer. or fuck, even some more innocuous part of their backstory, one that's nonetheless so meaningful for SOMEONE, but now it feels like the story is saying, fuck you, we're doing something else

i don't know. i just feel acknowledging this perceived-attack-on-identity helps me understand why people react it what seems to be such outsized way to canon and fanworks alike.

at the same time, i think it's a really important thing to check in yourself.

it's nice, to see a character who you identify with. who resonates with for being like you. but it's also nice to acknowledge and appreciate the way characters are not like you at All. how great it is to get insight into this totally different lived experience. and to muse on how wonderful that recognition might be for someone who does have that background.

[bird-inacage]

Net x James: An important reminder that BL partnerships consist of two individuals and they are not just a single entity.

So the Netjames news has been a notable bombshell in the fandom of late, and I've been quietly observing this as it unfolded earlier this week, particularly the varying reactions and discourse around it.

In his statement, James explained that his current career goals are moving in a different direction, which has resulted in him pulling out of 'Love Upon a Time', and by extension his acting partnership with Net. He wants to explore his other avenues as an artist, whereas Net is presumably focused on acting for now.

With BL partnerships, we often see the two co-stars tied at the hip. Its part of the gig and it comes with the territory. They don't just work together on their project, but they do a huge amount of activity (both public and private) outside of that. They travel, perform, they do fan meets, press events, and spend a huge amount of time together as a twosome. So we get accustomed to seeing them as a united entity, which means news like this tends to hit harder because it feels akin to a divorce. This is one of the pitfalls of the Thai BL industry. When you create a narrative around two people who exclusively come as a package, it makes it incredibly difficult for both the actors themselves and fans to accept or make peace with any possible deviation from that. I think it's natural for any actor or artist to desire collaboration with different people: to develop their craft, to further their experience, to broaden their versatility. If sticking to only one working partner 'for life' doesn't work for them, I completely empathise with that.

In their recent Instagram lives, Net and James were clearly sad and their feelings still very raw. This led to a lot of speculation regarding any ill-feeling or fall out between the two. But such accusations can be harmful. Even in an amicable or mutual break-up where ending a relationship is in both parties' best interests - the two people involved are still grieving. Being brutally honest and transparent with someone close to you, that things can no longer continue as they are, isn't easy. If fans feel upset, just imagine how difficult this is on them both. When you've been nurtured as a partnership from the get go, your co-star whose always been at your side provides a sense of safety and familiarity. And the prospect of now moving forward without them is a scary new unknown. On top of that, they probably feel an immense amount of pressure and guilt in digesting the potential fallout and response from their fans. There will be trepidation in how well their careers will fare in the immediate aftermath.

Despite this, there are also positives to be taken from this decision. Arguably, Net and James were still in the early stages of their partnership. Bed Friend really put them on the map as a couple. So for James to come forward with this realisation now, before they got too established as a pairing was a responsible thing to do. I'm sure the last thing anyone wants is for their favourite artists to feel stuck or obliged to continue working together, which would undoubtedly lead to feelings of resentment eventually.

So respectfully, these instances are not to be taken personally or to be deemed as a betrayal of your support. After all, what we know of these artists is only a very small piece of their identities as people. It's okay to be devastated, but be respectful of their wishes. You can choose to continue supporting them as individuals, or choose to no longer support them at all - either way, you are perfectly valid and entitled to your choice, just extend the same courtesy back and be mindful of casting unfair judgement on their choice.

For me, it is admittedly a shame because I did see great potential in them both as a pair, and they had fantastic chemistry which could have been nurtured with more time and experience. Regardless, I truly believe they both have immense love for one another, and I wish them both the very best. They've just come to terms with the fact they no longer share the same vision for what they want in their careers. And that's okay.

(I will always be grateful that they gave us THIS iconic moment).

[briarpatch-kids]

Seeing the latest discourse I feel like there needs to be some sort of. Disability dictionary? To outline "these are the terms with legal definitions that are not up for debate" and "these are the terms with general definitions that can be interpreted in x y z ways." Like the severely disabled thing, you were using the legal definition/understanding of the term, while that other person was using a social understanding of the term. They do absolutely deserve better help and the situation they're living in is abysmal, not being able to afford what you need to not live in pain every day would be horrible for anyone, but. They didn't seem to be understanding how the definition of "severely disabled" you were using had actual legal basis and guidelines for qualifications of the term and hence help. You weren't arguing the level of care and accommodations they would definitely benefit from, more just pointing out that legally speaking you two have different experiences, and only yours qualifies for the help offered in our current support systems for in home care. Which frankly that sucks! People who would benefit from care and higher level mobility aides should be given them, even if they can "do without" if they absolutely have to, even if they're in pain. But that isn't how the system works and it's not how "severely disabled," as a legal term, is defined. So many distinctions like these don't seem to be common knowledge. The scope of disability is wide and many people belong in this community, but if most people aren't on the same page on how to use the terms that already exist, it makes it harder not just to find people with similar experiences but also to just. Communicate with other people in the community. A lack of shared understanding of community terms can really create massive obstacles for mutual understanding and community organizing. I wonder if anyone's made a dictionary for things like this, and if they haven't, maybe it can be a community project...?

I feel like that would be awesome, but I also want to be nowhere NEAR the discourse of writing it. I'd imagine a whole lot of people like the one I dealt with earlier would want to control the narrative and the amount of arguments and stuff would be SO exhausting.

Ideally it would include things like "here's when I should have started using a manual wheelchair" "here's when I should have started using a powerchair" "this is what needing a ventilator feels like and heres why/how I got mine" and stuff like that from people with experience. Or like "this is how a disability assessment works and this is what theyre going to ask and what each question means" and "here's how to get aide hours in [country] and what qualifies for them."

Basic stuff for people new to disability and worried about what's going to happen or don't have any idea how it all works. It would be great to have multiple voices with a variety of circumstances and disabilities. Maybe a little section with different people and how they live just to give a picture of like... what life with SMA or a spinal cord injury or whatever is like. The good and bad and what kind of goals and hobbies they have and what they're interested in. The part that scares a lot of disabled people is the future and seeing people just out there living helps so much with that.

[wavesoutbeingtossed]

The whole discourse about the privacy/secrecy/support thing has been sitting with me for a few days (I mean other than it always does to a certain degree) thanks to all the excellent discussion happening and I know I'm not saying anything that hasn't been said a million times before, but I think what we're seeing and what we're going to learn (e.g. from TTPD) is that it wasn't just the support issue, but how it was shown/handled.

We've all gone out of our way to show that introversion =/= lack of support. Someone can be shy, reserved, etc. and still show up for their partner, whether in public or at home. To chalk any of the differences up to the clash between introversion and extroversion is unfair to folks who count themselves among either tbh.

@thisisctrying said something the other day that hit the nail on the head about how if that support had been offered in private, there very well may not have been a Joever to begin with, or at least not at this point in time. (Sorry for loosely paraphrasing, and for namedropping you! Long time listener, first time poster.)

If this were a case where the "shy" partner said, "I am really uncomfortable with the spotlight personally and do not want to court it, but I will support you in your ambitions and offer you whatever you need to make them happen and make the glare bearable," I suspect that would have gone a long way to making Taylor feel seen and comfortable in pursuing her goals in the way that she now has. Again, that might have been more akin to the balance that seemed to have been struck around 2019 from what we can see, but even speaking in a general sense, there are lots of couples out there, celebrity or not, that have similar approaches where there are highly driven people and busy careers involved.

(A famous example being Dolly Parton's marriage. Tbh I know next to nothing about her and Carl, but she's always heralded as an example in this regard, because her husband is famously uncomfortable with the spotlight and hasn't accompanied her to public events in decades, but she's said that she never minded that because that was always work to her, and what was important was that he supported her in pursuing all her career goals and basically ensured she had a place to call home to return to at the end of the day.)

We're kind of in a brave new world with her current relationship because it felt like, at least at the start, we were maybe watching her figure out her boundaries in real time as to what she was comfortable with or not and adjust accordingly. Like so many have said, I fully believe the extreme privacy thing was initially driven by herself and her experiences in 2016, and she needed that quiet time to recover from all of the things and figure out how to exist in the world again.

Stating the obvious, it seemed like eventually privacy was equated with secrecy, turning the relationship and the celebrity into the elephant in the room and something to never be spoken of to the outside world. People are free to choose whatever works best for themselves and their relationships, and for some the separate public lives might work, but the “kept me like a secret but I kept you like an oath” theme is all over her work and it’s clear that it’s a sore spot for her, because she’s been made to feel shame just for the life she leads so many times in the past.

What I’m trying to say is that it’s pretty obvious something Not Great was happening behind the scenes, which didn’t just amount to “she wanted to be a public celebrity and he wanted to be a private hermit.” (Also, in case anyone forgot, this is a person who also chose a public-facing career who also has to engage in press for it, but I digress.) As her career reached new heights post-folklore, if she had the support at home to do all the things without judgment and with encouragement, and in turn offer the same support to her partner, she may have very well lived just fine with that, not unlike Dolly Parton’s case.

By reading between the lines in all the press since, as well as comments on tour and general ~vibes~ with TTPD teasers, it seems like one of the issues was that that was likely not the case. There was all the stuff that we saw — the reticence to acknowledge each other in the media (particularly on one side), the lack of public support even at events at which they were both in attendance for their respective jobs, the great lengths they went to not to be photographed together at events they attended yet no problem taking pictures with other friends and coworkers, the jobs that separated them, the withdrawing from the public even for work accomplishments, etc. Which could all be manageable if a couple chooses to do so together and are not inherently a sign of trouble in themselves.

But what we’re seeing now I think is a reflection of the things we weren’t seeing then, and it seems to indicate some very deep hurt. (I know, call me Captain Obvious.) And like so many have been saying, it feels likely that that part of that hurt is rooted in that very lack of private support where a person would expect it from their partner. Obviously as a Taylor fan blog I’m going to be more inclined to understand her side of a story, but tbh, it’s also because… this is sooooooo common, and something I’ve experienced in my friend group. (@taylortruther is right when she says most breakups are the same one way or another lol.)

One partner is resentful of the other’s success, or resentful that the other’s priorities begin to evolve as new experiences unlock new goals, or feels the other’s ambitions are not worthy of pursuit, and coupled with perhaps their own struggles in the same domain, it’s easy to see where that can chip away at the other partner’s morale and faith in the relationship. I know I’m just speculating here, but I also don’t think it’s totally unfounded. (Again, because a) I’m picking up what she’s putting down and b) it happens to sooooooo many women even among us dull normals.)

With all the pointed mentions about how much Taylor feels supported in her current relationship and how she in turn loves to offer the same show of support to not only her partner but other loved ones, how she’s stepped out more in the last year to a whole host of events, how she’s mentioned feeling like she locked herself away for years and she’s just proud of her partner and happy she can show up for him even if the chaos around it is unsettling, it paints a picture of what perhaps was happening before last year.

To feel like you’re all alone in carrying the weight of the relationship (or burden of it), of twisting yourself into knots to accommodate the other person’s boundaries (or insecurities) but not feeling reciprocity for your own has to be so painful. (The idea that it may have been even darker and to have a partner not only be unreceptive to your own needs but even perhaps resentful/dismissive/belittling of them is even more painful to think of. I guess we’ll find out when TTPD comes out if that was the case, too.)

At a certain point, that lack of acknowledgement will force your hand to be able to reclaim yourself. And it feels like the further removed Taylor in particular is from it, the more she moves from being sad about the life she felt she gave up by leaving, to angry at the life she felt she was giving up by staying. Especially being in a relationship now where it seems like everything comes much easier, where she can be open about the person she’s with and show up for them, all the stuff that seemed as challenging as climbing Mount Everest in her past is nothing more than a molehill at best in her current life.

TL;DR: I don’t think it’s privacy that inherently spells doom for a celebrity relationship like this; it’s the mutual support and respect that does. If Taylor had felt that in the later years of her previous relationship, I think we could be seeing a different, though not necessarily unfulfilled, person right now in 2024, who’d be happy on tour but whose personal life would look a little different. But it seems like by losing that support she lost parts of herself, and we’ve seen her reclaim that in spades in the last year, and perhaps to degrees she didn’t even realize she could from before all the Bad Stuff started happening in her young adulthood.

I know this was extremely long-winded and unnecessary, especially about total strangers we only know through scraps fed through the media, but I just always bristle at this idea that issues like these boil down to “personality differences,” as though one person wants to live in a city and the other on a remote island, or some shit like that. The whole support (and gender tbh) issue is one that’s just very close to my heart because again, I have seen it play out with so many of my friends in long term relationships and marriages and I just think people in relationships (and women in particular in some circles) deserve better than to feel like they’re being, well, tolerated.

[aronarchy]

Compare:

Those takes come from a view where racism/antiblackness must result from individual “feelings” or nebulous internal “prejudices” rather than specific systems. That’s bullshit. If someone chose to own slaves under a racial slavery system then he was automatically racist. If someone chose to own a vastly disproportionate amount of property and live a bourgeois lifestyle while others were forced to starve then he was automatically classist and furthering their exploitation. If he's a white person chose to remain aristocratically rich under a system of racialized white supremacist capitalism then he was automatically racist. That’s what racism and classism are. It doesn’t matter whether he had other “ideals” or “feelings.” Clearly he didn’t respect them enough to hold the ideal that he was morally obligated to give up his privileged lifestyle to stop exploiting them. Does he think all this great human progress just occurred just because? Do better conditions appear out of thin air? No; wealth has to be redistributed (or, more accurately, seized back) for there to be more equality.

This is also why “but what about a person with a hypothetical psychologically ‘race-blind’ exploitative antagonism existed, what then” carries a false premise. Even if you, personally, might be “race-blind” in a vacuum, you do not live in a vacuum; if you go with a “default” then in a racist world the default will be racist. The mere ability to hold such a removed, detached individualized “ideology” or nebulous set of “beliefs” distinct from “real,” grounded ethics is already a product of privilege and indicative of privilege (as well as oppressiveness). The oppressors have always had varying “ideologies”/dispositions of this sort; they have the luxury of being able to hold these ~alternative views~ because they have a privileged vantage point where it all isn’t personal, it’s all low-stakes. But liberal “equality” or egalitarianism isn’t actual equality. This is condescending and useless.

It’s gross how many (almost always white) liberals try to justify owning slaves (“historically”). Fuck “it was just a product of their time.” People have ethical obligations no matter what time they’re in. And there will always be at least some people who (actually, radically) resist the dominant narrative, even if they are less visible or not heard. The exploited classes often/usually understand that their exploitation is wrong; they feel the trauma and the outrage themselves. Even some people of the privileged classes will dissent. “But I just had privileged foisted on me against my will I totally couldn’t help it or change anything” is the coward’s way out, is unrealistic, and denies agency.

(These are also the same types of people who take huge offense and clutch their pearls at statements like “all white people are racist” and claim that as justification for promoting entryist racist talking points in return like the specter of Black liberation activism going too far/being extremist/unreasonable now, but at the same time set up their premises so that that would be the logical conclusion from their scenario given a more honest use of definitions and interpretations, which is pretty ironic. Which is it? Was/is it not all white people, or yes all white people they couldn’t help it though it was just a product of their time?)

I mention this although this was said in a context of analyzing fiction because the OPs indicate they believe this is appropriate in any context in general, and people in general do not restrict this analysis to just fictional characters; these are extremely common talking points about real people, real-world situations and scenarios, and IRL oppression, both historically and in the present. These myths are taught in school and peddled in public discourse and sold as policy. They are dangerously wrong and need to be discussed and challenged.

[utilitycaster]

Just wondering.... why is the Imodna codependency such an issue meanwhile no one had a problem with the codependency between Widobrave?

Hi anon, this is a great question!

I've actually covered this - I don't think their situations are as comparable as many people think! Here's the post about that in case you haven't seen it. And, as the anon in that post points out, Widobrave did get a lot of pushback and hate, actually. It sounds like you might be very new to the fandom, so I want to give some gentle advice: it's worth being careful about assuming a certain form of discourse did not occur. Often, it has. I understand it's difficult to prove a negative (ie, that Widobrave did not receive hate) and it's even more difficult to do so via the Tumblr search, but Caleb and Veth's relationship was frequently criticized, diminished, and treated as not just insistently platonic, but also strictly familial. But back to the original question: I think that Caleb and Veth far more quickly built other relationships and were able to express anger with each other - Veth's outburst towards Caleb in episode 48 is a standout moment that resulted in a greater understanding, and I think I'd feel much more positively towards Imogen and Laudna as a potential romance had Laudna been able to make the same accusation, that Imogen's people did this. Was it a fair accusation from Veth? No! But it eventually cleared the air, whereas Imogen and Laudna keep sweeping everything under the rug, ignoring that the rug is now so lumpy they can barely walk without failing.

Another reason is simple numbers and recency. Widobrave, as of this post, has about 280 fics on ao3. Imodna has 1,085. This increased popularity may indeed lead to increased scrutiny. We're also, as the previous paragraph hints, talking about a ship that is in an ongoing campaign, so you're going to see far more posts talking about it than a ship from a past campaign, simply because it's still unfolding and is the subject of current discussion! Recency bias is a very real thing, and it can be difficult to adjust for, but when making this sort of comparison, it is vital to do so.

I would also be remiss if I did not address the elephant in the room, which is the nature of the fans who ship them. I'm sure this question is intended in earnest good faith, but I'm afraid I've gotten a pretty significant amount of harassment specifically from people who ship Imogen and Laudna together and don't like anyone who points out the flaws in their relationship. I've never received the same from people who shipped Caleb and Veth, despite never really shipping the latter, and indeed, and this is obviously my limited experience, but the people I follow who do ship Widobrave often embrace the flaws and conflict inherent in the ship. There are many Imodna shippers who are wonderful - especially those who do like to explore the flaws and codependency and how it might one day resolve - but, understandably, those few bad actors attempting to ignore the lack of development in the relationship or even worse, advocating for it, have really been very unpleasant to deal with. As a result, it's led me to consider more deeply why I find Imogen and Laudna's relationship uninteresting, romantically, and so that's probably another factor in why I specifically have explored Imogen and Laudna's issues far more than Caleb and Veth's. (For me personally, it's also that I was a lurker for the first year of the Mighty Nein campaign; I was binging Campaign 1 concurrently and didn't finish until July 2018, and didn't make this blog until around New Year's 2019, so I've written comparatively fewer thoughts about early Campaign 2). But getting back to the previous point, I think something people who send hate or baiting questions on anon may not always realize is that it often has the opposite effect as intended; it leads people to defend their opinions, and in doing so often strengthens their convictions as they find more evidence, which leads them to make even more posts!

Anyway, I hope this helps - obviously, this is only my perspective, and I sincerely hope anyone else of whom you ask this question extends the same good faith, honesty, and openness to other perspectives that you are bringing. I do however urge you to at minimum attempt to find some discussion from the era of early Campaign 2 to get a better understanding of how Widobrave was treated, just to ensure better responses to your inquiries. Anyway, welcome to the fandom!

[canonizzyhours]

Similarly to one of the previous takes on here…

I wasn’t in fandom spaces between s1 and s2 so I wasn’t exposed to the Canyon takes at the time. Once the teaser and then the trailer dropped I was really excited. On the first day episodes 1-3 dropped, before I could even watch the episodes , I got spoiled that Ed was ‘’really unlikable this season’’.

It was gutting to read because he’s my absolute favorite and it put me on edge as I was scared watching the show would change my view on him. To hopefully help calm down the anxiety that comment brought on, I went looking for other comments. Maybe this was just one bad take, right? Wrong move, what was I thinking? So many negative comments about Ed! Takes after takes of how Ed was an abuser to Izzy, how he had gone way too far so they simply couldn’t root for him anymore and was now unredeemable in their eyes.

How could the writers make him this unlikable as a protagonist in a romantic comedy show?

It took me until the day before episodes 4-5 came out to to rip the bandage off and watch the episodes to see for myself what I thought and I was actually surprised at how much I disagreed with those people. I thought Ed dragging the crew down with him was not great (couldn’t care less about Izzy though, in my eyes he deserved it after season 1), but I could absolutely see the vulnerability and the deep depression that was plaguing him. It was such a nuanced performance that I empathized with him so much. Unlikable or unredeemable was far from words I would use for him.

It made me wonder if something was wrong with me because I didn’t feel the same as so many of the takes I’d seen. Was I missing something? And then after that, when I tried participating in conversations and express how I was feeling about Ed’s but also mostly Izzy’s storylines, I was often met with a lot of pushbacks and people being super defensive and demanding me to explain myself as if I owed them anything and it was sooo draining. I hate using the word gaslighting but some of the things those people do by basically establishing an alternate version of this show and bullying people who don’t play along, is truly something else. I think it’s then that I realize I was dealing with people that couldn’t handle opposing Povs, and I was over it. I ended up blocking Izzy’s tag and blocking users on every social media platforms because I just couldn’t deal with it anymore. It’s still blocked to this day.

I love season 2, flaws included, but the amount of discourse around Izzy is honestly ridiculous at this point and it really took away from my enjoyment when the show was airing. I wish he wasn’t such a talked about character, he takes too much space for someone who was actually pretty boring in season 2.

Anyways, RIP Izzy… I guess.

#35.

related posts: #31, #29

[mallowsweetie]

My take on the Avantika Fan Cast Situation as a black person.

I’m going to be talking about the whole Avantika being FANCAST as Rapunzel. And you may be wondering, Jude, what does Avantika being fancast as Rapunzel have to do with being black in fandom spaces? My Dear Reader, I am asking you the same Question.

Let’s recap: Sometime in February 2023, someone started fan casting (meaning: Not a real casting, but someone you could see playing the character in a live-action.) Avantika, an Indian American actress (Known for Mean Girls the movie musical, Spin, Senior Year) as Rapunzel. Mind you, Disney hasn’t even greenlit any kind of tangled live action, bur Alas….some people believe everything they see on the internet. Recently, this discourse has come around on TikTok and thus bringing it to my attention.

So of course, all the racist white Disney fans are crying, screaming, peeing their pants because she doesn’t have pale skin, green eyes, and blonde hair. This has offended fans so much that they’ve resorted to (once again) threatening to cast a white woman as Tiana. Huh?

What does Tiana have to do with this? She’s not white nor is she Indian, by all means, black people didn’t have anything to do with this debate. Black people are just always on their mind no matter what and they can’t WAIT to bring us up in conversation or like, as a “Gotcha!”

The response to “What does Tiana have to do with this?” is met with “Y’all so sensitive it’s just a comparison” or “You guys are always playing the victim” as if they’re not the ones shitting bricks over a FANCAST.

I’ve also seen a good amount of people chastising black people for ‘settling for recasts’ and telling us to create our own original roles for POC. But let me remind everybody that every time that does happen, it gets called woke or forced diversity and is held to painfully high, almost impossible standards. Especially if it’s a show/movie/book not set in the one genre we’re shoehorned into or if the black character isn’t the token character.

I will be making a whole other blog post about colorblind casting and how it results in racists on the internet dogpiling onto black actresses. But in my opinion, things like this only matter if race/culture had a role to play in the original adaptation.

Movies like: Moana, Raya, Tiana, Merida, Mulan, their race or culture was important to the plot.

Movies like: Cinderella, Rapunzel, Aurora, Ariel, Snow White, Belle their race or culture was UNimportant to the plot.

All of the blonde haired girls are scream crying about representation as if they don’t have SEVERAL live-action Cinderellas, Aurora, Tinkerbell, Ariel, etc.

Not only that, but most of the disney movies came from CENTURIES if telling and retelling in different ways. If you don't like one retelling you can ALWAYS read a different one.

Not to mention people saying she wouldn't be great for Rapunzel but she would be a great Mother Gothel??? Hello? I thought we were crying bc Avantika isn't German or White.

While black people have one black princess who is a frog for most of the movie. Be so for real. At the end of the day, Avantika is NOT cast as Rapunzel and probably won’t be.as she’s going to be playing Princess Gauri on DIsney’s television adaptation of A Crown Of Wishes by Roshani Chokshi!

[bewires]

Fic 20 questions

tagged by @gallifreyburning! Thank you!

1. how many works do you have on Ao3?

130

2. what's your total Ao3 word count?

1,107,429 which is a startling amount. A lot (a lot) from the lockdown years.

3. what fandoms do you write for?

The old guard, top gun maverick, stranger things, star trek...ao3 will tell you i have also written a lot for supernatural, but that was a decade ago

4. what are your top five fics by kudos?

chrysalis

incurable

say the word (& I'll be your rennaissance man)

offer no absolutes

(don't) blame it on the moonlight

5. do you respond to comments?

I really really try to but it gives me a kind of social anxiety where I feel like a dick for saying the same thing over and sometimes that stops me from doing it until I feel like it's been way too long and I can't possibly answer now. I appreciate every single comment so so so much though!

6. What is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

I don't really do angsty endings. I vaguely recall writing some angstier supernatural stuff back on livejournal? Or I guess I have some joe/nicky/booker stuff in TOG that ends on an angsty note.

7. What’s the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

Probably say the word (and I'll be your rennaissance man) which is just high-octane fluff all the way through. but pretty much all my fic ends happy.

8. Do you get hate on fics?

Yeah but basically entirely related to all the dumb top!joe discourse stuff. So only people who wanted to send me or others threats for...idk writing about joe topping and bottoming versus only topping. hard to take seriously.

9. Do you write smut? If so, what kind?

Yes!

10. Do you write crossovers? What’s the craziest one you’ve written?

I think I have crossed over every major teen fandom of mine with TOG, so I did a star trek, a torchwood and an SPN one. Although I'm not sure when it stops counting as crossover and starts counting as fusion.

11. Have you ever had a fic stolen?

Not as far as I know, but i could be wrong

12. Have you ever had a fic translated?

Yeah once or twice

13. Have you ever co-written a fic before?

Yes, a few with @dreamtiwasanarchitect! Great experience

14. What’s your all time favorite ship?

I can't answer this lol. Changes with the hyperfixations

15. What’s a WIP you want to finish but doubt you ever will?

The choose your own adventure Joe x Nicky one, i wish i had the time and energy for it

16. What are your writing strengths?

I would say dialogue. And maybe, if this makes sense, conveying what a character is thinking and feeling out of the perspective of another character who is nominally oblivious to it

17. What are your writing weaknesses?

Describing scenery/physical characteristics/logistics of where what is. I am not a visual thinker

18. Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language in fic?

Depends on the context and whether it's understandable for the audience

19. First fandom you wrote for?

Tamora Pierce's Tortall books. fortunately, these fics are probably no longer findable on the internet.

20. Favorite fic you’ve written?

In terms of ambition, right where you left me which I co-wrote with @dreamtiwasanarchitect. The process of outlining and writing that one kickstarted my ambition to write my own actual book (a thing that exists out in the world now). In terms of style, I'm really proud of how (don't) blame it on the moonlight came out in that you really don't need Nicky's perspective because it's so obvious.

Tagging @regina-del-cielo @nicolos and anyone else who wants to!

[safflowerseason]

Late to the party, but I just finished Succession. Holy shit, what an ending. Anyway, I enjoyed going back and reading your takes from when it was still airing. Do you have any other morsels or headcanons to share?

Hey! Thank you so much for writing in with a Succession question!! I love it! And I'm glad you enjoyed my little takes and recaps...I didn't have the time to do full-on recaps for S4 like I did for S3, unfortunately, but I had such a great time watching in real time. I'll truly never forget watching 4.03 with the rest of the internet. I literally thought Logan's death was being faked until they told Shiv.

As for morsels/head-canons, oooh...compared to other viewers I don't have a ton of very specific headcanons about the upbringing/adolescence/early adult-hood of the Roys, beyond the few hints the show dropped. Apparently there was some debate early on about how far apart in age Kendall, Roman, and Shiv are (as well as whether Shiv or Roman was older, before the show confirmed Shiv as the youngest in S3)...I always assumed they were supposed to be quite close in age, five years max between Kendall and Shiv. The show itself is a bit blurry on the specifics of the backstory/everyone's timeline, though. I also wished we got more of the relationship between Logan and Caroline...we actually never (or barely) see them interact directly, and yet they seem to loom so large in each other's lives.

As for interpretative morsels...I actually haven't gone back and watched the finale again (if you can believe it) because it was soo good and devastating I literally haven't been able to work up the emotional fortitude. There was a great take here I saw that the finale didn't leave you with the same SHEER ADRENALINE RUSH of the other finales, which I will agree with but ultimately I think it fits with the show's overarching thesis that "everything is bullshit, especially billionaires." There's nothing about the finale I feel that will keep being re-litigated by fans (à la Veep)...there seemed to be some discourse about Shiv's ending and whether or not it fit with her character's arc (I think it does, but would love to hear your take!)

I will say that I was always interested in the decision to have Logan take up with Kerry in S3...I love the character of Marcia so much that the rise of Kerry was like a personal affront to me, lol, but I was also intrigued by how Marcia didn't seem threatened by Kerry the way she was by Rhea (or even Shiv). And it's also a relationship that Logan seems very passive about, and we never really hear his own take on it (except when he chickens out re: Kerry's audition tape for ATN). All the "facts" about what they do come from Kerry (or from other people, like Connor with the smoothie revelation). Like obviously, he seems fond of Kerry and is attracted to her (although I don't believe he was actually considering divorcing Marcia, not when he has literally just had to pay her a ridiculous amount of money to stick around in S3), but we don't see anything to indicate why he's okay letting her take on such an outsized role in the management of the business. (I also thought Brian Cox adopted an almost...fatherly air around the actress, which I guess would make sense due to the age difference...it wasn't like they had blazing sexual chemistry!) Is Kerry a symptom of Logan's growing passivity as he ages? A sign that he's getting old and predictable? Are we supposed to take away something about Kerry's naivëté, that she pins all her professional and personal hopes on an aging billionaire in ill health? Is she a parable in that sense? It's fitting for Succession, though, that a lot of the "intimacy" of the "romantic" relationships on the show take place offscreen, so in that sense I think the mystery is a bit purposeful. And the writers were always interested in "inverting" clichés to a certain degree (ie, the CEO having an affair with his much younger assistant)...but I guess I'm not sure how they inverted it in this instance, other than the incredibly ruthless way Kerry gets excised from the inner circle (a scene which will live in infamy!) as opposed to continuing the drama of their relationship after Logan's death.

That's one of the first things that comes to mind when I think about S4, but I'm sure there are many others, and would love to hear your specific thoughts about the season! My favorite episodes were, personally, 4.03 (Connor's Wedding), 4.04 (Honeymoon States--my pick for funniest episode of the season), and 4.09 (Church and State). My favorite season finale is probably S3, All the Bells Say...I think S2 is probably a tighter episode narratively, but my god, the emotional devastation of the S3 finale. You simply can't beat it!

[yesterdayiwrote]

Yo Emma thank you for writing down exactly my thoughts on Ferrari, Carlos and Charles! I know everyone speaks highly of Charles and takes him into high consideration (see Vettel too etc) and he IS a great clean driver that is also a great pole maker… but… I don’t know. There is something that feels is missing too for him to be WDC material tbh. While this is bit silly discourse, because given a car like say, the 2020 Mercedes, many mid drivers would probably manage to win a WDC or at least compete to get it, I still feel there is something about Charles that makes me believe he’s still no ready to get one. For now, at least. Not even mentioning Carlos because, sorry, but Carlos is like Checo to me, and that means nr2 driver. We’re probably gonna get cooked for this take by Charles and Carlos fans but unless time and the car itself prove us wrong… yeah, that is how I feel. And Ferrari has still a long way to go even after dropping Mattia and Rueda and getting Fred, tbh.

I think Charles still makes a lot of silly mistakes. Not always of his own making entirely but still a fair amount. And sure most drivers make silly mistakes from time to time even the best still do, but he’s had quite a few hefty practice crashes and that’s never great for a team.

Carlos has made some good career moves. He seems pretty reliable as a driver but… idk I feel like as he gets older more and more people are writing off his chance of being a WDC.

Statistically most of these drivers will never be WDC’s, especially these days where teams dominate for so long and stick with the same driver pairings too. There’s only been 5 different WDCs in the last 15 Drivers Championships… Think how many different drivers there’s been in that time! Even drivers I love who I want to see get WDC’s or the ones who feel like they should be future Champions, I’m more and more feeling like it just might never happen due to circumstances

[thebibliosphere]

Not to dredge the Audible discourse up again, but I said I'd come back when I had more numbers, and this post is specifically aimed at the people still trying to claim in my inbox that 'Scribd pays authors better than Audible' and giving me shit for using Audible as an author.

So here we go. This is what I earn per 1 book via Audible purchase vs. Audible subscription:

Image ID: a screenshot from ACX, the Audible portal for authors. The text is broken up into boxes. Running from left to right, it reads Hunger Pangs: True Love Bites (Unabridged) by Joy Demorra. The sales region shown is the UK, and my royalty rate is Audible's standard of 25%. The number of units sold is 1. The amount the person paid is $25.59. My earnings from this sale is $6.40.

The following image is the same data but taken from Audible credits. The quality "sold" is 1, at a rate of $12.84, giving me a payment of $3.21. The next few numbers denote zero, showing no returns, making my earnings from Audible credit for this region $3.21. /End ID.

And this is what I earned from Scribd (sorry it's so small, I don't know if anyone will be able to read it):

Image ID: Another screenshot from the FindAwayVoices portal shows my royalty earnings from Scribd across three regions.

From top to bottom, it shows the number of sales for Hunger Pangs: True Love Bites, followed by a series of ID numbers. It also shows three individual sales from Sweden, Bulgaria, and the UK. The individuals have paid the equivalent of $19.99 in subscription fees. Out of that $19.99, Scribd pays me $1.21, and then FindawayVoices subtracts a further 0.24cents as a distribution fee leaving me with a total income of 0.97cents per book read. /End ID.

Now, I am aware that the Scribd subscription fee allows customers to listen to multiple things for the cost of their monthly fee without forcing them to return it the way Audible does. This means the author isn't subjected to negative income which is a good thing. And if that works for you, great. I'm happy for you. I am glad you have found a way to enjoy media that still pays authors something.

But can people who don't have a clue how the industry works please stop making unfounded claims that Scribd is 'better' and 'more ethical than Amazon' and 'actually pays authors' because, as you can see from the above, that's a crock of shit.

I'm not saying this to shame anyone. I'm not trying to guilt anyone for using Scribd services. Again, if it is something that works for you and you can afford it, great. Please keep using it. I would rather earn 97cents than nothing. But I am sick and tired of people who don't work the industry telling authors we have 'better options than Audible' then listing places like Scribd, seemingly operating on the belief that just because it isn't Amazon, it's inherently better.

My inbox is a nightmare of people telling me I deserve to have my work stolen for using Amazon at all, and I don't know how people can say things like that without realizing they're also the villain.

And just for the people saying it's illegal for Amazon to take refunds from the authors and leave us with negative income and we're all lying:

ID: another screenshot from ACX, the Audible portal for authors. The text is broken up into boxes. Running from left to right, it reads Hunger Pangs: True Love Bites (Unabridged) by Joy Demorra. The sales region shown is the UK, and my royalty rate is Audible's standard of 25%. There are no individual outright sales, but there is a negative credit indicating a return, with the subscription fee shown as -$13.31 (note: this is MORE than what Amazon charges for a sale ($12.84)) with a negative royalty rate of -$3.33 for the author, which is also 12 cents MORE than what we earn for a non-returned sale.

There is some debate over why this is, but the most prevalent idea at the moment is that this is Amazon factoring in the exchange rate, and making authors pay it. So not only are we paying for the return and making a negative income, but we're also paying the cost of the exchange rate. 🙃🙃🙃

And people are wondering why authors are screaming about booktok "hacks" that promote returning books even if you enjoyed them and begging people to use libraries instead. And just in case you want to see those figures:

Image ID: Another screenshot from the FindAwayVoices shows Library transaction details. The library paid $29.99 for the lending license, earning me a royalty fee of $13.50. FindAwayVoices took a further fee of $2.70 for distribution, making my total income from a single library transaction $10.80. /End ID.

With that single library transaction, I have earned more than what I made from 5 separate sales from both Amazon and Scribd combined. And I will continue to earn royalties from the library lending service. Not much. It will probably be about a dollar max depending on the country and exchange rate. BUT--that's a dollar I am making that YOU don't have to pay for. This is why library lending services are so essential and why authors are begging readers/listeners to use services like OverDrive and Libby instead of abusing Amazon return policies.

Libraries pay us. And the more people request our books and check them out, the more likely they will be to keep buying our stuff and keep us in their catalog.

So please, please, please, support your local libraries and also stop harassing creators for using multiple platforms to sell our work. Most of us are making a pittance from our work. We don't need people who don't understand how rigged the system is against us lecturing us about how it's our fault because of where we are forced to sell just to try and make a living. 😔

Anyway, support authors direct where you can. Support your local libraries. Stop being a dick to creators, etc.

I'm going to go scream into a pillow for a bit then get back to work.

Edit: sorry for the weird formatting. I have no idea how that happened. I couldn't see the excess text until it posted.

[stormblessed95]

"Insecure Jikookers"

When we say that like 60% insecure jikookers aren't actually jikookers at all. And another 25% of insecure jikookers are just brand new to the fandom and doesn't understand how content work or the full extent of just how close all 7 of the members are. Very few of them are ACTUALLY just chronically insecure shippers. Which is a problem on its own, but a totally seperate one. Bloggers can tell. When we get asks or DMs and they all start with "I fully believe in jikook, but..." or "I'm a jikooker, but sometimes when JK..." or "I'm not an insecure jikooker, but sometimes taekook...." or "I never once believed in taekook, but when they...."

It gives you away. Lol it's not always, and most bloggers like to give you the benefit of the doubt when answering asks. But trust us, when we say we tend to get ALOT of asks, when my anons are off, the amount of DMs I get increases and sometimes it's from burner accounts to stay anon without being anon. Lol and I promise I don't mind, I love talking with yall. But keep in mind when we get snippy or rude sometimes, it's because a "jikooker" has been in our inboxes consistently being... annoying for lack of a better word. FOR EXAMPLE. Lol this person who DMd me, starting the conversation off with....

We had a decent conversation. Lol but they also were talking to a friend too. With the same sort of stuff after this. Where their conversations went like this....

And when my friend eventually ended the conversation because they were just talking in circles and she didn't want to keep saying the same thing over and over... they messaged me again. With the same stuff they were sending her. Lol

And at this point, I wasn't as kind. It had been WEEKS of conversation between us, as well as between them and my friend. All over the same stuff. We both clocked in a while ago that they were probably a tkkr, but just figured we would keep answering questions honestly in hopes of having an open conversation about it. But with this message, I too, was done. Lol I had already seen that they had been having this conversation and didn't have any actual interest or intent to hear anyone else's actual opinion.

To which, they responded with the classic "whoops, I've been caught" move and deactivated their account. Lmao which just proved our point that they were never an insecure jikooker. They were just a tkkr pretending and trying to create doubt and discourse in jikooker spaces. And "convert" people into shipping taekook. Because that's what they do. They want to "win" so they set out to try and convince people that what they see is what everyone should see. And to get more people to join their cult. It's honestly EXACTLY how actual cults work in getting more people to join as well. Which is bonkers.

And no, I don't mind exposing their account and these messages because the account doesn't exist anymore. And I'm using it for a be patient with your favorite bloggers because sometimes we are dealing with a lot of back and forth. And rhe stuff we get in our inboxes from people under anon are generally even more insane and wild. Or trying to be manipulative under the guise of being "jikookers." "Im just like you, but I've seen the light. You should too."

For another example, I've gotten actual messages from taekookers before too. Who don't pretend to be anything other than taekookers. We've had decent conversations as well. The ones who don't try to manipulate and gaslight their way into your inbox usually aren't as crazy, so tracks. I've had some where we shared opinions and walked away nicely agreeing to disagree. I've had some really great conversations that ended even better too. Lol for example, one person who was a tkkr messaged me and their conversations started like this

And our conversation ended like this:

And we still talk too. Pretty sure she is a fully fledged jikooker at this point 😂🤣 maybe she will see this and let me know for sure if she is or not. 👀😂

Lmao but the difference in how the conversations started was telling. And I promise, bloggers can usually tell the genuinely insecure but sincere jikookers from just rhe confused baby armys from the tkkrs (or other shippers) in disguise anons. Lol if any of these secret shippers are hiding around on blogs, please just dont waste your time or mine (or anyone elses.) If you are just trying to convert people into shipping your ship, don't bother. Only do this if you want to legitimately have a genuine conversation and are willing to be open minded about people disagreeing with you.

Yall excuse the grammar and typo/spelling mistakes in these messages. I'm CLEARLY much more relaxed and usually typing in more of a rush in DMs then I do for posts. 🤣🤣 I'm also usually nicer in DMs too unless you drive me insane to this point like above. Lol

Basically just a post to highlight that we aren't dumb. We know what you are doing when you send us messages or anons like these. Lol and to remind everyone else to be patient with us bloggers at times. We really do have all types of conversations all the time 😂

[toovirgins]

I stumbled across this comment on YouTube earlier—and at first I was like haha nice but then I actually thought about it and I think there’s a really interesting opportunity for mclennon conspiracy discourse here. (yay!)

Under a cut because it’s a bit lengthy.

Nowhere Boy (2009) with Aaron Taylor Johnson and Thomas Brody Sangster: In this film about early John and his path to the Beatles, there are (arguably) new, nuanced details about his familial life and childhood/background that haven’t typically been conveyed in prior film portrayals of Lennon—and this “new, nuanced” bit comes from reading reviews and hearing comments about how many people watching the film (what I would consider, like, a “general population” of Beatles fans) didn’t even know about the details of his mother’s death. In the film, there’s a scene where Paul’s playing Julia’s banjo, and long story short John gets in a fight with someone and tosses the banjo and storms out. Paul follows him out there and he punches Paul in the face, who goes crumbling to the concrete. So, that’s the “punching scene”. The point is, Paul McCartney reportedly made it very clear that that never happened (i.e., that John had never hit him) after he saw the film and was not happy about it. (I’ve heard this “not happy about [the film]” narrative over and over, but I can’t seem to find any great direct quotes from Paul, other than people saying that Paul wasn’t a fan and suggesting he wasn’t happy about certain other portrayals [lol]- so if anyone has any, I’d love to hear about it!). Essentially, in response, Taylor Johnson tried to defend the emotional validity of the film and suggested, like, well we think John probably wanted to hit Paul a lot of the time, and the movie is just activating an interpretation of that. But, yeah, the point was that Paul was pissed about the punch scene and was reportedly very adamant that John never, ever hit him. And it’s not as though Paul had issues with the violence of it, because if it was that, why would he discuss it as an inaccuracy? Is there a nicer way to punch someone in the face? And, that would be completely neglecting the 0.2 seconds later when John realizes what he’s done and pulls Paul into a tight hug, which forms a very beautiful street shot of one morphed being shortly thereafter (side note: creative decision meant to emphasize the oneness in their bond of losing their mothers? anyway).

Two of Us (2000) television drama with Jared Harris and Aidan Quinn: First off, I feel like it’s worth mentioning that this is directed by Michael Lindsay-Hogg (who is also the director of Let it Be (1970), so... guy who spend hours upon hours with and watching the Beatles?). In this movie, there’s an elevator scene where John and Paul are messing around, cracking jokes and getting in a playfight and whatnot, and in the midst of it all John kisses him. After a couple of seconds, Paul pushes him off and doesn’t say anything for a moment. Then, he just makes a joke (”Just ‘cause Yoko’s away doesn’t mean you have to stop brushing your teeth”) and they laugh it off. Contrary to Nowhere Boy, Paul rather liked Two of Us as remarked on by Aidan Quinn in an interview on April 18, 2004: “Just after I finished the film, I went on holiday and Paul McCartney was staying at the same place. I met him and we became quite friendly. Later, he saw the film and fortunately he liked it. It would have been terrible if he'd hated it.” It appears that Paul is very complimentary of Two of Us - hence, the joke in the fandom that like “paul likes the kissing scene”. Paul hasn’t said anything about the kiss directly that I can find (sus in and of itself), but there’s been reasonable arguments made for the validity of the scene in that all of the other portrayals of John and Paul in the film are so accurate and realistic and truthful (see: Martin Lewis quote)—why would this detail be any different?

We could analyze these films and creative decisions separately and in comparison for hours and hours, but I find the McCartney responses a particular area of interest. Because don’t we think if Paul was adamant about setting the narrative straight on things that did or didn’t happen between him and John, and if he wanted to continue to push his ever-insistent narrative of ‘John wasn’t gay bc if he was he would’ve made a pass at me (or someone else) in 20 years’, he would also want to make it very well-known that the kissing scene didn’t happen either? With the same level of insistence? Though the movies themselves aren’t reduced to these two polarized scenes, is it not worth considering why Paul chose to speak out about one, but not the other? If it was an issue of setting the record straight (no pun intended), would Paul not wish to exercise the same amount of caution with kissing scenes as with fighting scenes, especially given what we know about how he has typically viewed and discussed sexuality? 

Or, could it possibly be that the kissing scene—in its presentation of playfighting, spontaneity, a brief moment of confusion and realization, then laughed off and construed as a joke—isn’t an inaccuracy?

[bopbopstyles]

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

MASTERLIST | INSPO TAG | Y/N’S LINGERIE | TELL ME YOUR FAVORITE BITS OF BANTER | BLURB MASTERLIST | DRABBLE TAG

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.”

or

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.

“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.”

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.

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