#elioslover writing

[elioslover]

Going for Gold. (GRAMMYS)

Just a little meet-cute on the Grammy's red carpet. I'm thinking this could turn into a couple parts... maybe... idk. But I love how this turned out anyways :)

Warnings: Use of she/her (non-descriptive though).

Word Count: 1.2k

Part 2 / Part 3 / Other Writing

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The flustered flashes of stark, shimmering camera’s coming from left and right, blinding and blurring his vision, eyes darting back and forth as the mass of people in front of him called out in competitive coos for his attention. He worked with desperate determination to remain still, to stick to his poses, tune out the hornet’s nest of leeching photographers, and under no circumstances, should he squint.

Seconds felt like minutes, which might as well have been hours. With each mounting moment, fear riddled its way to the core of his chest, questioning if he looked like a fool, was his hair alright, his outfit properly fitted? And before he was completely swallowed by the tornado of sensory overload, goosebumps pricking up at the back of his neck, he was plucked from natural disaster, ushered further along the carpet, away from the buzzards of cameras, slipping further into the scattered crowd of the elegantly-garbed guests in attendance.

All in their own heads, people scurried amongst one another, ducking, and weaving in attempts to avoid trampling dress-trains, displacing gems, and jewels, keeping their hairdos intact. He remained glued to his publicist’s side, seeking coherence within this sea of crazed confusion. He was waved forward, trailing along the velveted carpet, joining in the collective of avoidance tactics, almost crashing straight into a short, disheveled man who seemed not to notice, disappearing in an instant. It was only when he was stood directly across from an interviewer- draped in satin blue, extending a microphone his way- that he returned to reality, a camera suddenly coming to focus, and he wondered, had it been there the entire time?

The interviewer was already mid-greeting, and he scolded himself for such distraction, focusing extra hard on the words sent his way, waiting his turn to return the greeting and express thanks for being asked how his evening was going so far. A sudden flash- not that of a camera, but of a silver, shimmering dress- out of the corner of his eye tore his gaze before he could stop himself. The owner of the floor-length gown was bobbing between the wave of tuxedo’s, floating in and out of view as he tried with anxious desperation to bring her into fully fledged focus. From what he could confirm, her eyes flared brighter than the flashes that caused her dress to flicker, and her smile was swallowing her cheeks whole, crinkling at the corners of her brows.

Like the snap of a finger, another question was sent his way, and he lost her to the tides. When he finally had the chance to redivert his attention to finding her, she was long gone, and he was left to be lured back into the fixated conversations of fashion, music, and the appearances of other stars. Tediousness would best describe the motions moving from one corner of bellowing and bitching to the other, and he longed for the seat decorated with a label of his name, the dimmed lights and clapping of hands, for the proper celebration. “Last one,” paired with a pat on the back was his saving grace, and a burst of enigmatic energy took him by complete surprise. He answered the questions more animatedly, made more eye contact, and was more than happy to show off his jewelry for the pleasure of the viewers at home.

“Hey, you!” a familiar face greeted as he rewardingly reached the carpet’s finishing line, and he was happy to be warmly wrapped within the bubble of a fellow nominee. It was nearing the time of dropping formalities and moving the party indoors, the slow ushering of guests stirring up nearby. He lingered in conversation, the desire to rush disappearing, and in hindsight, he was more than grateful for that, because like the breech of a blue whale, the owner of the shimmering silver dress- completely preoccupied in conversation with the middle-aged woman walking alongside her- was heading his direction.

His breath became trapped between his chest and throat as she floated by, looking straight ahead. And as her bare back became all of her he could see, the air gushed out from between his lips, a thirsty thump in his head. He felt an odd omen of loss, fearing it would be the last time he saw her face. The so-called departed anxiety had returned tenfold, anchoring its place in his heart, but with what many- including himself- may define as great luck, a slender, sterling bracelet sneakily slipped from her wrist, cascading down her dress before settling on the carpet with satisfaction. A satisfaction he shared as his feet mindlessly moved him forward, a puppy her heels, bending down to grab the bracelet, balanced between his fingers as his free hand reached out and gently tapped her shoulder.

Stopping in her tracks, lips parted and eyed widening as she tilted her neck to acknowledge the stranger. Standing before her, he suddenly felt rather silly. Peering down at her as she turned and looked up at him expectantly. A soft frown settling between his brows, only gesturing her to look down at his still splayed-out palm, her bracelet sitting so sweetly in the center. Her confusion switched to realization, then straight to mortification for managing to misplace her only accessory of importance. Muttering ‘fuck’, she peered up at him, blinking bashfully.

He only smiled down at her goofily, hoping that in some way it would reassure her. And it seemed to, her shoulders sinking back down, devoid of shame, suddenly substituted with curiosity. His eyes reflected the distant flashes, curls perfectly settled, daintily dotted freckles, dimples deep, and surely he could see the blush blotching up at her cheeks. She reached out to receive her retrieved treasure, lashes fanning as her eyes widened when he gently grasped her wrist, mindfully wrapping the bracelet back where it belonged before clipping the clasp into place, his hands lingering atop her skin for as long as she was willing to permit.

And now, seconds felt nothing like hours, they were gone before they came, and he was lettering her arm go. Still looking over at him shyly, she offered a more than grateful thank you, twisting at the bracelet timidly before sounds of excitement struck her senses back to attention, and she slipped back into reality. So, she sent her curious contemplation his way for a moment longer, her ears tingling at the sight of his cheeks warming under her watch, before softly waving - bracelet on display for all - and turning back to her attendee, who was waiting aside patiently. They re-synced and continued their pursuit of the event’s entrance. But just before being swallowed by the sea of stars once more, she looked back over her shoulder, and he knew now with certainty that they were surely sharing the same air of intrigue.

His hopes for the evening swirled and switched from ending with a shined and polished award, to seeking out the owner of the runaway bracelet. When it came to winning, gold was good- it was great, but suddenly silver sounded, so, so much better.

[0oolookitsme]

It's Buzzcut Season, Anyways!

Eeeeekk!!!! Hi Hi everyone!! I hope you are all doing well, here comes the first post of the year! <3

So.. It is my birthday today, and I'm very excited to tell you that I'm introducing to you, another one of my pairings! This a little excerpt from the fic (wip) I'm writing about this chaotic pairing, and I really do hope this gets you as excited about their story, as I am! This was supposed to be up in December but for some reason, I didn't post it?? Anyways, other than that, you shall see more, further on in 2024 :)

Also, shoutout to @cupid-styles and @elioslover for picking my ice hockey!Harry to be the one to get a buzzcut, hahah! My indecisive self (who lowkey wanted you guys to pick him), could've never 💗

All the love always, A.

Verse - NHL Player!Harry x Figure Skater!Y/n (uni era)

Word Count - It's just an excerpt so it's short!

Warnings - None that I can find but if there are any, do tell me and I'll edit them into this!

Y/n is reluctantly trimming Harry's hair when her nose feels funny, and she sneezes. Its good though, that Harry asks for her opinion regarding a change that he would rather appreciate.

Please rb to share! | Masterlist

Y/n sat on her unmade bed, hair unbrushed and messy since she woke up from a 3-hour nap. Her fingers typed away on her laptop, her face showing zero signs of any stress regarding the assignment she's going to have to turn in un-edited.

Probably because of the breakdown she'd had before taking nap. She'd been so stressed that she had drawn blood from her lips and broken two of her nails -- which was rather disappointing to her considering she'd got them done not so long ago in the honour of the upcoming season of winter.

The temperature was still as hot as summer, but half of the world was snowed in, and she wanted the peace of mind that winter brought her; so, she deluded herself into thinking that it was indeed her favourite time of the year.

A silent burp made its way up her throat, as she drank the day-old diet coke she'd been drinking before her meltdown-that-leads-to-an-amazing-nap.

Just as she slurped on the last sip that wasn't anything but melted ice, she heard the door to the flat open and her eyes rose up just in time to catch the sight of a sweaty and out of breath Harry, through the open door of her room.

"Y/n?" He called for her, walking towards her room when she only hummed in response. He passed her an apologetic smile on reaching her doorframe, and she knew he was going to ask something of her that the both of them know she wouldn't be willing to do quite easily.

"I need your help," he grinned at her. "...And Immediately."

She looked at him suspiciously, before deciding to shift her focus back on her assignment, knowing that he would lure her in if she were to continue looking at him.

But Harry was at once kneeling beside the side of bed she was sitting on. With his hands joined, he contorted his face in a way that looked like he was about to cry. "I beg of you, please! If you don't help me right now, my life will be ruined forever!"

Y/n's eyes had fallen into untrusting slits by now as she minimized the document that she had been writing in. "What is it, Harry?" She asked him in a monotonous tone, shutting her laptop as if procrastinating the essay any longer would be a great help.

"Cut my hair."

Instantly her jaw dropped open. Shaking her head, she began reopening her laptop and Harry took a hold of her wrists. "Harry, there's no way!" She yelped as he began making her get off the bed.

"I'm not asking you to give me haircut like Zayn!" He exclaimed, as if that'd ease her. "Just trim it a bit," he shrugged, walking out into the small living-room with Y/n thrashing behind him. She even threw a few hands at him, but he had a feeling that she wasn't as opposed by the idea as she was pretending to.

He pulled out a chair in front of the mirror that, though they had been living in this flat for nearly two months, had yet to be pinned to the wall. "C'mon, you work at a salon -- surely you know how to trim a guy's hair," he teased her, knowing that questioning her abilities would get to her and she'd cut his hair better than any hairdresser ever could.

Looking at her reflection glaring at him through the mirror, he winked at her before bending down to unzip his bag. He pulled out an electric trimmer from inside it and handed it to her, pulling the towel from the coffee table that he had left there earlier in the morning.

Once done draping it over his shoulders, he handed her the trimmer and added a touch of his puppy-dog eyes even though he knew they simply don't work on her.

"Okay. If you end up bald, don't complain then," she grumbled before running her hand through his hair. "Is this sweat or did you wash your hair after practice?" Her face was already contorted in disgust, like she knew he surely couldn't have done the latter.

"Don't you worry, I washed it after practice," he assured her, looking at her as if she should appreciate him.

She turned on the trimmer and held his hair in sections by one of her hands. "Why didn't you go to a salon?" She asked him, trimming the hair on his sides with her mouth parted.

Harry shrugged and immediately retorted when Y/n shrieked, mumbling an apology. "The salon's too far. I don't have the time to get there; got a handful of assignments to turn in before midnight." He told her. "And I mean, saving some money never hurt anyone."

"You do realize that I've put doing my assignment on pause to do this silly shenanigan with you?" Her eyebrows rose up as she fired another question at him. She suppressed a smile when he passed a dimpled-lopsided grin to her. "God, I hate you," she said, and a smile slipped on her lips as she moved to the other side to trim the rest of his hair.

She had no reason to be doing a parttime job at a salon, it wasn't going to help her in the future in any way, but it did help her in the present with its money. The money she got by being apprenticed to a dance company went straight into the flat-bills and some other necessary purchases that she couldn't avoid.

But she wasn't complaining about it. Living among frat people was a nightmare for her. She did have fun with people but being a clean-freak and a morning person didn't match well with the frats. They did love her dearly, but when Harry came in asking if someone would be willing to be his flat mate, everyone had chanted for Y/n. And, when he asked Y/n at the rink, she had quite literally jumped at the opportunity and in the joy of the moment, hugged Harry with a tight grip that still had his heartbeat rise whenever he thought about it.

With her touching his hair, Harry's heart was beating so hard in his chest that he was afraid it was going to break a rib. His eyes never once left her reflection in the mirror, not with the way she was being so careful and serious. Her lips had parted without her knowing, and she wasn't even blinking often enough.

That was when Harry saw a hair-strand fall in her face, and her face scrunch up in a way it does when she's about to sneeze. He saw as she turned to sneeze in her elbow -- a habit that she still hadn't gotten rid of. He shifted his gaze down on his hands in his lap, to prevent her catching him staring at her.

When Y/n caught her breath after the sneeze, her eyes grew wide. Her hand began shaking as she brought the other hand to cover her mouth, looking at his head in horror. She wasn't sure if she should laugh or begin spewing apologies and decided on the latter one.

But as she opened her mouth, Harry looked at her. "Should I just buzz it off?" He questioned her and thought that she had paled at the thought of him going bald. "I mean, the match season is finally over. I don't have anything to do but study, do my parttime and of course practice hockey." He shrugged explaining his point of view, looking at her to help him decided.

"S-sure! I mean, you'd look good with any-any type of haircut." She was shaking and stuttering, but Harry was too lost in his train of thoughts to question her. "A-and its buzzcut season, anyways!"

That seemed to be helpful for Harry. He smiled at her, "Shave it off, then. I'm basically on vacation from tomorrow... and I guess I'd really appreciate a change like this!" He was back to grinning and Y/n's sweat was beginning to cool off.

She imagined sitting with Harry on a sofa on some ordinary-night with her feet in his lap like he were her closest friend and telling him about today -- a movie playing on the lowest volume possible in the background. She stopped herself before she could get lost thinking about his reaction and mess up even his buzzcut.

[elioslover]

Taking a breather from the prompts in favour of writing a little assassin piece (I've been scheming about for YEARS) especially for @harrysonlylover who has been writing the most amazing assassin fic atm and has revived my love for this trope and actually just writing in general!

So yeah, keep a look out for Harry who manages to have a hit put out on him! - em. Xo 💞

[elioslover]

Talk to me about Grapejuice! What do you think of the characters? What do you hope happens? Literally anything!! I am in love with the characters and I need to talk it out!! Emmy. xo

[elioslover]

Routines (Harry Styles x reader) dadrry!

Premise: Harry is stirred from his sleep by the best little surprise.

[I could not help myself!]

Word count: 1.4k.

Warnings: . Other writing / More dad!harry

🧸

The sun is bright-even brighter than the curtains shielding it from the sleepy owners tucked away under soft and fluffy white sheets. Speaking of, Harry has been in a deep sleep, swimming across dreamland with gills and a tail. An extremely enticing activity that only has him lulling further into unconsciousness. 

But it doesn’t take long for his dreams to start turning foggy, a soft and cute voice cooing out to him, coming from the sky above him, demanding his attention. He knows the voice well- knows he will be awake in a few moments. And how could he resist when the voice is so loving, a mumble of half-formed words and little giggles. 

He can feel someone starts to stir beside him, a soft grumble threatening to roll over and tend to the little voice calling for your attention from the other side of the bed. Harry needs to stop you before you are fully awake and can't convince yourself to fall asleep, well aware that letting you rest will be one of the only graces he can still give you. 

Blindingly reaching his arm out, Harry gently rubs his palm along your back, swirling circles along your skin, signalling your nearing return to slumber. Sighing out with relief, you shift and snuggle back into the plush sheets. 

The giggling goes on, closer to his face now and Harry can't stop the sleepy smile that creeps along his feature, excitement for his eyes to flutter open so he can greet the needy little one who is only moments away from wrapping their chubby little fingers around his nearest curls, threatening to tug if he waits much longer. 

This is a guarantee after a repeat of the same wake-up routine for weeks in a row- a tiny tot, reaching no taller than his knees, the perfect place to wrap around him to stay as close as humanly possible. A little baby, well rested, waking up with the sun and ready to sing their little songs for mummy and daddy. 

She had stayed snuggled beneath her lilac and unicorn duvet for as long as her little thoughts could keep her company, but after a good moment of fiddling with her fingers- raised above her and aimed for the ceiling, creating wonky hand puppets- she is determined for only one thing; the company of the tall, all-knowing parent. 

Her soft feet, devoid of creases, new to the whole living thing, pad along the hardwood floor, navigating from the safety of her bed in search of the main bedroom. The journey from one room to another is hardly existent- less than five footsteps away, and with the door already slanted, she is welcome to wander and waddle along to the king-sized mattress. 

A smile turns to a little grin, baby teeth peaking past her gums as she makes her way over before coming to a clumsy halt at the foot of the bed. Both parents are buried between a mountain of sheets, heads pressed into the pillows, soft snores emitted in intervals, and she frowns with little furrowed brows, longing for them to wake up and smother her with lovies. 

Harry obliges with another little smile, sending it her way from behind closed lids, taking a last second to enjoy the feeling of darkness before slowly squinting his eyes to open, slowly separating and embracing the harsh shining of the sun, peaking through a sliver of the crumpled curtain, bouncing along and illuminating the bedroom. 

With one eye more open than the other, his vision blurs to clarity, he is met with the wide and gleeful gaze of his favourite little gremlin. She has him grinning from her mere presence, partially satisfied that she has managed to persuade Harry to escape slumber, giddy for the gush of greetings she is guaranteed to receive. 

His voice is gravelly as a toothy grin spreads along his cheeks, shiny teeth cheesing up at the little lady looking over at him with the widest most innocent green eyes, thick black lashes fanning and framing her stark, fiery gaze,

“Good morning princess.” 

He can hear you shuffle with surety and satisfaction, digging deep into the mattress and delving back to sleep with the reassurance that your little one is taken care of- for the moment, at least. Satisfied with his success, Harry turns all of his attention to the little girl currently clapping her hands together with anticipation as she answers, 

“Hello, dada.” 

Each time she chooses to verbalise her thoughts, Harry feels like it’s the first time- the first time he’s heard her little voice. Even if she’s only been absent for a couple hours, he cannot help the surprise that stirs in his heart, butterflies batting against the walls of his stomach, filled with excitement over his little creation beaming up at him with such pure adoration. 

Harry rolls over fully, resting on his hip, one arm raising to cradle his head and the other reaching out in an attempt to reel her in closer. She obliges in an instant, bouncing up and down on the balls of her chubby little feet, bounding over to him, her hand wrapping around his own extended palm. 

With her hand in his, Harry is always amused at how tiny she really is- with such a rambunctious and animated personality, it's hard to believe her third birthday is yet to pass- fitting in his palm like that of a petit flower, her half-scrunched fist sitting right in the middle of his hand like blooming petals. 

“Did you have a nice sleep?” Harry ponders, a warm feeling melting his heart as she begins nodding avidly. She had no dreams, despondent to the world, wholesomely welcoming the darkness, and Harry longs for the days when his sleep was the same. 

She is inching closer, clambering over in an attempt to settle into his custody, and Harry is more than willing to comply as he gently guides her closer with his grip, encouraging her to continue her climb up onto the mattress, 

“Wanna snuggle with mummy and daddy for a little?” He already knows the answer, but he loves the way her eyes light up with excitement. 

“Absolutely.” That’s a new one for her, replacing the repetitive answer of yes, Harry is reeling with amusement, in awe of her apparent skill in picking up and copying the words she has heard both you and Harry saying at some point or another. This is absolutely his contribution- he had said it a couple times just the day before. 

“C’mere, clever little one.” He helps her crawl up, the mattress dipping so minimally as she cuddles closer into his hold. 

Harry shifts further back, careful not to bump your body, but soothed as one of your hands sluggishly holds onto his shoulder, your own body squeezing closer to his until there is no space and Harry is being spooned by his sweetest companion, back slotted between your chest. 

He provides enough space for his little one to snuggle over into him, her entirety curled into a half-moon, legs curled up and little arms scrunched against her chest. As soon as her head hits the pillow, she is starting to settle, little eyes struggling to keep from swelling shut with the promise of extra sleep. Harry knows it will be mere moments until she slips away with melatonin, leaving him with the promise that he will soon join her. 

His eyes flutter shut as she snuggles in even closer- if possible- and his arms curls around her with comfort and security, making certain she knows she is always safe in his company. And it seems like seconds before her body stills, and relaxes into the bundle of sheets, little breaths evening out until Harry is sure she is asleep. 

With sleepy eyes and a wholesomely swollen heart, Harry is wrapped up and warm, surrounded by the most important loves in his life, wondering how he got so lucky as slumber slowly seduces him back into darkness.  

[elioslover]

Worst Wingman - Harry Styles x Reader.

[Premise: Harry is a shite wingman... or is he?]

Prompt Requests- send a couple numbers and a trope or dynamic! (18, 26, 31, 32, 35).

"No goodnight kiss for me? " // "Are you daring me to kiss you?"

Main Writing

Word Count: 2.3k.

🫧

Harry doesn't even have a chance to pull up the handbrake before she has the door open, clutching onto her bag and stepping out into the brisk autumn air, her shoes swiftly scraping against the concrete, hardly caring if the door shut (or if Harry was following) behind her. 

She is aggressively rummaging through a cluster of items in pursuit of house keys, huffing at the incredulity of the man she can almost guarantee is hot on her heels, ready to grovel his way back into her good books. 

By the time she comes to a stop at her door, it’s difficult to ignore the sudden invasion of Harry’s presence nearing her own. 

He keeps a small space available in favour of her comfort, but his confident energy is so palpable that she feels he might as well have his lips pressed against the crook of her neck, it felt as if his hands were already ghosting around her waist, holding her with soothing security. 

The key takes far too long jingling as she repeatedly misses the lock, her hands start to subtly shake with nervous frustration, and though Harry- already peering over her shoulder- wants to chuckle, he pretends not to notice, and that’s an easy feat when his gaze dips to observe the divets of her collarbone and shoulders- almost bare of materials- dedicating his attention to the scatter of sunspots and freckles along her skin.

On the third and final attempt, the keys twist with triumph and the front door clicks, unlocking, and instantly she turns the knob and pushes the door ajar- just enough to slide a shoe- perhaps a leg- through. 

Harry waits in anticipation as she readjusts her bag and slants the door wider, making sure not to leave any space for Harry to follow her through. 

He softly chuckles at her petulant stubbornness, staying put as she slips through the cracks and peers back at him from behind the wooden barrier with a stern frown, secretly living for the feelings of empowerment that surge up her spine. 

But, Harry is only amused, and it only increases the longer he studies the dramatism painting her wide eyes, blushed cheeks, and bushy eyebrows with adorable misplaced anger. Well, he seems to think it’s misplaced. 

She does not. She and Harry have had a simple and seamless relationship up until the past couple of months when he suddenly started acting up. 

An agreement of ‘we’re thirty, time is running out, we should be each other's wingmen’ has turned into a blurred line of kisses and touches behind closed doors, and her focus is now wavering from setting Harry up with someone else in favour of keeping him all to herself. 

The entire agreement hinges on the fact that they're both looking for different things and as far as she’s aware, Harry’s mind hasn't changed, even though they have evidently adjusted the rules- romance definitely wasn’t initially part of the deal- her fears of rejected reciprocity help refrain her from fully indulging in the fantasy of what life could look like if they just chucked the plan and chose each other. 

But Harry thinks he’s made himself quite clear- at least he thinks it’s quite obvious after the numerous times he has interrupted or completely compromised any of her recent romantic prospects. 

He couldn’t recall the exact moment or reason why, but this little ‘agreement’ between the two had rapidly turned into something more for him, and he hoped that she felt it too. 

Sometimes he’s sure she does- that she enjoys each touch and giggle with as much endearment as he does- but then moments like this have him questioning it all as she works her hardest to create distance, visibly frazzled and very disappointed. 

Harry doesn't challenge her defence, he doesn't make any attempts to step forward or push back, only leaning his shoulder comfortably against the wall, cheekily smiling in light of her next move. 

Naturally, her chest tightens at his borderline childish nonchalance, but, resisting the temptation to chide him for every single thing he does that irritates the life out of her, she takes a deep breath and puts on a sickly sweet smile,

“Thanks for the ride, Harry.”

As quick as the words leave her mouth, she uses her palm to weakly attempt to shut the door, hoping to leave Harry as confused as she currently is. 

But he’s been expecting it- actually amused that it took her this long to formally dismiss him- and as gently as he possibly can, Harry uses his own palm to stop the door from swinging shut, ensuring her grouchy face remains on full display. 

She is in no mood for games, and they both know it, but Harry cannot resist the electric currents of endearment surging through him as she scowls and scoffs with impatience, foot tapping in anticipation for his next- and sure to be audacious- action. 

His chosen tactic is to smirk lazily, leaning further- if possible- into the wall, his arm still extended, holding the door ajar, head tilting, eyes enamoured and practically pouting along with his plump lips as he ponders, 

“No goodnight kiss for me?” 

“You’re incredulous!” Her voice raises, mortified, as she makes a final attempt to shut the door. 

Without even confirming, she turns on her heels- ironically immediately starting to rid herself of this evening’s chosen stilettos- but by the sounds of it, Harry has followed after her, just barely standing in the entrance hall, his eyes like a magnet to her bent body as he mutters,  

“You like that about me.”

Levelling on the ground, she whips back around to face him, arms angrily folded across her chest, and currently she has to crane her neck to address him directly, 

“Right now, I don't like you at all.” 

“Don’t be mean.” He whines. 

“Oh, but it’s okay for you to be mean to me?” She huffs. 

Harry feels slightly stumped by that one, his arms absentmindedly straying up his chest, crossing sternly with sudden defensiveness, frowning, 

“When have I been mean to you?” 

“When you kiss me!” 

Her arms flail, brows furrowed with such frustration that Harry feels a new level of confusion, mostly focused on her plump, peachy lips as he asks,

“Are you daring me to kiss you?” 

“Are you daring me to punch you?” She threatens. 

“Ooh, kinky.” He mewls. 

“You make my blood boil!” She all but tosses flames his way, pairing her verbal threat with a hearty step forward, entering his personal space.

“You make me happy.” He takes a mirroring step, meeting her in the middle, his features slowly sinking from jovial into a clusterfuck of perplexion.

But this only seems to make things worse, she seems close to fuming and Harry swears he can see steam spewing from her ears and nostrils. 

And she only creeps nearer, one arm collapsing to her side, the other raising to press a stressed palm to her flaming forehead. 

After what feels like an eternity, she has soothed her twisted stomach and the thumping in her chest has lulled enough for her to huff with unmistakable disappointment,

“What the hell are we doing, Harry?” 

Harry’s stare swells and steals his confident security as he tries to sort through the clues she so sternly requires, 

“Well right now I’m trying-”

“Not right now. In general.” She demands. 

“What do you mean?” Harry- definitely discouraged- concedes and asks for her aid. 

It’s a sting to his heart when her face only surges with what he sees as sorrowful hatred. 

“I mean,” Her tone has lost all patience as she gestures wildly at him, “What the hell is this?” and then her body slumps sadly, “Us.” 

“I dunno. Guess I thought we were having fun.” 

Harry’s head bows, his heart has a headache, and all he really wants is to reach out and smooth out the furrow in her brows, rid her frown with reassurance.

But as soon as he attempts to get nearer, she furthers the distance,

“My wingman constantly kissing me and ruining my dates is not fun… For me, at least.” She hopes the severity of her hurt stays hidden. 

“I haven't been ruining your dates.” Harry pouts, still puzzled. 

“Oh c’mon. You know exactly what you’re doing.” Her eyes roll at his ridiculousness.  

“I don’t!” He hadn’t consciously considered it until this current crisis, and… she’s right. He’s been actively sabotaging the same opportunities he so sweetly sent her direction. He concedes, “Okay, I do, but-” 

“But?” 

“I thought you liked kissing me.” With honesty, Harry shrugs weakly. 

“I do! That’s the problem.” She can hardly stay still, dragging herself deeper into the depths of suffocating frustration. 

“Okay, now I’m really confused.” He can’t conceive of what she’s trying to communicate.  

Suddenly, she’s the one closing the gap, walking straight for him until the only thing separating their chests is an arm's length, peering up at Harry with a gaze he recognizes from brief moments in between the sheets, his head resting in her lap, and after midnight goodbye kisses.  

“I like kissing you. And I like spending time with you.” She announces with certainty, “But I don’t think you want us to be more than… whatever this is.” Her shoulders slump as she weakly gestures once more, “The least you could do is be the wingman you promised to be.” 

“Then I don’t want to be your wingman anymore.”

Harry says it with such simplicity that it seems like a total throwaway comment- like none of this meant anything more than a verbal agreement- like this whole thing was nothing to him from the very start. She feels a lot of things, but the shame of it all is sickening.

“Okay, fine! You could have just said that!” Her voice, booming- cracking on impact, “Didn’t have to pity me.” 

Teary eyes trail down to stare at her shimmering toenails, blinking at a rapid rate to avoid any falls, she hopes to the heavens above that a miraculously giant bird would just swoop down and carry Harry away from this catastrophic nightmare so she can cry in peace.

He doesn’t wish for the same- in fact, he just wishes she would look at him- he needs her gaze to reassure his entire existence, for her eyes to confirm the words slipping past her lips. 

So, with the softness of a summer breeze, Harry nears her and though she still won’t look up, he feels it okay to assert,

“I’ve never pitied you, and you know it.” He tries to sound void of accusation,  “Just wanted to help you out.” 

“Well, no need to worry, your job is done.” She spits, finally looking up. Harry almost wishes she hadn’t.

“Fine.” He scoffs.

“Fine.” She mocks.

They stay locked in a stare-off of lust and maybe love all wrapped up in a bow of a fiery gift box about to blow open and burst their bubble. 

Harry’s chest huffs and his next exhale is as childish as the last, 

“Good.”

“Great.” She grits through a sarcastic thin-lipped smile. 

Harry loves the little strands of hair that have stuck to her skin with sweaty fervour, the promising taste of her peachy plump lips, chubby flared and blotchy cheeks.

Her eyes- tinted red and swooping lashes slightly damp- are as comforting as always and they give Harry the last little push he so clearly needs,

“So, can I finally ask you on a date now?”  

“Excuse me?” She actually wants to ask, ‘What the hell is happening?’.

“I like kissing you. I like spending time with you.” His voice is as certain as his words, “I’d really like to take you out, properly, and I’d love to be yours completely.” 

Timidly, she peers up at him and after a moment of glancing his gaze to seek out any reason for Harry to be lying. But, there’s nothing more than the glimmer of adoration swirling around amorously in the forest of green. 

Then, shyly conceding with insurmountable relief, she somewhat cautiously asks, 

“... Really?” 

“More than anything.” 

“Okay…” It’s becoming impossible to hide the smile creeping at the corners of her mouth, “I’d like- love- to go on a date with you.”

Harry sighs out and releases so much untended pressure that he feels momentarily lightheaded, or it has something to do with the words- he had unknowingly deemed a necessity- coming out in a silky ribbon of a sentence, sung like a prayer from the prettiest of lips from the prettiest of people. 

He ignores how silly and giddy he must seem as he eagerly removes the remaining distance between them, shoes gently bumping against her toes. One hand makes a home on her lower back,

“How does tomorrow sound? Pick you up around 7?” 

“Sounds good…” 

“Good.” 

Harry concludes as her palms tentatively press to his torso, lashes batting lusciously as his face boldly leans closer, mouth glistening, garnering full attention as his free hand comes up to cup her jaw. 

She can feel her toes trying to leave the floor, ankles stretching to get closer, hand leaving his chest in favour of the nape of his neck, her fingers faintly brushing the base of his hair. 

Harry’s thumb slowly strokes at her cheek, then trails along her chin and lingers along the pillows of her lips, 

“Now, would it be cruel to ask for that goodnight kiss?” 

💞

[elioslover]

Masks On (Harry Styles x reader x smut).

Premise: Harry finally visits a sex club and what are the chances, you just so happen to be doing the same thing.

Word Count: 8k+ / Other Writing

Warnings: Smut from start to finish. P in V, Unprotected sex, literally all the sex things, just pure FILTH. Afab 2nd person (minimal OC description).

Also, shout-out to @justmeinatree for the encouragement and @caramello-styles for being such a sweetheart!

🍒

Harry feels the energy shift as soon as he steps out from the mass of thick, velvet curtain that worked to shield the utter filth that lay just beyond. The club- as referred to, looks more like a converted condo, with walls dyed with deep hues, ultraviolet lights instead of harsh bulbs, and purple and red bounce across the room- the floors, the ceilings.

Though the room is busy, everyone is scattered, and it feels spacious enough. Harry observes the array of beds and sofa’s instead of tables and chairs; people are going at it, moans mixing in with the deep bass emitted from nearby speakers.

Patrons- dressed in only bowties and Grecian inspired masks, carrying trays of beverages and sex toys with a formality that seemed foolish for a play like this. The pretty penny Harry had paid to be here was clearly being put to good use.

The entire thing screamed ‘filthy rich fun’, which, even for Harry, seemed almost awestriking; it was the type of elite secrecy one would never dream of, and if he had any doubt about joining this evening, it was erased the minute a waiter appeared before him, offering up a glass of whisky he wasn’t even sure he had ordered.

To be fair, after such an effort to simply enter this place, plenty of hoops to jump through and many questions to be answered and confirmed, it only made sense that the owners would ensure it was more than worth it.

Harry put the crystal to his lips, downing its contents in an anxious bid for comfortability. Instead, it burned at his chest and sent a long shiver down his spine; he shuddered, his skin sprinkled with goosebumps.

Ridding himself of his blazer, white tank top, leather loafers, and other personal belongings when he arrived, assured they would stay safe in his absence, Harry now stands in only a pair of black briefs. They cling to his thighs, pinching at the meaty expanse of his soft skin, diffing into and trapping a few of the hairs growing at the base of his pelvis.

But Harry could be fully nude for all he cares- the platinum, Phantom of the Opera mask that covers the top half of his face and stops at the bridge of his nose has him feeling invincible and fucking frisky. He feels like the god he impersonates, ready to delve into the mass of bodies stroking and loving on one another, his cock twitching against the restricting cotton as confirmation.

The beds are king-sized, holding space for at least four, and a few are evidently occupied by many more than that. Sheer material is draped across the ceilings like a canopy, creating a cosy and inviting atmosphere. Harry heads over to an empty velvet green chaise lounge, plopping down lazily, his legs spread out, thighs splayed, his one arm resting on the armchair, his other palm laying out across his lower stomach.

He turns his attention to the nearest bed, only a meter away, and begins watching as a throuple of two males and a female are switching positions. The girl lays on her stomach, flat against the bed, ass up, as the first man crawls up, spreads her ass cheeks apart and rubs his cock against her once before thrusting himself up into her. They reach a smooth rhythm, skin slapping as the second man lines up behind them, wrapping his arm around the torse of the first man; with a loud moan, the first man bucks forward, only moaning louder as the second man falls into position and starts fucking into him.

Harry hasn’t noticed the way his hand has lowered, palming himself through his briefs, his body shifting to get more comfortable. On the same bed, another couple goes at it, a woman vigorously bouncing atop the cock of a man donned in a lion mask.

In the midst of it all, bodies thrusting and shifting- you are resting sweetly, sitting atop your folded legs, disguised by a black, sequined silver mask, stopping above the nose, your eyes so sharp that Harry spots them immediately, hooked on the way the fluorescent lights flicker the reflection of filth he has succumbed to. His first thought is about who you are, his second is why you’re currently here, and the third is the only one that really matters; how the hell can he get his hands on you?

Dressed in only your underwear, you have had your gaze set on Harry from the moment the curtains had pulled back and revealed him in all of his glory. He was a mass of chocolate curls and tattoos decorating a chiselled and muscular figure that had you wishing you could get your hands on.

For a while, he had seemed nervous, and that only had your curiosity blowing through the roof, your body aching to wrap around any part of him up for grabs. As he made his way over, your heart was in your throat, attention completely thrown from the couple you had intended to participate with just moments prior. They were going at it regardless, bumping up against you, but your focus would be unwavering, your mouth watering at the view of his thighs, thick and spread out just for you.

He seems to be looking your way- maybe just observing the other couples, but something tells you by the way his body shifts, his eyes hidden but holding your own gaze, makes you feel like he might want you just as you want him.

A woman, her hair long and auburn, hidden behind a green dragon mask, drops onto the bed beside you, her knees softly hitting the mattress as she whispers suggestively into the shell of your ear. Cheeks flushed, your gaze remains on Harry, with the way he managed to stir such wanting in you, all by just sitting across the room.

His intrigue seems to pique, waiting to see what your plan was- were you going to entertain the woman next to you? Her cool fingers tickling their way up your spine, your body an eruption of goosebumps.

And you wish he would just come over or that you had the confidence to greet him yourself, but he seems comfortable and unwavering, leaving you to turn your attention back to something actually tangible; the woman currently pressing her lips to the nape of your neck.

Shifting your body to greet her own, you sit up on your knees and boldly wrap your hands like a chain around the back of her neck. She leans into your touch, anticipating your next move, a soft gasp escaping her lips as yours pressed on firmly, tongue licking into her own.

Your eyes have fluttered shut, your body soothed into the sultry kisses sucking at your bottom lip, but your thoughts wander over to the man on the couch, hoping to some god that he might be watching, that he might be regretting the choice to stay put.

Lips parting for deep inhalation, the woman’s hands are soft and static as they trail the soft mounds of your skin, and when your eyes finally open in the hopeful search of the man, you are more than surprised to find him much closer now, standing at the end of the bed.

His gaze is certainly set on your own, and you want to feel bashful at the circumstances, but the erotic stimulation happening all around you and the way Harry is looking at you hungrily, his muscles flexing involuntarily, only dampens your panties further, has your thighs clenching tighter.

He must notice because his pupils are blown, and he is crawling over now, slowly stalking out his prey, happily trapped in the arms of an auburn woman. He is more than welcome, though, your back pressing into the woman's chest, her lips still tickling at your throat, and when he comes to a halt at the base of your knees, you feel zero embarrassment as they part as a welcoming gift, offering him anything he desires.

“Well, hello pretty girl.” He greets, his cock throbbing as your chest raises and you take a sharp inhale, blinking at him in a way that has him feeling like a sinner- and he hasn’t even touched you yet.

“Hi handsome.” You respond, doing your best to keep your voice from cracking, almost completely distracted by the look of arousal in his eyes that seems to be increasing at just the sound of your voice, like a siren song only luring him further into the ocean in which you resided.

Harry can hardly stop himself from sighing out, from snatching you up and fucking you into submission, instead taking his time in luring you closer, his cock pleased at the ease with which you opened up for him, mind a mess of where to start.

He taps your thigh as an instruction, satisfaction shivering at his spine as you comply, spreading your legs, bum pressed flat to the mattress. Harry can't stop himself from wrapping his palms around your ankles, tugging you forward with enough force to have you exhaling a squeak, the woman’s grip tightening around your chest.

He looks at you like you are supper, his hands trailing their way up your calves, stroking slowly; as he reaches your thighs, he gives them a selfish squeeze, crawling his way over until he is almost face-to-face with the white lace of your panties.

His breath is cool as it fans over the heat of your lower abdomen, legs threatening to quake, and his grip only tightens, his stern stare never wavering, watching your every breath, the way your chest rises and falls in anticipation.

With the gentlest of kisses to your panty-clad crotch, you cannot withhold the deep sigh that slips past your lips, a keen whine whistling its way over to him, his stomach clenching, blood rushing to his cock. Harry’s tongue slips past his plump lips, licking a firm strip up your damp lace, his mouth watering in synch.

His left hand finds a firm home on your hip, helping to keep you pinned between the bed and his touch; his right-hand trails tauntingly along your sternum, fingers dancing into the dip of your belly button, playing your hipbones and pelvis like a harp before a sudden gush of coolness catches you off guard and his thumb hooking into the slit of your panties, tugging them aside in one firm go.

Your eyes widen with lust, unable to look anywhere but at the holy sight below you; the woman cradling your torso presses her lips wherever space omits, travelling in search of the mounds of your breasts, and your entirety is begging to turn to mush in the arms of pleasure as Harry leans forward and gives your pussy the gentlest of kisses, your eyes fluttering shut as he presses another, then another, his tongue joining in to lap at you, dipping into you.

He holds you in place with ease- where the hell would you rather be right now? And as the auburn woman latches her teeth around your pebbled nipple, your leg’s part even further- if possible- prompting Harry to release you from his prior grip, to hold you at the waist, his body pressed into the mattress, his cock flush and swollen from even the slightest of friction.

He can't stop from thrusting forward as a soft mewl slips past the gaps in your teeth, tongue pressing into you, gliding up your slit, flicking at your clit before his free hand cannot help but join the mix, massaging at your inner thigh, teasing at you as you buck your hips up in anticipation. 

It's difficult to keep from sighing out in pleasure, but you try your best, harshly capturing your bottom lip between your teeth, tugging harder as Harry continues licking into you, flattening his tongue, flicking it against your clit, dipping into your entrance. 

He has died and gone to heaven; his chin is coated in you, glistening under the neon lights, and with one hand still stroking and squeezing at your inner thigh, Harry uses the other to hook into the bands of your panties, hastily guiding them down the hills and valleys of your body and you assist, ass raising from the mattress, balancing on one leg as he slides the material along and off of your skin. 

Discarded and dismissed, you are bare and spread for him, a sight Harry will be committing to memory, and he looks at you hungrily- you’re ready to be ravished.

Your pussy is practically dripping, and Harry’s hand must be possessed because it reaches out, and his finger glides through your slit, quickly dampening. The sigh you release is almost sinister, and Harry has his face buried between your thighs in an instant. 

With his tongue licking at you, the almost forgotten auburn woman is still trailing kisses along your neck, her fingers tweaking and squeezing at the skin of your breasts. You are officially a mess of pleasure, ready to beg for more- anything- all of him. 

It’s like he reads your mind as his fingers start to tease at your pussy, rubbing back and forth, his tongue focusing on your clit, swirling circles, his middle finger slipping past your entrance with such ease that Harry mutters, “fuck me” and lets it slide all the way in, curling upward. With such positive reception from yours truly, he keeps at it, all of his focus dedicated to pleasing you. 

With the way his one finger becomes two, pumping into you with such vigour, you are writhing beneath him, thighs threatening to clamp around his head like earmuffs, blocked by his one hand keeping you put. 

Your head starts to lull back into the auburn woman’s lap, but Harry is quick to correct this, pulling out his fingers completely, sticky and wet, his mouth changing from loving on you to scolding, 

“Uh, uh.” He taunts, his brows furrowed, “Eyes on me, princess.” 

You do everything in your power to comply, staring at him with all your might as he gets back to work, a satisfied smile still lingering on his lips as his tongue laps at your pussy, his fingers fucking back into you, curling, picking up the pace. 

His fingers are in complete rhythm with his tongue- they are on a mission. And by the sounds currently escaping your lips, chest rising and falling needily, Harry is certainly succeeding.

But each moment that passes is becoming agonizing for him, desperate to substitute his fingers for his cock, currently aching to bury itself inside you. 

Harry tries to pacify his cock by grinding up against the mattress, but this only has him moaning against your pussy, which in turn has you doing the same, your hands fisting the sheets. 

He can no longer hold on, flattening his tongue to give you one last good licking before he removes his fingers and then himself, leaving you in absolute awe and confusion- a spark of panic flashing across your features. 

Harry doesn’t want to startle you, but you can't stop the yelp that escapes you as his hands wrap around your ankles, and with one tug, you are before him, his face aligned with your torso. 

He stands, holding out his hand to assist you in doing the same. You do, and once your feet are safely planted on the floor, Harry’s hands are kneading at your waist and hips. He permits you a moment to stabilise before his hands find the back of your thighs, and he hoists you up into your arms, legs wrapping around his waist. 

Pussy bare and pressed against his torso, the five-step walk over to the sofa feels endless, so when he finally sits, safely cradling your back, you lower with him, coming to a rest atop his cool thighs, knowing he will be slick with wet by the time you’re finished with him.

Arms wrapped loosely across his shoulders, your fingers play with the loose curls at the base of his neck, and you lean, the outline of your mask bumping up against his own as you finally retrieve what you’ve been after all along, pressing your lips to his, tongue taking out all of your prior frustrations as it tangles with his own, scrapes along his teeth, traps and tugs his bottom lip until he is left begging for breath, lips plump and freshly-stung.

Going in for more, your palms find the sides of his face, sandwiching him between lustrous kisses, your chest pressing to his own, a whine bubbling at your throat when his grip tightens, holding you hostage and creating a gap just small enough for his hands to slip from their place on your back and to cup your breasts, squeezing and palming them as his tongue continues to lap at your own.

With the feeling of your nipples perking up so nicely beneath his thumbs, Harry cannot resist the urge to start trailing sloppy kisses along the nape of your neck, your clavicle, his open mouth leaving a trail as it makes its way down your chest, his tongue licking at the valley of your breasts before his lips finally catch your nipple, flicking at it, your body arching back desperately, pleading for more.

With a harsh nip, his tongue soothes your swollen skin, his hands squeezing at the mounds of your breasts, and your body has a mind of its own now, jutting up against him, your pussy sad to be met with only the friction of his briefs, desperate to grind your wetness across his cock, feel him slipping between your folds.

After the third time, your body glides down into contact with his own, a frustrated sigh slipping past your lips; Harry seems to catch on and woefully unlatches his mouth from your skin, but with more than just happiness, he shifts beneath you- and you also shift to allow him better access- his fingers hooking into the bands of his briefs, tugging them down in one swift motion to settle around his mid-thighs.

His cock springs up, swollen with relief and flush with freedom. Your gaze never wavers, hyper-focused on how pretty the man sitting beneath yours truly is- all of him is just too good to be true at this point.

You want to spend eternity, or at least a moment, marvelling and taking him all in, but he is closer than ever, and your pussy is clenching at just the sight of him- practically screeching to have him buried deep inside you.

With that, you reach out and give him one mandatory stroke, to soothe both him and yourself, and by the way his mouth parts, his eyes hooded, body jolting and then relaxing back into your touch, you sling your leg over his lap to straddle him, his face level with your chest, his hands instinctively coming to a rest on the pillows of your hips.

Your arms become a noodle around his neck like in preparation for dancing the salsa, your hips rocking forward without hesitation, pussy skating along the length of his shaft, leaving him slick with just one stroke.

Harry doesn’t even try to stop the string of mutters he sings out into the crevasse of your breasts, breath fanning chills all along your skin just as your hips buck again, sliding up against him, squeaking out as the tip of his cock rubs up against your clit.

You push on into an agonisingly slow rhythm, dragging out each stroke until Harry is so frustrated that he works extra hard to avoid rutting up into you- oddly satisfied letting you take the lead- so his mouth begins leaving sloppy kisses along your chest, your shoulders, the creases of your neck. And whilst the idea of holding onto this sense of control was something you really wanted to indulge in, you cannot stop your body from picking up speed, ever so slightly upping the rhythm.

Harry is struggling to keep himself from turning the two of you over and fucking you into the sofa cushions, taking out his agitation by unexpectedly spitting on your chest, and both of your gazes drop to watch as the dribble of spit travels like a delicate stream down the valley of your breasts, meandering towards your bellybutton.

You rut up against him with force now, pupils swelled and hungry. At the last minute, Harry commands his pelvis not to thrust, taking a section of skin on your breast between his front teeth, nipping and sucking at it until it stings, giving you one last tug before pulling back, his tongue slipping out to softly lap at the blooming bruise. Tiny and speckled with red and purple, this mark will serve as a reminder of the scandalous events of this evening.

More so, this mark is the last straw, your lips angrily finding his own, tongues arguing for domination- Harry’s succumbs the second one of your hands reaches down between your laps, grabbing at his cock and guiding him into you without a second thought.

You take him in with ease, but he is a stretch the further you slide down on him, your belly feeling full as your body finally comes to a sitting on his cock. Harry’s head has tilted back, his eyes fluttering open and shut.

He wants to thrust up, he wants to watch your breasts and body bounce about atop of his cock, needs to see the way your skin jiggles and stretches for him, the way your face crinkles up in pleasure and satisfaction… but Harry lets you do anything you want, lets himself be at your mercy.

And fuck, you make the idea of losing control feel really good, raising your body until only his tip remains inside of you, threatening to leave him out in the cold, but at the last moment, you grind back down, letting him fill you up gluttonously, easily finding a groove, your backside slapping against his thighs, skin-to-skin creating the beat of a drum, and with each smack, you only want to go faster, harder, unable to resist the need to tease and drag things out.

Harry is a mess of moans, only making you feel like you are being cheered on during a marathon, encouraging you to up your stamina and reach the finish line in record time. His hands are all over you, tugging you closer, one hand wrapping tighter around your waist, guiding you up and down his cock, desperate to hear you whine louder, to let others know how good it felt to be riding him. And you want everyone to know, too; you want them to know that they could all leave, and you would be more than happy to just let Harry spend the rest of the evening fucking you into a semi-permanent coma.

Harry shifts, spreading his legs to offer you a new angle, ready to drool as a dragged-out sigh slips out from deep within you, and he knows he’s just hit a good spot.

So, as any good boy would, Harry bucks up into you again and again, motivated by each moan, putting his all into making you sing for him, your hand digging into his biceps, then his back, down his torso, squeezing at his thighs as your stomach starts to clench, heart rate picking up and when you start to feel lightheaded, you welcome the wave of euphoria threatening to wash over- you hear nothing but the soft praises Harry mutters for your pleasure, your body grinding down on his pelvis desperately chasing your high, whining out as his hand spreads your cheeks, guiding you through a long-anticipated orgasm.

Coming down, your head slumps against his damp shoulder, cheek pressing into his warm, soft skin. You can hear his heartbeat; it’s as fast as your own- if not faster; his breaths are scattered, and Harry wonders what will happen next.

He wants to revel in the moment but is hit with disappointment as you slowly and carefully guide him out of you, and he wants to hiss out at the cruel loss of contact.

Your leg swings over and off of his lap, standing tall and gazing down at him with a curious brow furrow that has Harry ready to question his entire existence, but when your arm extends out to him, offering to wrap his hand in your own, Harry feels butterflies beating at his belly, and he accepts in an instant, ridding himself of his briefs, tossing them aside with little to no regard before grabbing your hand, feeling fuzzy at the visual of how small it looks cradled in his own.

Trailing behind you, willing to let you drag him just about anywhere, it seems you have targeted a bed sitting empty in a quaint corner of the room.

But your ass is bouncing with each step you take, and with gravity offering him such a gracious gift, Harry's hand reaches out with the need to grab, settling with a soft slap to your left cheek, a chuckle slipping past his lips as you let out a little whimper of surprise, body jolting forward, thighs jiggling for his absolute pleasure, and all thoughts of the bed are forgotten as Harry pushes your bodies into the nearest pillars. The look in your eyes adjusts from surprise to arousal at the newfound feeling of your body being backed up into the icy marble, turning into a tornado as Harry's simmering skin keeps you mounted like a shiny trophy.

Harry thinks he's really got you now, your skin so silky, your muscles contracting against his own, keening into his hold, lashes batting up at him like he holds the keys to the garden of Eden; with softness, he presses a breathy kiss to your own parted lips, and now that he has you so perfect and patient, he hasn't the faintest clue where to start.

It would be polite to give him a moment to gather his thoughts, perhaps plot his next move, but you know exactly what you want- no, need- next, and with Harry's head so preoccupied with the idea of you that his hold isn't strong enough to stop you from slipping out from his trap, turning around, your palms pressing flat to your chest as you gift him a gentle, but firm push, his back smacking into the same marble you had just escaped.

Harry feels awestruck, unsure what to think, but his cock is certainly pleased, throbbing at the unfamiliar shift in dynamic, desperate to see what you might do next. And when his eyes, swollen with lust, focus on your own, there is a glimmer of certainty that has him almost keeling over; the need to get on his knees and beg for you is killing him.

But it seems that you are the one who will be on your knees as you keep one palm against his chest, unsure of whether he's willing to stay put, and your body drops to the floor, knees happily greeting the tiles.

With your left hand still holding him in place and your right hand coming to a rest on his waist, fingers squeezing into his fleshy cheeks, Harry's head lulls black in bliss, throat bobbing, both of his hands casting a shadow over your own, wrapping around your wrists like pretty bracelets.

Leaning forward ever so sweetly, your lips pucker and place a polite kiss on the tip of his cock. Harry's hips buck forward without his consent, and your hand leaves his chest, gliding lazily down his torso until it comes to rest on his shaft.

Thoughts of how perfectly he fits between your fingers are blurring your vision, but at the sound of Harry pathetically hissing from above, your grip tightens, body shuffling closer, his own hand settling like a scarf around the back of your neck. His hand stays statuesque, unsure of pushing your boundaries and frightened of catching your hair in one of his many rings. But when you reassuringly nuzzle your crown into his palm, Harry finally relaxes, his fingers- still carefully- slip into and massage the hair at the base of your neck.

You’ve got him right where you want him, and there’s no time to waste as you close the last of any remaining space, bowing forward and closing in like at communion, mouth opening, ready for the catholic wafer but instead closing your lips over the tip of his cock, your tongue darting out to swirl at his head and loving the way he tries to resist bucking into you, stop himself from hitting the back of your throat. 

Just the idea has you dripping, fulfilling the desire to take him further in your mouth, your free hand slowly pumping his cock, holding him in place as you suck him, slowly taking in as much as you can manage before slowly pulling back, letting your tongue trail along his shaft in your wake. 

Right as Harry begins to fear that you might release and leave him high and dry, you swallow him again, bobbing and creating a rhythm, a small sliver of spit slipping past your lips as you take him as far as your mouth will permit, tongue lapping at him, your hand pumping the base of him as Harry huffs and puffs above you. 

And when you can’t help but glance up at him from beneath hooded lashes, the way Harry cusses out and rolls his head back against the pillar is enough to have you picking up the pace, swallowing him with vigour, desperately trying to fit as much of him possible into the hollows of your cheeks.

Slowly, your head begins to bob, taking all of his cock in before pulling back, then again, and again, your hand still pumping him, spit gliding along his shaft and soaking your fingers. 

You release his cock from your mouth, still gliding your hand back and forth, pumping him and peering up at him with doe-like eyes.

“Fuck.” Harry whines, the back of his head bumping against the pillar, “Y’gonna be the death of me, sweetheart.”

With a mischievous grin, you place a gentle but menacing kiss on the tip of his cock before flattening your tongue and licking his shaft from base to tip before taking all of him in your mouth once more, creating the perfect rhythm, your other hand leaving his thigh and cupping around his balls, massaging him, head grooving up and down his cock. Harry is a complete mess, his muscles flexing with each suck and release. 

You guide his cock to the hollow of your left cheek, brushing him against your mouth before ever-so-softly gliding his head along your bottom teeth and rubbing him against your right cheek. He is still moaning above you, and when you suddenly tilt forward and take him so deep that his cock brushes the back of your throat, Harry is cussing out, his hand tightening around the base of your neck. 

You lean your head back into his palm as a form of encouragement, and Harry thinks you may be the most perfect creature of planet Earth itself. He cautiously begins guiding your head, testing the waters as he becomes a guide for his cock, sliding into your mouth. 

Happy to oblige, you try to remain as still as possible, your pussy throbbing each time he brushes against your throat, and when you almost gag, Harry has officially died and gone to heaven. His pace quickens, forcefully- but so carefully- bucking into you, loving how soft and plump your lips are, how well you take him- how deep. 

The thought of his cum dripping down your chin has him in utter shambles, and that is not how he wants this evening to go- yet. So, with one last thrust and grunt, he ruefully removes himself, hissing at the rush of cool air that greets his tip and almost crying at the sight of the string of spit connecting from your lips and his cock. 

Using the back of your hand to dismiss the spit, you peer up at him curiously, rather proud of your work but still hoping to have more of him.

Harry guides your head as a gesture, hissing at the rush of air that greets the tip of his cock, and this only causes his impulses to increase- so, as soon as you have found your feet and are looking up at him with blown-out pupils and puffy pink lips, Harry finally reclaims control, his hands wrapping you up and spinning you around in one swift motion and you are now facing the pillar, your palms pressing flat against the cool surface. 

His hands find your hips, thumbs pressing into your fleshy skin and, on instinct, your back arches, ass desperate to press up against him. Harry releases his right hand from your hip, wrapping it around his stiff shaft and guiding it towards your entrance. Ass up, spine curved, your breasts press into the icy pillar, your body scooting up against the pelvis, and when the head of his cock glides along your pussy, just stopping short of your entrance, you moan out enthusiastically. 

Harry gives you one last tease, his tip slipping into you before pulling back out, but before you have the opportunity to whine out, he thrusts into you, and instead, you arch out for him even more, sighing out, breasts squishing into the pillar. 

He guides his cock in and out, painfully persevering, taking his damn time, but after a third deep and forceful thrust, you shuffle back into him impatiently, and Harry wants to chuckle aloud at your lack of patience now that he has you pressed up against him. 

But your neediness is too tantalising to resist; Harry can’t stop his hips from bucking up into you, almost drooling at the hum of satisfaction you reward him with as he thrusts again, this time harder, his arm reaching around to rest his palm on your stomach, keeping you pinned as he proceeds to fuck into you. 

Harry keeps going, huffing in sync with each thrust, his stomach clenching as you mewl against him, your palms pressing into the pillar and holding on for dear life. His hand slides down from your stomach to the back of your right thigh, raising it until your knee bumps up against the marble, and when he’s certain you plan on keeping it there, he releases your leg and proceeds to pound into you, his hand snaking around until it finds your pussy, fingers gliding along your wetness, seeking out louder moans, desperate whines. 

And you are- unable to hold yourself back any longer, overcome with the electric current coursing through you with each thrust, each time his thumb brushes against your clit. You are chasing another orgasm, pushing your palms against the pillar in an attempt to get closer to him.

Harry kindly obliges, pressing his chest into your back, pulling you flush against his damp and flexed torso as he keeps at it, bucking up into you with all of his willpower, hands grabbing at you, adamant to have you as near as possible. 

Right as you feel yourself about to tip over the edge for a second time in just minutes, Harry interrupts by pulling out and wrapping you up in his arms and hastily turning you around to face him. Concern flashes across his features as your back bumps up against the pillar, but when you only whine out, your left leg lifting up, calf wrapping around his waist, Harry guides his cock back into you, bucking up with commitment and determination to have you come unravelled against him once more. 

And you are unravelling, chemistry at play as your body becomes a mix of ecstasy and euphoria. You are grabbing at every part of him, never wavering for too long, tugging at his hair, squeezing at his biceps, pressing your pelvis up against his own. Harry is doing the same, feeding off of your needy whines, unsaid pleas for him to keep going, and when you can’t help but turn them into verbal pleas, asking him so sweetly to fuck you “just like that”, he is in an absolute state, 

“Yeah?” He confirms- only for the sake of hearing you speak up again, 

“Yeah.” You stutter out, nails digging into the nape of his neck, scraping along his shoulder. 

Harry is enamoured, you’re being such a good girl for him, and he wants to reward you for being so. But he also wants to be a little testy and has the urge to see how much nicer you’re willing to be for him, so he deems it necessary to hold out on you a tad longer.

He wraps his arm around the middle of your back, pressing you into him, and he bows his head and leans in as close to your ear as possible, his warm breath fanning over the nook of your neck and clavicle, ensuring you hear him loud and clear, 

“Ask me nicely.” 

Your head snaps up, looking at him with incredulity, but too desperate to do anything other than give him what he wants. One of your hands finds his torso, palms trailing along his chest as your other hand tightens around his neck in physical protest, which is the last thing that would ever slip past your lips. Trying your best to give him your politest plea, your mouth plump and puckered, mousey eyes flickering playfully up at him, 

“Pretty please.”

And that’s all Harry needs, thrusting into you with repayment, revelling in the way your body accepts his reward so enthusiastically. He picks up the pace, pounding into you and making certain that you are more than welcome to come undone all over him, 

“Such a good girl for me.”

You’re nodding at him desperately, body crumbling with each praise he is granting you, and when his palm slips down between your bodies, landing on your pussy and lazily swirling loops atop your clit, you are a shaking mess- in a frenzy and falling over the edge, coming all over his cock, softly chanting, “yes, yes.”

“So, so good.” He reminds you, holding onto you, keeping you secure and satisfied. He can feel the familiar stirring in his stomach, his cock twitching and tempted to come all over you.

But there’s no way he’s done with you, and he cannot fathom finishing now. 

Your bucking has slowed, head lulling into the crook of his neck, trying to steady your breathing, and instead of giving in to an impending orgasm, Harry pats your bum firmly, wrapping an arm around your thigh, encouraging you to jump up into his arms. 

He is still fully inside you and doesn’t plan on changing that, effortlessly guiding you up into his arms, one of his hands still on your backside, the other cradling your back. With great care, Harry starts to walk, staying slow and peering over his shoulder to make sure he’s going in the right direction. 

Thankfully, the pillar was already the halfway point to the bed you had targeted earlier, and with your lips lazily trailing kisses along his torso, your nails digging into his back, Harry was overjoyed when his feet bumped into the base of the bed. 

Impressively, he bows forward- your bodies still bound- his knees denting the mattress, lowering your bodies onto the bed until your back is pressed into the sheets and Harry is hovering over you, balancing on his forearms, his forehead brushing against your own.

��Ready to go again, princess?” His cool breath fans across your features, and you are nodding as if your life depends on it, your pelvis bucking up against him.

Harry’s brows furrow in amusement, his head bowing, lips brushing up against the shell of your ear, “Use your words, lovely.” 

“Fuck.” You huff out, your right leg tightening around his waist, one of your hands digging into his bicep and the other tugs at his hair, “Please.” And just so he really gets the message, you add, “I want you.” 

“Want me to what?” He drawls, tongue tickling your neck as one of his hands massages your breast. 

“Fuck me.” Your reply is emotionless, stern and impatient, “Want you to fuck me.”

“Sassy little one, aren’t you?” Harry chuckles, squeezing your thigh endearingly. 

You roll your eyes as if he hasn’t just stated the obvious, lifting your pelvis up to rub against him. His pupils are blown, and you want him inside of you- now. 

“Are you gonna fuck me?” you ponder, nails dragging along his shoulder, “Or do I need to find someone else?” there is nobody alive that you could want more than him; he should know this from the way you are so eager to please him, but the mere suggestion has Harry thrusting into you mercilessly.

You whine out in both stupor and ecstasy, your back arching off of the bed, your breasts pressing into his chest. With one of his arms still holding him in place, Harry’s free hand comes up to cradle your face, your foreheads slick with sweat and sticking together. 

His hands are about as big as your head, and that alone contributes to the next sigh you release, bucking up into him, meeting his thrusts in the middle, your pelvises slapping into one another. 

Harry marvels at the way your bodies seem to so easily find a rhythm each time like you were made for him, and he for you. His thrusts are deep and with intention, stretching your pussy with satisfaction. 

“Christ.” He huffs in astonishment, “Y’ feel so fuckin’ good.” 

You can only moan out in agreement, at a complete loss for words. The only thing you feel is satisfaction sparking throughout your wholeness, and the only other thing you can think about is how badly you wish you knew his name- hoping to call it out to him as he pounds into you, desperate to reward him for doing such a good job. 

Harry can't remember ever feeling so engaged in fucking someone- was there a time? Nothing before or after this moment matters; he could now die a happy man. You feel so warm and worked-up, pressed into him, grabbing at any part of him available for the taking. 

He wants to let you, doesn’t mind if you spend hours or even days exploring him, poking and prodding his limbs and skin for reactions, having him like putty in your hands- all yours. 

“More.” You huff out when it seems that Harry is getting caught up in his thoughts, and he thrusts into you so generously that your head lulls back to greet the mattress. 

But now you are too far away for Harry’s liking; he needs to see those pretty eyes and pretty flushed cheeks, needs to see how good of a job he’s doing at pleasing you. His hand cradles the back of your neck, guiding your head back up, his lips waiting to latch onto your own. 

Breathy kisses become open-mouthed ones. Harry’s tongue is dancing all along your mouth, biting on your lip and sucking on your tongue. Still, in a battle of kisses, Harry’s hand sweeps along your face and his pointer finger slips into your mouth. You suck on him like you were born solely for this purpose, and it’s Harry’s turn to stop his head from rolling back. 

He keeps on at it, licking into your mouth while his cock rams into you relentlessly, each thrust accompanied by skin slapping, deep moans, hums of satisfaction and a stirring in your chest that only increases as Harry bends your leg and pins it to your chest, fucking into you from an angle that feels so good that you begin slipping away into a realm of pure pleasure. 

“Like that?” Harry pants out, each thrust more purposeful than the last. 

“Just like that.” You nod vigorously with gratefulness. 

“Good girl.” He praises with a sloppy kiss, “Look so good like this.” 

Harry keeps thrusting, and it’s not long before the look on your face starts morphing with frustrated delight, your eyes threatening to squeeze shut. But you don’t want to look away, instead glancing between your grooving bodies, in awe of the sight of his cock coated with all of you, pumping in and out so gracefully. 

“Are you gonna be a good girl and cum for me?” He is kissing your neck, tongue wet and trailing along your skin. 

And that is all you need to guide you back into another orgasm, your hips raised off of the bed and grinding up against his pelvis in a circular motion, hands holding onto him for dear life. 

Harry groans, almost growls out, pushing into you, trying to pull you closer than physically possible, “Just like that, sweetheart.” You are definitely a sucker for his praises, desperate for more, and he obliges, “So good for me.” 

With a surprising twist, Harry is forced to confront his impending orgasm as you pose a rather prolonged request, “Want you to cum for me.” 

He wants to panic, the thought of this being over is simply heinous, but you only chuckle at the obvious distress beginning to warp his features and reassure him, “I still have plenty in store for you.” And for good measure, you add, “Unless you can’t… keep up.”

Harry knows you’re only taunting him for the fun of it, but the suggestion is obscene, and he seeks to prove you wrong. You are still grinding up against him, whimpering at the sensitivity, nevertheless needy for more, so he picks up the pace, ramming into you with everything he has to offer, his arm bending further into the bed to get closer, and your arms wrap around him to assist, tugging him flush against you, teeth nipping at his neck. 

“Gonna let me swallow you, pretty boy?” You blink up at him innocently, “Wanna taste you so badly.”

His thrusts are getting sloppier, slower and more determined. Now that the offer of an orgasm is on the table, lying beneath him, so pretty and so tasty, Harry can’t resist pushing into you harder, deeper, grunting and huffing along, skin shivering at the feel of your nails tickling at his torso. 

And when you tilt your head and aim your teeth for his ear, nipping his earlobe only to soothe it with the flick of your tongue, you ask one more time, “Pretty please.” 

“Fuck. Fuck.” Is all Harry can muster in between a mess of moans, struggling to keep his weight from coming down on you, his free hand wrapping around your waist to hold you still, his cock wailing for release.

And he gets exactly what he’s been searching for, thrusting into you once more, treasuring it as he pulls out, stroking at his cock as the two of you shuffle around and you are quickly on your knees, mouth spread wide, tongue flat and pushing past your lips. 

Harry doesn’t think he has ever seen something- someone- so beautiful, and he doesn’t stop thinking this as he starts to cum, spilling onto your tongue, his cock throbbing at the sight of you swallowing him so kindly, at the glistening of your swollen lips, the bobbing of your throat. 

You wear your satisfaction with pride, and for the first time, you wonder if Harry actually can keep up. He hadn’t said so, in words, at least. But he is still close and starts edging closer, desperate to have his hands back on you. He gets what he wants, and you shuffle closer, following his gaze as it shifts to the nearest patron, using his free hand to gesture for their attention. 

Before you get the chance to get too confused, the patron steps closer, and you can now clearly see the contents of his silver platter. Staring up at you is an array of toys, small and large, feathered or leather or even metal. You don’t even need to glance over at Harry to tell him you are definitely game, instead reaching out with an item already in mind. 

Harry watches as you select your weapon of choice, turning back to him with satisfaction and a cheeky smile, the chosen toy on display is just begging to be played with, and it seems that both of you are ready to oblige. 

🍒

Forgive me for I am a sinner and I feel zero regrets. Hell can have me because I am DONE. I hope you guys enjoy this one! It's been a while since I've blessed the children with smut and I hope I have succeeded lmao. - Emmy. xo 💞

[elioslover]

Red Herring- Harry Styles x Reader.

[Premise: Harry might just be the pettiest of assassins.] Made possible by my one and only favourite, @harrysonlylover 💞

Word Count: 2.3k.

Warnings: Violence, weapons, death, angst, 3rd person.

Other Writing

🥀

Hair ruffled, tuxedo dishevelled, Harry is a sight for sore eyes. He really does look like the consequences of a mission gone awry. 

Things had gone from zero to a hundred in such a blinding commotion that as soon as it had started, it was over. He hadn’t the time to even process the fact that death had just been on his doorstep, ambushed and beaten from every which way as he did anything possible to defend the blows of at least four assailants. 

If it weren’t for Her showing up, his body already been detained, forced to his knees as a masked man pressed his forearm along Harry’s neck and squeezed it in place, choking tight, lagging his vision and causing his eyes to bulge with panic- there is almost no chance that Harry would have walked away in one piece. 

Like the holiest of angels, she had floated into his line of vision, which was now so blurry that he saw double- left eyelid threatening to swell shut- an amorous apparition beaming as if a spotlight shone from above, twinkling along with the stars, and Harry couldn’t decipher if she were another dream conjured up by his lovesick mind- definitely not out of the ordinary- it’s only as she neared and the blinding white light morphed into a satin white ballgown, wrapped around her statuesque figure, that Harry feels certain of her existence. 

And then things became a stampede of feet stomping, Harry still restricted and unable to see past the mess of curls and blood now dripping down his brows, covering almost all visibility as he was forced to stay put and hope for the best- the last thing he would ever want- whilst the group black-suited men fumbled around in defence, attempting with all might to eradicate the two problems at hand. 

Though valiant, the pack of assassins lose momentum along the way, and as Harry is finally able to twist loose of the weakened grip of the man keeping him bound in place, he quickly uses his full body force to completely free himself and immediately throws his strength into incapacitating the threat breathing beneath him. 

But the ear-shattering crack of a gun going off had Harry’s heart freezing over with fright, immediately expecting the worst. He could only chance a split second, glancing over at the attack ensuing to his right, just as one of the men hit the floor with a thud.

Increasingly impressed by the woman effortlessly holding her own, Harry returns his attention to the man unsuccessfully wriggling against his hold. 

He had hoped he wouldn’t need the thin blade neatly tucked away in his inner blazer pocket. Still, as the assailant struggled and beneath him, furiously flailing, Harry knew that it had to be done, his palm reaching into the secret pocket of his blazer, drawing the weapon, aiming and thrusting it into the man's chest until the myriad of moans and gurgling slows and then silences all together, his body stiffening beneath Harry’s own.                                

Panting over the corpse, another brute hits the floor, the softest and swiftest of bullets finding a home in his skull, and Harry can’t look away as his angel hardly bats an eye, re-cocking the gun- he knows it’s not her usual choice of weaponry- as she saunters over to the last man standing, stopping his chance of charging over by tapping the trigger, watching emotionlessly as the minutest bullet thunders over and lodges into his heart.

And just like that, the threat of death has dissipated and Harry can finally take a proper breath, still panting over the man’s stiffened body. With sudden overwhelming relief, his entire body starts to ache, his head throbbing, injuries ready to render him to the floor in the hopes of recovery. 

Nothing in the world could have convinced him to move- well, nothing but the gut-punching sound of high heels wedging themselves into the scattered stones, singing like clinking marbles as they not only picked up the pace but started to patter into the distant darkness- away from Harry’s crouched figure. 

Back on his feet in a flash, patting down his clothing attire, Harry’is bowtie is long gone, his dress shirt torn and missing several buttons, his pants ripped along the thigh from a blunt blade, and his shoes are scuffed and covered in dust as he leaves the drama behind him and makes a break up the hill. Why? Well, to confront his knight in shining armour, of course. 

Harry almost trips over several dislodged rocks and snapped damp tree branches as he blindly chases her through the dark of night. He thinks back to the six-inch stilettos she’s still wearing, the same heels that pressed into an unknown assailant's pelvis mere minutes ago. How the hell is she moving so fast? 

It doesn’t help that his left knee is busted, bruising with each step. A kick to the hip results in a dull throb, and even though he has hardly caught his breath, his chest as thirsty as his brain, Harry follows after her, trying to garner her attention through his gritted teeth, 

“Hey!” He can hear the leaves rustling as her pace increases. Harry tries to do the same, calling out with all the energy left to muster, “Hey!” 

She spins on her heels, neck-snapping to meet her shoulder with such speed that it nearly results in whiplash, strands of hair wisping in the wind. Face furrowed in a frown, she wants to be anywhere but here,

“Leave me alone.” 

Harry feels such shock that he stumbles on his own steps, barely able to stop himself from falling at her feet. He thinks she’d probably love that- it would definitely have her blood rushing with dominance. But, she needs no more dominance, this ‘incident’ was more than enough to prove her power for years to come. 

She lets him wander over but doesn’t know why. His perpetual need to poke and prod was something that couldn’t be countered, let alone dismissed. She had already fucked up, majorly, what compels her to believe this would be any better? 

As Harry finally finds his footing and gets close enough that they can study one another’s rage-fueled scowls, his stomach rumbles with frustrated ruminating confusion.

The volcanic heat bound between their chest threatens to erupt and douse their companionship with raw hatred and a river of larva courses through Harry’s lungs and expels from his throat,  

“Why did you do that?”

“Save you?” 

“I had it under control.” Harry’s incredulity is so falsified that it infuriates her, and as fast as a whip, her almost bare back walks off once more, mockingly singing out,  

“Sure looked like it when you were in that headlock.” 

“I can take care of myself.” He defends. But she keeps moving, close to disappearing into vast nothingness, and once again Harry is trailing after her, “Hey!”

“What?” This time she stops for real, riddled with stress that pertains to Harry- and he just cannot help but make it worse. She needs him to leave. 

Harry needs to say something before she does. His pointer finger cast her way with confused accusation, his grassy eyes doey, and blotchy purple bruises along the bags of his bottom lashes,

“You had no business interfering with my mission.”

“Jeez, sorry I saved your life.” Her arms are flailing in surrender. 

“You really are one to talk.” He spits, taking a hearty step closer. 

“Don’t go there.”

The life in her voice has left, and a discerning shift in seriousness causes a shiver to dance up Harry’s spine. He’s so angry, though- close to furious at her choices- all of them- and still, she will hardly give him her full attention. 

Never even in his wildest of nightmares had Harry envisioned himself in this version of hell- the person he once knew better than he did himself is now the person who has the task of killing him. At the least, it’s disappointing, and at the most, his heart is so shattered that heaven itself could not heal his damage. 

“They practically did your job for you.” He’s yearning to yell, to let the whole world know how weird and wrong this all was, “You chose to stop them.”

“It doesn’t mean anything.” Her head shakes with stubborn denial, gearing up to turn away from him.

“Oh, fuck off. It does.” He’s hot on her heels. 

She stops as quickly as she started and Harry hasn't the time to do the same, his sternum nearly bumping into her shoulder. Ignores their chests crashing together, pushing apart, pretending it means nothing to be this close to him again,

“Let me get this straight, you would have preferred it if I had let them kill you?”

“It would have saved you the bullets, no?” He’s not wrong. 

“No, Harry.” Palm pressed to her forehead with sorrow, “That’s not how it works.”

“Oh, so now you want to follow procedure?” He cannot recall a time that they had ever played by the rules. 

“You have no idea what you’re talking about.” 

She shudders at the mere thought of their deep-rooted relationship; the first of many rules broken, and the only reason the two of them stand here, faces reddened and glistening under the moonlight. 

Harry swears he feels her skin prickle at the mention of their messily perfect relationship, and he can’t stop the paralysing shiver that skates up along his spine as his head stays bowed, glaring down at her, 

“Christ, at least buy a man some dinner before you take a hit out on him-” 

“I’ve bought you dinner on several occasions-” 

“And you still took out the hit.”

Stomach dropping and splatting against the gravel, all of the blushing blood drains from her features, leaving her with a loss of energy, of deep emptiness. Stepping- stumbling- back, she builds the distance with fatigued frigidity, 

“Harry, I’m warning you. Leave me alone.” 

“No.” Harry’s foot almost stops with lividity. 

This only increases the imminent eruption of fury that she so desperately wishes to spew his way, and they both know that there is hardly a way to stop Harry when he’s determined, so she walks away with dismissal, muttering just loud enough,

“You’re so fucking childish.” 

“Me? What you did was childish!” 

“I don’t think you understand the meaning of ‘leave me alone’.” 

Harry will be damned if she thought he’d ever give up so easily- it’s not like he hadn’t been desperately trying to track her down for three weeks. Heart hurting, headache splitting, his neediness boiling over, he won’t stop until she explains herself,   

“I want to know why.” 

“The hit was set, Harry.” She howls into the void, back still turned, tears pricking at the corners of her eyes. “I took the job so nobody else would.”  

She works overtime to keep her weakened voice from wobbling with each word, and if Harry were even a smidge wiser, he would have let her explain. His wisdom is dwindling though, 

“That doesn’t-” 

“I planned to avoid you for the rest of my life.”

Harry feels sick- sicker than sick- his heart drops to his stomach, where it is swallowed whole and thuds tirelessly, nausea travelling up to his throat, bile burning and poisoning his larynx. He can only stare blankly, lips beginning to babble like a thirsty fish, his tongue sticking to his sandpaper gums. 

His cluelessness is crippling her ability to maintain calmness, each dumbfounded blink makes total destruction the only thing on her mind.

Without hesitation, she takes the largest of steps forward, her shoe-clad toes scraping against his own as her hand reaches up, and bunches a fistful of his cotton shirt collar, tugging Harry down to meet her scowl. 

He can feel her enranged, and breathy exhale fan across his features, her glare so icy that Harry worries he may turn to stone if he gazes a moment more. With sharp polished nails scraping and almost puncturing the skin protecting his jugular.

“For fucks sake, H. Be smart for a change and leave me alone.” 

“Or what?” He challenges and leans in, jaw brushing along her hairline like old times- though the compassion so true to her core is long deceased and decays the closer he comes. 

But what frightens him to the point of utter seriousness is the sudden pressure of steel pushing into his left side, settling over his organs just as the familiar click of a pistol cocking warns Harry that things are quickly crumbling into dangerous territory. Especially when she loses all love and says, 

“Let me get this through your thick skull,” The barrel pressing deeper, “If I see you again, I will shoot you on site.” 

She releases him and doesn’t bother to grant even a small glance as if he were a mere stranger who had threatened her existence. Harry doesn’t follow, she wouldn’t care if he did, and he’s smart enough to know where he stands now. 

There is a swell of staling energy that holds the place in which she once stood, vibrating vicious electricity all through his body, coursing and singeing his vitals as she slips into the forest and possibly out of his life for good- he would welcome death in exchange for seeing her once more.

The one thing he could at least do for her- think smart- was an improbability because Harry had already made a huge mistake… Massive. 

How in the hell is he gonna tell her that his heartache had gotten the best of him- that he had done the worst thing imaginable? 

What’s the best way to break the news, ‘Hey, I hope you don’t mind but my feelings were really hurt so I retaliated and took a hit out on you too’? That will go down swimmingly…

[elioslover]

Run-Ins- Harry Styles x reader

Premise: Harry decides to challenge a heatwave, If it weren't for a surprise run-in with an over-zealous puppy and its disgruntled owner, things would have been much worse.

Warnings: Sexy, sexc sweaty Harry. Gender neutral!

Word count: 3.2k || Other Writing

☀️

Skin sticking to shirts, the breeze carrying summer in full swing. It hadn't even reached ten am, and the weather was already swelting, only increasing by the minute. Harry had already tried to beat the heat, changing what was supposed to be an early afternoon run to one he was currently stepping out the front door to attend.

The rays of the sun had followed him since waking up, shining on him throughout the act of making coffee, blinding him from sitting on the porch and checking his phone for emails and notifications.

Harry didn't have a strict schedule for the day; the only thing he wanted to complete with certainty was his daily run. It was criminal enough that he had missed out on two opportunities last week and with the promise of a pure, stress-free fifty minutes, something that becomes increasingly sacred as more and more responsibility is piled onto his plate.

Without this one piece of his habit, he had zero routines to fall back on, and he felt stir-crazy at just the idea of sitting out his run for the sake of avoiding possible heatstroke.

Besides, the weather was still reasonable; he would just have to dress lighter and take extra care remembering to carry a bottle of water in case. Showering could wait until later- after all, he was unlikely to see or be seen by anybody.

So, with that, Harry rushed through his breakfast of a fruit salad, laced up his trusty sneakers, and grabbed a water bottle on his way out of the front door. He hadn't even taken a full step out into the summer sun when his skin was greeted with the feeling of opening an oven, steam sending a rush of heat straight to his face.

Without thinking, he walked back inside with determination, sifting through his suitcase for a pair of shorts even tinier and cooler than the ones he currently wore; his thighs were thankful, and so was his head once he threw an aged navy baseball cap on. 

He was ready now, certain this run wouldn't get the best of him. His day would be tainted, and that was embarrassing enough for him to admit, so when he stepped out into the heat once more, he tried his best to ignore the way his temperature began increasing like a reptile, instead focusing on the route he was going to take.

The usual park he had frequented recently was quiet for the most part- trimmed neon green grass stretching as far as the eye could see, and on a few occasions when Harry had forgotten his earphones, the singing birds were a welcomed replacement- something he found himself humming along to. 

But, his favourite part of this park was the little stream that started from the walkway and looped all the way to the end and back. If he was lucky, he might run past a duck with her gaggle of ducklings or pass by a couple having a cute picnic.

Five minutes into the run, Harry hasn't seen anything or anyone; he thinks he actually got lucky by choosing to run earlier than usual. This is as quiet as he has ever seen it, and with the wind on his back only blowing hot air around, he rids himself of the only item left holding him back. His flimsy black tee is off and strung lazily over his shoulder. His hands are empty, hat shielding a sunburn... why are his hands empty?

Harry suddenly pictures the forgotten bottle of water, sitting patiently on his side table, discarded when he had hastily decided to switch his shorts. The mere thought of water has him thirsty, and he looks forward to finishing this run more than usual.

Pushing his way up the incline of the dirt pathway, he promises himself a rewarding break once reaching the peak. But, with each step, his skin glistens sweat, heart thudding harder in his head, and he's slowing down for sure, forcing his muscles forward, ignoring the resistance created by the hill- certain he would be fine, just a little tired. Besides, it was good to be challenged- he needed to switch things up now and then.

Every muscle is asking him to stop, but he mistakes this for motivation and only presses on, relieved when the pathway shows an end in sight. Exerting the last he has to give, Harry looks down at his shoes, focused on putting one step in front of the other. His fists balled, arms flexed and pressed against his torso; Harry gives one final push before reaching the summit. 

And when he does, it's a lot harder to catch his breath than expected; every part of him feels like it's beginning to float away, and his ears are ringing with desperation to gasp for air.

He tries to steady himself, folding over, his hands resting atop his hips- skin warm to the touch- bending forward in an attempt to better open his airways, but the need to sit down is only encouraged, and Harry has to concede.

He finds himself sitting now, his legs stretched out before him, wrapping his arms like a chain atop his bent knees, and with a bowed head, he works to regain breath control. The wind wisps through the long blades of glass, whistling in tune to the songs of little birds, and the stream is strong; he wishes he had the strength to make his way over, at least dip his feet in the cool water.

The sounds all blend into one sweet symphony, so relaxing that Harry almost feels himself starting to relax. But his tongue is like sandpaper sticking to his palate; with each suck-in, his body begs for water.

The only thing that could distract him- and does- is the sudden feeling of something rustling against his side, trying to make its way into the gap between his arms and lap. It has a wet nose and makes familiar snuffling noises that can only be attributed to that of a puppy dog.

Lazily lifting and tilting his head to see better, Harry is greeted by the enthusiasm and curiosity of a very cute and very excitable golden retriever- wearing a pretty pink bandana, big brown eyes smiling up at Harry as if he were heaven itself.

Turning all of his attention to the pup- who is trying desperately to climb up onto him- giving it a rough and thorough ear scratch. 

"You're a friendly one, aren't you?" Harry chuckles, opening himself up to be further fussed over by his new friend.

"What's your name, huh?" Harry shifts and lets the dog continue sniffing him, reaching over to get ahold of its collar- a sparkly little disk covered in silver gems holds both a phone number and the name 'Beans'.

"Beans... Well, it's very nice to meet you, Beans." He smiles even wider as the pup reacts to its name, tail wagging, hopping all over him in the hopes of somehow getting even closer.

"Beans!” A voice called in the distance, quickly swept away by the breeze. Harry looked around, unable to spot anyone nearby, turning back to the pup currently occupied with trying to remove his baseball cap clean off of his head. He chuckled and scanned the area again, “I think someone’s looking for you, bud.”

“Beans!” The same voice sang, carrying over the hill straight to Harry’s heart. This time, Beans stops chewing and looks off in the direction of the searching song, and Harry follows suit, gaze settling just as the silhouette of someone starts to get closer. A harsh ray of sun forbids him from getting a good look at the person who is seemingly searching for his new companion.

“Is that your owner, Beans?” Harry asks, patting the pup with his free hand- the other working hard at helping shield the sun from blinding him further.

Beans' excitement only increases, tail wagging in all directions, eyes darting between Harry and the mystery person- still uncertain of whether to make a run for it or stay put. But, as the owner gets closer, amping up to call out for the cheeky dog once more, Harry is spotted sitting side-by-side with your dog.

And at the mere sight of you exiting the rays of sunshine, Beans is a jumble of jumping and excited barking. You release a relieved sigh, one you hadn’t known was trapped in your lungs, hyper-focused on the fact that you had lost control over your pup again. In fairness, what were you supposed to do? You had trusted her to stay, for just a second, whilst you fiddled with her matching collar and leash, but the promise of chasing an unsuspecting bird was just far too much for Beans to ignore.

You weren’t nearly fast enough to catch up to her- the whole point of walking with Beans was the promise of building better stamina, on your part- and once she was far enough ahead, you weren’t even sure which direction she had gone.

With dread, you followed your instincts up the hill, hoping she would have tired herself out by this point- she had done a splendid job of ensuring you were. What you hadn’t expected, hoped for, or even considered, was that someone might beat you to it. Seeing your naive little dog practically in the arms of some stranger was more than your nerves could handle today.

Legs starting to ache, you make your way over to the pair, thinking up some sort of jumbled-up apology for both your dog and the mere existence of yourself. But the man is smiling up at you- such a very pretty smile- and you almost lose all sensibility, startled as Beans hops up with vigour, bounding over and almost tripping you.

Harry starts to rise; the dull throbbing of his muscles is easily ignored as he gets a proper look at you. Beans is bouncing about, making it hard for you to walk much further, and the eagerness to meet you in the middle is what carries him your way.

He can see you perfectly now, and even though you’re mostly squinting, Harry likes how pretty your eyes look, being lit up by the sun. Trying to pacify your pup, hands patting at her, cooing to her to calm down, you do your best to examine Bean’s supposed new friend. His cheeks are so flushed that you feel warmer just looking at him, little droplets of sweat sneaking past his forehead, his skin glistening, muscles flexed. He’s very handsome, and you’re rather grateful for stumbling upon him, but he looks like he just completed a marathon, and with the way his chest rapidly rises and falls- shallow breaths evidently stopping him from cooling down- you actually feel concerned for his health.

Other than a discarded t-shirt, he seems to be empty-handed, and considering this may be the hottest day of the year, there’s no way he had chosen to go on a run without at least a little bit of water… right? He doesn’t seem to be too bothered because he’s still smiling at you with a fondness that you just know is a result of spending time with your dog.

Harry is still dying inside, an irritating sharpness at the back of his throat following each breath he dared to take, but long ago decided he could put up with it a little longer. After all, Beans is still circling his ankles, and you seem far too pretty to just give a greeting and a goodbye. Your own cheeks are slightly flushed, and Harry wonders if it’s from working up a sweat or simply shyness.

It happens to be both, with a hefty sprinkle of embarrassment and a dollop of regret for even leaving the house this morning. 

Beans running off, you could deal with. Having to make it seem like you weren’t, in fact, a moron of an owner- who on many occasions could be seen chasing after their pet- was a damn nightmare.

The quicker you said it, the closer you would be to putting this mess of a morning behind you. He’s just so pretty, though… and you’re thankful that he doesn’t seem to be the type to reprimand someone over a trivial mistake. So, with a much-needed inhale, the formalities begin,

“I’m so sorry about my dog-”

“Please, don’t apologise-”

“I swear, I’m usually a better owner than this.” You try reasoning, but it’s only for your own sake.

“I’ve seen much worse, honest.” Harry smiles reassuringly, the corners of his eyes scrunching cutely as he crouches down to give Beans another rough petting,

“Besides, I got to make a new friend.” He beams up at you, “I’m quite fond of her already.”

“She majored in likeability.” You add with a playful eye roll.

He smiles at that, turning his attention back to Beans, scratching her belly as she rolls over sillily, moving side-to-side to ensure Harry gave her the best belly rub ever.

“I like you very much, Beans.” He beamed down at her fondly,

“Yes, I do. Yes, I do.” Beans loves all of the dotings, her tongue wagging in tune with her tail. Harry continues, 

“I love your silly brown eyes and your goofy smile, and I especially like your bandana.” He admires, glancing up at you.

“She picked it out herself.” You inform proudly.

"Oh, is that right?" His gaze shifts between you and Beans, smiling fondly at the situation he has found himself in, 

"You're a good girl, aren't you?" He hums, and you scold yourself for the way your thoughts turn filthy, stomach clenching at his praises.

Harry finds his feet once more, towering over you with ease. And, you can't even begin to ignore the sight before you- a practically naked man, desperately trying to cool down and enamoured with your dog. Every part of him is on full display; his chest still glistening, his tattoos shimmering in the sunlight, abs flexing and contracting on impulse.

He suddenly understands the utterly distracted gaze swallowing your features, finally sane enough to remember the lack of clothing he donned- how damp and frazzled he must appear. If possible, his cheeks are turning even pinker, all calmness replaced with the same heat he had worked so hard to dispel.

When Harry can't help but take a sharp inhale, you have enough reason to stop gawking at him and instead assist him in regaining his strength. Reaching into the tote bag currently slung over your shoulder, it takes only a second to retrieve what you were searching for, pulling out a mostly-full water bottle.

The bottle itself looks custom-made; probably something you had stumbled upon in a store, deciding it was too cute and camp to pass up on. Decorated in bright pink and pastel blue, two My Little Ponies prancing on either side.

You extend the bottle his way, and Harry looks at you curiously, taking a moment before registering what you're trying to offer. 

He feels bashful, but the mere presence of water makes it impossible to ignore the burning in his throat. So, he sheepishly accepts, his fingers brushing over your own. The water feels like a miracle as he welcomes it, and Harry thinks you might be a saviour disguised as a very pretty, very kind dog owner. When your face morphs into one of relief, the shame he felt is long gone.

After a hefty sip, you're tempted to reach out and wipe the small droplet that slips down his lip, and when Harry attempts to return your gift, you only shake your head in dismissal, getting ready to argue over the ownership of the bottle,

"Keep it." You insist, "You need it more than me."

"I couldn't-" He tries.

"You must."

Harry prepares to protest, but he can feel your sternness swallowing the space between you two, threatening to double down if he even tries. Instead, he accepts defeat, secretly grateful for your gesture,

"That's very kind of you." He commends, totally enamoured and already praying for a second meeting with yours truly.

"It's nothing, promise." You smile shyly.

Harry wants to use this opportunity to at least ask your name- this may be the oddest meet-cute he's had so far- but his mind is a scramble for what to say next, and by the time he manages to string words together, you cough awkwardly,

"Thanks again for taking care of Beans... And sorry again." You glance down at your feet bashfully, and Harry chuckles at your soft shyness,

"It's not a problem, promise." He reassures playfully, enjoying the way your eyes crinkled with a matching smile, 

"If anything, I owe you." 

You hope to god you're not blushing, and when you glance down at his hands, you almost lose all sanity watching the way the water bottle looks so small in his hand, thinking that they may be the perfect size to wrap around.... 

Thankfully, Beans barks enthusiastically, and you manage to pull it together enough to remember that home awaits; your body aching to kick its feet up on the couch, pour some fresh fruit juice, and perhaps take a well-deserved nap. 

"Well, good luck with the rest of your...run?" You confirm, and Harry chuckles heartily, 

"I'll give it my best shot." He promises before crouching down to address your puppy once more, 

"Thank you for keeping me company, Miss Beans, be a good girl for...?" 

"Y/n." 

"For, Y/n." He nods avidly, enjoying the way it rolls off of his tongue, smiling up at you sweetly. Beans lends him one last lick before retreating to your side, ready to follow you to the ends of the earth. 

"C'mon, Beanie baby." You nod at Harry in final departure, a shy smile still swallowing your lips as you turn on your heels and leave.

Harry stays put, watching as you slip further away, ready to descend this monstrous hill, excited puppy in tow. Glancing down at the bottle still clutched in his palm, he feels his heart racing- but this time, there was no physical exertion required. 

He wonders if he might get the opportunity to return your gift- to see you in general. 

But, what Harry does know with certainty is; Almost passing out from heatstroke can have its perks, after all. 

[elioslover]

Harry with his newborn baby, like their morning routine 🫂

Okay lets fuckin goooo!!

Word count: 1.5k (I got carried away, oops.)

Other writing

Admittedly, Harry may have been a tad on the cocky side in assuming that his years of experience in the art of packed-schedules and odd work hours would give him a leg up on most newborn dads.

He had failed to factor in the hours that would soon be dedicated to periodically interrupted naps and enough activities to keep a man busy for eternity.

Upon seeing his precious petal for the very first time- her face scrunched and the shade of a sweet red rose, she was so tiny that it seemed almost inconceivable, sleeping peacefully in the cradle of his arms, a perfect display of everything right in the world.

And though she was in an ideal slumber for long enough for Harry to start thinking he definitely had the hang of this, it becomes clear from the moment they walk through the door that this'll be harder than it looks.

She may not be a fussy little one, but she is still a demanding newborn, living for very few things other than sleep, snuggles, and food. On their first night home as a new trio, the couple tend to and tuck in Petal before crawling beneath their soft sheet but it feels like mere moments later when Petal starts to cry- Harry both dreads his choice not to sleep since the eve of her birth whilst sudden anxiety stirring beneath the surface of his skin at the cluelessness of what happens next.

Like a fresh breeze of favour, his partner has already shifted along the bed, their feet instinctively and sluggishly sliding along the carpet to reach the crib. With ease, his Petal expresses her hunger and just as quickly as it had started, she is silent and satisfied, instantationally lulling back to sleep.

Harry is in a state of slight awareness as his mind and body signal the safety of finally falling asleep. His thoughts are starting to slur into incoherence, welcoming the warm embrace of slumber when what sounds like the preparation of crying is coming from Petal's crib. Now Harry feels a little sick, stirring back to alretness with sharp anxiety sparking his heartbeat- she is surely not hungry, and Harry has regressed to a child taking a grammer test; all of the information he meticulously curated evaporating in an instant.

His mind is a blank, and Harry cannot think of a single thing that would be benefitial for his baby girl. Every detail, every tip and trick dissipates with the increasing fussy grumbles so near, Harry is out of that bed so fast, the sheets flung in his wake, as he hastily follows the instructions of little Petal, his feet padding along the carpet as she cooes and coaxes him closer.

And it's only after he has bowed over the crib, transfering Petal from her cave of a crib to the safety that is his arms and chest, pressing her neatly and carefully against his warmth- unknowingly soothing her with his steady heartbeat- Harry relaxes so suddenly that a wave of relief almost swallows him whole, perhaps his instincts were kicking in afterall.

Silence and the soft snores of his wife is the only sound to be heard as Harry finds himself swaying back and forth, left to right, gently turning a human-rocking chair as he stands in the middle of the bedroom, his attention entirely on the tiny, chubby-faced tot attached to his chest, her nose scrunched, brows furrowed in a focused frown, just like Harry knows he looks amidst slumber.

He doesn't know how long he stays in this position, it doesn't matter as eternity is easily deemed the amount of time Harry is willing to spend standing right here. Eventually, his muscles start to complain, begging him to come home to his comfy bed, but it's only when the throbbing in his calves and ankles becomes so unbearable that Harry knows it's time to put Petal back in her personal paradise- more than grateful when she does not stir and lets him transfer her with ease.

The evening continues on this way, and Harry wishes he could insist on tending to Petal in every way possible, but lacks the means of feeding her, so he resorts to keeping his two gals company, setting comfortably on the edge of the bed each time the newborn routine resets. He fights the temptation of deep sleep, fearful of missing out on even the minutest of moments.

Honestly, nobody can confirm as to when Harry finally falls into a lenghthier sleep but he doesn't care- still thriving off of the adrenaline, excitement, and newness of the past three days. He spreads out the desire to spend time and help out with Petal- he just wants to be with them, just wants to love up on his girls.

Trying his hardest to rely on his lengthy experience of fast-paced and often sudden changes in plans, Harry struggles but perseveres- embracing the fact that things may alter in an instant and he may be needed just as fast, he takes each second as it is and nothing more, prepared to move and participate whenever need be. 

On occasion, he still finds himself in a frenzy of not knowing what to do, but with the patience of his partner, their gentle words of reassurance and soft touches always encourage him to remain calm, reminding him that this newness is challenging, but so, so rewarding. 

At least once a day Harry definitely still regrets the fact that his certainty had been wrong, rueing the days that could have been used to prep more, but with a little reassurance, he knows that nothing can truly prepare you for the real thing. 

He tries his best to fit in and help wherever available, spending every opportunity admiring the soft, oft-sleepy baby who seemed extra tiny in her babygrow. Soon, he is even able to help feed little Petal and does his damnedest to perfect it, just like his partner had. And now, Harry is finally starting to feel like he's getting the hang of things- his worries are washed away and replaced with relaxation and excitement for all the things yet to come. 

And then... It's Harry's first time being alone- alone, alone- with his little one. It won't even be for more than a couple hours, but his throat is dry, his chest thumping, and forehead seeking to start sweating. He knew the day would come eventually, and just as before her birth, Harry overestimated his confidence and felt like a clueless clown once again. 

He dares not bring it up in the hours leading up to the moment the front door would shut- fearful that his nerves would only cause his worry to transfer, perhaps even jeopardising the plans for the day. Instead, he is quieter than usual, and stays as close to his partner as possible, nuzzling and loving on them until it is finally time for departure. 

Still, with his little Petal cradled in his arms, blowing little spit bubbles and blinking curiously, Harry follows his lovely all the way to the door, giving her three extra kisses before she has the opportunity to place a soft kiss to Petal's forehead, and, once she does, she is out the door, leaving a nervous Harry and a sweet, tiny, none-the-wiser baby in her wake. 

But, to his utter surprise, as soon as the trio becomes a duo, Harry discovers nothing is different than before. With such revelation, his unknowingly tense body relaxes, and his feet begin to instinctively rock back and forth- just like always. 

Petal is just the same as before, too snuggly and in her own little world to care, large eyes blinking up at him, cheeks rosy and chubby. 

When she is hungry, she lets him know, and Harry does exactly what he has for the past couple of weeks by warming up the stored milk, sitting himself down on his favourite lounger as his left arm cradles her with care and his right hand comes up to offer her the bottle. She seemed as satisfied as usual, cooperating with his task of burping her before the drowsiness rapidly kicked in and had her in dreamland before Harry could move her. 

He's comfy. He can't imagine a place he would rather be than in this very moment. His body sinks soothingly into the cushions, cosied up, and soon he finds himself struggling against the sleepiness inviting him to embrace and enjoy, something he can only escape for so long before the battle is lost and he is lulling into slumber. He knows the routine will repeat, and he knows that these have been the most challenging yet euphoric days he has ever experienced, but for now, he is falling asleep with his entire world wrapped in his arms, and it's hard to imagine a better place to be.

[elioslover]

Elioslover- Blurbs & Requests Masterpost

Requests:

Newborns [Dad!harry]

In which Harry has underestimated how much his life is about to change.

Friday Nights [Dad!harry]

In which Harry cannot wait home to see his two favourite girls.

Songs:

Slow Motion

Meet-Cutes:

#24 - Ballroom Dancing

#1 - Seated at a Wedding

Kisses:

#18/31 - Worst Wingman

#32/35 - Green-eyed Monster (LhH! Grapejuice)

Confessions:

#37 - It's not what it looks like

#60 - Marry me

Concepts/Lists:

Neighbour Harry

Sex With Harry

[elioslover]

Little Angel, Only Freak? - Grapejuice, Halloween.

🎃 Halloween Flashbacks 🎃

This can be read as a stand-alone piece! 👻 I've really been wanting to include some flashback moments from Harry and Klutz's past, so I thought Halloween would be the perfect place to start!

Premise: Harry has been pining over Y/n - his best friends slightly older sister - for as long as he can remember.

GRAPEJUICE MASTERPOST / Other Writing

NB! Y/n's (Klutz) brother's name is Jack. In Grapejuice it's mentioned that Harry may have wrote some songs about Klutz. These events were inspired specifically by two of his masterpieces lmao, so lemme know if you notice any references hehe. - Em. xo

Warnings: Drinking/smoking (this oneshot contains quite a bit due to the fact that they are attending a lot of Halloween parties). Age-gap (2yrs). Self-insert she/her.

Word count: 5.4k

🍷 2011 🍷

Sitting with your legs criss-crossed, on the kitchen counter which is perhaps the highest off of the ground you are most comfortable with. Your firm belief in keeping your feet on the soil, neither under deep waters nor up in the air. 

That aside, you are eating a toastie, courtesy of your own cooking- rather surprised that not only did you manage to get ready on time, but actually finished with plenty to spare. 

Indulging in your meal, the sound of Travis Scott accompanying your chewing, Harry's sudden appearance in the kitchen is startling, but nothing out of the ordinary. Besides, there have been plenty of worse and compromising interactions in the past. 

“Aren’t you too old to be trick-or-treating?” You mumble through your food-filled mouth, eyeing him from top to bottom, shamefully admiring his choice of costume. Perhaps you were a sucker for a sexy pirate- though a large part of you believes the 'sexy' part was unintentional. 

Harry only smiles and meanders further into the kitchen, invading the fridge for god knows what before giving up, strolling over to you, invading your space in an instant and with audacity you have never witnessed prior, he snatches the half-devoured triangle of a toastie and takes a hearty bite before speaking through muffled chews, 

“Age is but a construct.”

“I guess I agree.” You shrug, thoughts travelling to the dangerously explicit fantasies you experienced at the mere existence of Tom Hard, your brain concocting a dreamland in which a 15-year age gap would be graciously welcomed. 

“I’ll keep that in mind.” Harry archives the moment. An entirely separate dreamland surrounds him and yourself. But, you still seem so far away, Harry is aching to extend the conversation, “Where are you off to, a Tarantino-themed party?”

“That my dear, is none of your business.”

“Well for what it’s worth,” he informs both sweetly and sultry, “you make a beautiful *Viper.”

“You’re not so bad yourself, Styles.” You open the gates and let your guard down, needing him to know you notice him- see him, and if vulnerability is the way to make that clear, god willing, something inside you wishes to share it. 

Harry is stunned- your words are one thing, your tone is another. He wants, no, he needs to hear your softness, again and again. Then there is an invasive double honk and it can only belong to the red Mazda parked in the driveway, stark headlights shining through the kitchen curtains. 

You hop off the counter without a care in the world, straighten out your costume, and check your makeup in the reflection of the microwave before strolling straight past Harry and into the entrance hall, grabbing your matching purse. You raise your voice to address both your brother and the sexy pouting pirate stunned to silence,

“That’s my ride." Certain they've both heard, you open the front door and as an afterthought, call over your shoulder, "Save me a Mars bar!”

👻

The boys are in line for the entrance to a club that Jack stated would be "popping", but there is a clear age limit and Harry's anxiety is already reaching its limit. He turns to Darth Vader- ignoring how ridiculous his friend is- and Harry cautiously ponders aloud, 

“Are you sure we’re even gonna get in?”

“Trust me.” Jack sternly enforces. 

“What is this hold you have over me?” Harry concedes. 

By what could either be deemed a miracle or exceptional finesse, it's not long before the boys have their left wrists stamped with a small ink jack-o-lantern, and are entering the club. 

“See! Am I ever wrong?” Jack projects against the booming bass, but Harry certainly hears him, more focused on the dissipating nerves being replaced with confidence. 

“Drinks!” Jack doesn't allow a retort, making his way to the bar with the assurance that Harry is following close behind. Harry was, and after a few other patrons are tended to, the boys order their choices and cheer a duet of tequilas in celebration of their success. 

The tequila is still travelling down Harry's throat when a voice, so sweet and so familiar, almost causes him to choke, his eyes opening, neck dropping to look at the person who had exclaimed "Oi!". Unsurprisingly, you are standing there, arms on your hips, a look of disappointment painted across your face,

“What the hell are you doing here?”

“To be fair, I didn’t expect you to be here either.” Jack shrugs.

“I thought you were trick-or-treating, Jack." You chide.

“Oh, please, we’re seventeen. You knew that was a cover.” His eye-rolls with a jovial smirk. 

“Still. I thought at least a house party.” 

“Which is exactly where you said you would be.”

“Shut up.” Your last line of defence. 

“C’mon, Y/n. Go have fun, it’ll be like we’re not even here.”

With a dissatisfied sigh, you grab your drink from the bar counter and gather within the group of girls all dressed with glamorous uniqueness, disappearing into the mass of dancers, praying that Jack’s statement would prove correct. 

But, as expected, this promise was broken within the first hour after the desperate need for a Marlboro was lulling in your lungs, and for some useless and godforsaken reason, smoking is banned from the bar and dancefloor- bar vaping- however, due to the lack of an outside area, the designated smoking zone was the hallway. 

After a trip to the bathroom- which had vanity counters, ladies waiting near the cashmere wash towels to unnecessarily aid in drying your hands; each bathroom is garnished with gold framing and every stall comes with a little glass table attached to the wall; perfect for cutting lines of coke- you decided it was time to settle down for a good smoke, spotting an empty, luxurious maroon and velvet two-seater sofa. 

Your focus is on the ridiculous custom silver bear lighter you bought second-hand, your head bowed, smoke balanced between your lips, so it comes as a great surprise when you glance up and Harry is standing before you. By the time your cigarette sets alight, he is settled next to you on the lounger, 

“Fancy seeing you here.” He teases lazily.

“You lost Jack?” You shift your body to better see him, simultaneously handing him your smoke. 

“Always do.” He softly chuckles, knuckles brushing your fingertips in exchange, and he takes a good drag, hoping it will miraculously cure the anxiety that seemed to return the moment he found himself alone. 

“That guy’s a menace.” 

"This is the strangest hallway I've ever seen." He comments, glancing around the room of scattered stoners and straight smokers. Then he remembers the house he visited less than three hours ago, "And that's saying something." 

"Our hallway is not that bad." You lamely defend- this conversation has been ongoing since youth. 

"Can't believe we're sitting on a chez lounge." Harry marvels, hand stroking at the smooth material. 

"This place truly is something." You agree, proceeding to ponder the answer to a premonition she needs confirmation for, “What are you doing over here?”

“Just needed a breather.” He admits. “You?”

“Guess I’m doing the same.” You consider. 

“What’s the matter, klutz?” He reads your mood like a medium- some sort of magician.

“Boys are shitty.” You allow him the tip of the ice burg- it has been bugging you, perhaps not as much as the other things bothering and plaguing you.

“We are.” He agrees lightly, knowing it would be detrimental to pry. 

“You aren’t. most of the time, anyway.” 

“I thought I was the most annoying person you know.”

“You are. Maybe ever.” You dramatise your distaste, “But you are by no means shitty.”

For a reason Harry had always known, yet never questioned, he found your presence as relaxing as falling asleep cradled by a fluffy cloud. He briefly wonders if you feel the same, but knows better than to embrace hope. Nevertheless, he says what he can guarantee will suit your interesting demeanour, 

“I’m sorry about… whatever you’re going through.” 

“Thanks, Harry.” You smile earnestly as the pair of you proceed to pass the cigarette back and forth, comfortable in the presence of taking a cool-down. 

But, with your vulnerability out in the open, it becomes mandatory to verify the reason he is currently sitting beside you, 

“Why aren’t you down there?”

Harry knew it was coming, thought about what to say, and came up with a few reasonable excuses but as soon as the question leaves your quirked and lush lips, the truth comes pouring out and he cannot do anything but witness his honesty,

“I feel out of my element.”

“That’s all in your head.” You try to reassure him, knowing it isn’t that simple, yet hoping he might allow you the chance to prove it, even for just a moment. 

“Oh, is that right?” He smirks. 

You are standing before he can blink twice, singing your cigarette in the ashtray and reaching your arm out for him to join you, 

“C’mon, I’ll show you.”

He doesn’t protest- he doesn’t even hesitate as he wraps his hand in your own, raising from the chair and allowing you to drag him wherever you please. 

This results in descending stairs, weaving through a crowd before finally reaching the destination; the bar. He shouldn’t be surprised, but the pleasure and subconscious pride he wore as you tugged him about, moving closer, sometimes a few steps apart, but never letting go of his hand- even if only one finger was hooked to his own.

The bartender arrives with such haste that Harry is almost certain it has something to do with your beauty- it does- but mere moments later he finds out that you are in fact a regular visitor- and a loved one, at that. 

Harry is so enamoured and floored with such an overload of new information about you that he hardly registers when you tilt over the counter and order four tequilas. 

And when the tequila arrives, there are five, offered as, ‘on the house’. Your reaction is mischievous and Harry feels exhilarated at the promise of your mission to make his night memorable.  

“Bottoms up.” You command, double-parking and encouraging Harry to wrap both of his shot glasses in each palm. He does as follows, giving you awkward cheers before copying your skill and tossing back the tequila one after the other. You then guide Harry to drop both glasses on the table and immediately grab the lonesome shot glass, still filled to the brim. 

You go in for half a sip, savouring the sharp spirits slipping down your throat but leaving half the glass full. Handing it over to Harry he finishes the drink and turns to you in anticipation for further instructions. Your shoulders can’t resist a consequential shudder, and then you clap your hands together and cheekily beam up at him,

“Now, we dance.”

“I can’t dance.” His pitch is one of panic and protest. 

“Neither can I.” You answer proudly, wrapping his hand in your own and leading him onto the dancefloor.

🍷 2016 🍷

Your boyfriend has caused yet another scene, taking it personally when some poor guy dressed as a zombie accidentally stepped on his foot.

Before he had the chance to toss more furniture, you plan an escape and make a beeline for the kitchen- somewhere likely to be devoid of party-goers. But when you round the corner, the sight of Harry, dressed in a white and red striped shirt, hair quaffed beneath a goofy matching beanie, and eyes framed by large, black round glasses. He's sitting on the counter, his light jean-clad legs dangling, shoes knocking against the bottom cabinets.

He seems too calm for such a festive evening, especially when he is as notorious as Jack when it comes to turning into a playful nuisance- affectionate, chatty, and likely to end up attempting to dance.

You walk straight over, only coming to a halt when your sternum presses into his knees, and beneath those gaudy glasses, you don't miss the way his deep green eyes swell and his lashes bash beautifully with bafflement.

"Ah, here's Waldo." You beam up at him.

"Y'got me." He lightly shrugged, a sneaky smile painting his cheeks.

"What do I win?"

Eyes widening with an accompanying Chesire cat smile, your tone tainted with taunting cheeriness. But, nonsensically you lean in closer, bare abdomen grazing his denim.

Whether intentional or not, Harry is set alight, his burning knees spreading along his stomach, trailing up his chest, simmering his heart and throat, coals burning at his cheeks and brain. He is so stoned on placebo, that his mouth is unable to project his profession,

"Anything you want."

You are experiencing first-degree burns, bathing yourself in diversion,

"Are these your real glasses?" You lean your face forward, lining up with his own, your hands gently clasping the black frames and examining the determined false lenses. "Guess not."

There are less than zero reasons for your bodies to remain so stuck, relaxed in the sanctuary of physical contact, but neither of you makes an attempt to move, unaddressed and absolutely mad. You deem it time to turn things around,

"Avoiding the party?"

"A little." He shrugs.

"Bad company?"

"The worst." He tilts his chin to the ceiling before returning his gaze to your own, "Though I can't imagine I'm much better."

"Anything is better than the mess going on outside." You meet his pondersome eyes with a competitive roll of your own.

Now Harry understands the crash he had heard through the kitchen window. Your expressions of annoyance and disappointment emit all of the information he needs to know,

"Dickie acting up again?"

"You know that's not his name."

"It should be."

Harry has never shied away from expressing his distaste for your boyfriend- simply because you were dating him. Harry was hardly around, and when he was, you were almost guaranteed to be absent due to plans with Ricky.

With a sudden bough of frustration, your hands press into Harry's upper thighs to properly balance yourself. he does everything- and more- to avoid physically reacting to your unusual closeness. You breathe out and it matches the mournful furrow of your brow,

"He's just... why does he have to be so aggressive?"

"Yeah, that table certainly didn't deserve that." Harry leans in, looking down at you with a worrisome but sensitive demeanour. And then he leaps and lightly wraps his hand around your hip.

His eyes are studying your soft face, his heart focused on your sweet features and the feeling of your skin separated by his clothes, but his head is still stuck on the confusion currently holding you captive. He can't help by prying,

"He's not... aggressive with you, right?"

"Not yet." The words trail off of your tongue. And then you toss everything aside, pressing your fingers into his thigh "I don't wanna talk about it right now."

Harry doesn't know how to react, sudden shocks of arousal emulating at the discomfort of your digging nails, the desperate desire to destroy the distance between your lips, loop his arm around your neck, softly cup your cheek and express how special you should be treated- with such certainty that you never forget,

"I like your costume. Might be your best so far."

It definitely is, you are rather impressed with how well your Other Mother costume turned out. Though, your already tragic bank account has taken a traumatic bashing,

"I spent way too much money on it."

"How much?" His grin is mischievous.

"Too much."

"Now I have to know." He pleads, but know you will never utter the shame you suffer. He won't let you off the hook so easy, though, "Just to rub it in, I'll have you know, I only spent three pounds."

You huff, leaning further into his touch, enjoying the feeling of his fingers on your flesh. He has to tilt to see you fully, and you aid him craning your neck to meet him in the middle, dismissing the deemed unnecessary distance,

"Well, you've done a terrible job at making it hard to find you."

"Maybe I wanted you to find me." He shrugs with suave.

"That was ambitious."

"It worked, yeah?" He is seeping with playful pride, though he cannot prevent his need to compliment you- perhaps the only way to get his attraction across was through words, true words at that, "You really do look beautiful."

"Not just sexy?"

"Sexy as fuck." He groans, fingers pressing into the plush fleshyness of your waist, "But not just sexy."

"Filthy." You scold seductively.

And then you seem to find yourself sinking further into his touch, trying with everything in you to get nearer- his neck so biteable, collarbone begging for loving bruises. Harry is on the same page, body pressing into your own, his palm trailing up and settling on your lower back.

You think he might kiss you. You think you are out of your mind... But, you think you're going to let him. The only thing to pause your seemingly-senseless thoughts is the defensive, stern, and frankly, threatening boom of your boyfriend,

"Hey, what the fuck are you doing with my girl?"

Like velcro being violently ripped apart, you have never moved with such haste in all of your current existence to date. Harry is now at least three feet away from you, and your boyfriend is berzerkly striding towards him. Harry calmly and rationally raises his palms in defence,

"Nothing, mate."

"Ricky-" You edge closer.

But, your boyfriend has already aimed his fist at Harry's face, and instead of reacting with returned aggression, he interjects,

"Mate, chill out." Harry reasons with a casual shrug, "She's like a sister to me."

An invasive feeling of disappointment pangs at your heart at the sound of sister, and to this day you will not analyse why. It was something you were guaranteed to repeat in the future.

"Am I supposed to believe that?" Ricky scoffs but his arm drops to his side nevertheless.

Harry hops off of the counter with ease, stepping past your boyfriend with effortless confidence. He glances over at you for a mere instance- not long enough for you to comprehend the event that just unfolded.

He reaches over to the nearest countertop and grabs his solo-cup and before turning his back completely, he addresses Ricky with finality,

"Believe what you want, Batman."

🍷 2018 🍷

Harry knocks for a third time before Jack finally answers the door- and when he does, dressed Pennywise- a red balloon tied to his wrist- Harry instantly regrets his entire life, attempting to prepare for a chaotic Halloween party. Whenever Jack finds himself in an extravagant, far-too-detailed costume, two things are certain; there will be a magically, monstrous punch bowl, and Jack will be dancing on any piece of furniture that catches his eye.

“So, this was your last-minute decision?” Harry works hard to keep the disturbed feelings from projecting across his features.

“It was this or Heisenburg, okay?” Jack sighs, audatiously comparing his- what can only be described as a slutty Pennywise to simply purchasing a hazmat.

“How much time did you spend on this?” Harry finds his amusement increasing.

“Too long.” Jack admits with distaste. But all in all, This is the best of his costumes to date, and Harry certainly agrees.

“I’m sure the ladies will love it.” He commends, and Jack nods avidly, his face mimicking that of confidence.

Harry ponders halfheartedly as they enter the home Harry knows so well- the home he spent at least a quarter of his 28 years. It's only as he reaches the living room, packed with both familiar and unfamiliar faces. Many of them seem older than he, and Harry can only assume these are friends of Jack’s college, and your work colleagues.

A pang of panic threatens to become a full-blown wave of disappointment and regret. Missing out on the life he could have had.

Before he can be swept away by his newfound unfamiliarity, Jack has led them to the makeshift bar- a dining table decorated with spooky decorations, all surrounding the notorious monster of the eve- the Halloween punch. Harry doesn’t protest- by this point he deems it necessary.

Lightly tapping their cups together in cheers. Jack takes a hearty sip before his brows suddenly raise in realization,

“Huh. That’s funny.” Jack finally takes a moment to acknowledge his best friend, emulating the Devil himself.

“Hm?” Harry asks halfheartedly, eyes scanning the room for something and he doesn’t even know what.

“I just noticed your costume.”

Harry’s gaze snaps back to Jack, giving him a puzzled look, masking a sudden bough of insecurity simmering beneath the surface,

“I look funny?”

“No, Y/n told me she was gonna be an Angel. Coincidence, huh?” Jack shrugs.

“Is she here?” Harry tries to hide the sudden panic.

“Not yet. You know she’s gonna lose her mind over it.” Jack grins, always bemused by the so-called banter between his sister and best friend. 

Harry’s panic is substituted by an odd sense of relief- he now knows what- or who- he had been searching for. With a bough of mischievous confidence, he mimics his best friend's grin and informs,

“Just what I wanted to hear.”

👻

Upon the news of his holy crush’s imminent arrival, Harry finishes his first punch cup and then heads towards the ‘bar’ to pour another.

Pleasantly, someone is already attending to the punch- an old teammate from his high school football team has the same intentions, finishing up on filling his cup before recognizing Harry and enthusiastically initiating a catch-up. One that proves helpful, replacing his thoughts of you with good conversation and in turn, allows him to react.

It’s unclear how long this chat persisted as the boys moved from the make-shift bar to a spot on the porch- already scattered with smokers and an extremely tense game of beer-pong.

Eventually, the punch has caught up with him and Harry has to excuse himself in favour of the bathroom. This should be an easy enough task, but this monstrous punch has proved poisonous as it lags his movements and encourages him to take a long, good look at himself in the cobweb-framed mirror.

Impressed with his costume, and impressed with how calm and cheery he felt. Things don’t seem so bad- the intrusive thoughts were offering silence for the sake of letting him have a good time.

His best friend’s home has always had the oddest of hallways. A complicated combination of narrow to wide, with unnecessary corners and nooks. These proved sacred during the times of childhood, the perfect place to out-smart the person trying to yell, ‘Tag, you’re it!’ Now, this hallway is treacherous and Harry longs to find himself back in the living room, especially with the amount of party-goers crowding the corridor.

Looking back, Harry wonders if he would have even seen you wedged between a pair of what seems to be Cersei and Jaime Lannister. It would be hard not to, with the way the shimmering satin dress and the sparkling halo create a ring of glory around you.

But you certainly see him, meandering down the hallway dressed in a costume to match your own. Your first feeling should be annoyance, but unfortunately, your thoughts are redirected to just how good he looks.

The duo you were humouring are a thing of the past as you mutter an “excuse me”- gaze and mind already set on intercepting Satan himself.

He’s leaning against the wall- being extra careful to not knock over any picture frames. His head is bowed, contemplating his next move and it suddenly and forcefully occurs to him that his original plan to find you was diverted by a pointless side-quest.

As if the thin veil of Halloween was thoughtful enough to grant him instant gratification, a set of white heels, laced to the upper calf is walking his way. He lets his eyes trail the length of soft thighs up to the seams of lacy trim, savouring each fleshy, smooth thigh before finally addressing the owner's face.

When his eyes are met with your own, glittering with each blink, Harry’s widen in surprise, jaw threatening to slack as you stop before him. Giving him a good glance before mimicking his stance and balancing yourself against the wall. 

“Well, well, well.” Your tone is both amused and annoyed.

A sudden rush of ease and euphoria washes over him at the coolness of your mood- though, that was subject to change rather quickly in the presence of Harry.

On a whim you attribute to both a poisonous punch and the devil standing before you, Harry is taken off guard by the sudden contact of your palm on his chest, even more, surprised as you push and guide him into the nearest alcove.

But that was as far as your thoughts had progressed, what was the plan now? This is a result of impulsivity, and when you concede and don’t go on to say anything further, Harry takes the opportunity to back you into the corner, arms balancing loosely on the wall near your face.

“Did it hurt when you fell from heaven?” His smile is cheesy.

“I’m sure you’re enjoying this.” Your eyes roll, arms crossing your chest in distaste.

Harry tilts down ever so slightly, aligning his lips with the shell of your ear,

“Loving it.”

“And I’m supposed to believe this is just a coincidence?”

“Believe what you want, Angel.”

He returns to his previous position, aching to get a better look at your face, hoping that the blush pink scattered across your cheeks is a product of not makeup, but himself. You cannot admit that it’s a combination of both- not even to yourself- instead opting for a classic eye-roll and continuing to do what you do best,

“I see you chose to go costume-less this year.”

“You’re hilarious.”

“You’re the Devil.” You try, “Truly.”

By now, your hands have dropped to your sides, securing distance but still unexplainably allowing Harry the chance to wander closer if he wishes. He does, but only enough for your chests to brush, his head bowed to gaze your way, one of his hands reaching out to fiddle with the accessory adorning your head,

“Why, because I make you want to ditch that pretty little halo?”

“You’re insane.” You chide, palm raising to his abdomen in protest.

“And you want me.” He articulates with certainty.

“Correction, you’re psychotic.”

But you like the feeling of his muscles tensing beneath your hold, the musky and fruity aroma invading your senses. The curve where his shoulder and neck meet is aligned with your chin, and for a split second, you ponder the impulse to get closer, latch your lips to his skin and sink your teeth in.

Harry likes having you so near, he can smell the Chanel and cocoa butter seeping from your skin, the crown of your head smells of something fruity and fresh. And when your hand absentmindedly trails further along his stomach, settling on his shoulder, Harry almost stops breathing when his impulses get the best of him, wrapping his free arm around your waist, and when you don’t protest and your free arm goes to rest along his shoulder, he thinks he might have a chance,

“Are you sure, pretty Angel? Your body seems to think otherwise.”

“Shut up, Harry.”

“You’re more than welcome.” he smirks, loving the way your eyes simmer with conflict, “…To shut me up, that is.”

You decide that fame has done a lot to him, not just the typical singing, stadiums and superstardom, so why the hell is he talking like a… man? Like he knows how to seduce a woman, and why the fuck does that make your stomach churn with curiosity.

But, you remind yourself that age equals experience and that makes you the superior. Besides, from the way he’s currently behaving, you have an inkling that his ego has likely inflated.

This could be fun. Two could play at this game, and no matter the amount of fraternizing Harry may have committed, you were competitively and egotistically prepared to knock him down a peg.

Raising to the tip of your toes, hand tightening on his shoulder, nails softly scratching at his back, your other hand reaching to wrap around his neck, your thumb stroking the crook of his chin. Batting your eyelashes with a lick of the lips, you ensure he hears each and every word,

“Is that what you want, sweet boy?” You coo, and Harry stiffens in an instant, blinking rapidly as you push on, “Want me to take care of you?”

“You can do whatever you want.” He blurts out before the ‘ou’, fist flexing against the wall, his body aching to be tangled up with your own.

It's cute, and unnecessarily arousing, and as much as you know you shouldn’t, there’s an ache in your chest that chants for you to crumb him along for just a little longer,

“Pity. After all, this is just a costume.”

“Prove it.”

His eyes are eager, nose bumping along your forehead, and your hand comes to its finale as it holds his cheek in place, gently pulling his face nearer to your own. You pout, but the sly smirk prints itself at the corners of your lips nevertheless,

“A Devil certainly isn't deserving.” 

“Prove it anyways.”

Harry thinks he’s about two sentences away from begging for something he didn’t know he needed so desperately. As much as it pains you to put a pin in this, the confusion of juxtaposition of attraction is threatening to make you light-headed.

“No.”

So, to Harry’s utter dismay, you release him from your hold and tactfully slip out between the space you once occupied. With one more sympathetic pat on his shoulder, you smile at him and make your way back down the hallway, feathered wings taunting him in your wake.

🍷 2019 🍷

Harry was lucky enough to have been in town for Halloween- he can't count how many holidays he missed over the last half-decade. He’s dressed as her favourite thing; a teddy bear- fuzzy ears and makeup to match. Your brother, Jack was hosting his famously chaotic annual Halloween celebration, and Harry was far too giddy at the guarantee of seeing you again. He can't count the missed holidays, but he can certainly count how many years it’s been since you last spoke- mar the quick birthday wishes, and periodic congratulations and praise.

But, after an hour or so, he is starting to doubt his certainty, gaze shamelessly studying the room, hoping he had merely missed your arrival. Two solo cups of warm beer later, Harry is itching to locate you- this is your tradition after all, and he was so sure that this time would end differently, that she would finally see him for the man he was becoming.

He definitely wouldn’t be asking Jack why you weren’t here- partially because he seems preoccupied with a makeshift gravity bong. Instead, Harry seeks out one of your oldest friends, Nova, who is dressed as a Harley Quinn, but before he can even reach the group in which she mingles, his boot trips on a rug and unable to help it, the contents of his cup comes spilling out, splashing and coating Nova’s front with the sticky substance. After apologising profusely- even if just to come off polite- Harry musters up the humility to ponder your lack of presence.

Disheartened and disappointed when she responds with, “She’s in Italy”, Harry is once again confused by Jack’s lack of mentioning the news. Though none of his business, the dichotomy of standing his ground and avoiding the question versus caving in and simply asking Jack has him in quite the frenzy.  

The rest of the evening is a bore- Harry switches to ginger ale, and though he attempts to mingle, maintaining interest proves to be impossible, and for the first time, Harry makes the decision to head home early.

But, now, with a make-up-free face and his favourite jammies, he is tucked beneath the fluffiest sheets and your mere existence is pulling the sheets tighter, trapping him in a series of thoughts of yours truly, thinking about you.

[elioslover]

Silver Screen (Mingling)- Harry Styles x reader.

Here's another little blurb from the series of Harry and Y/n running into each other at various award shows.

Warnings: Use of She/her pronouns. (extremely non-descriptive).

Word Count: 2.5k

Part 1 / Part 2 / Other Writing

---

Another event- well, the after party of another pointless, meandering red carpet motioning him towards the flashing lenses, asking him questions that make less sense and lead him to melt into a puddle of confusion and complication- is this really where he saw himself? Spending his living days being dominated and feeding the demands of money-hungry producers and executives. 

Thankfully, the cherry carpet demanded nothing more than a brief snapshot- no interviews dissecting and disproving his passion and beliefs. Creating a lifestyle and accommodating others, only for it to be deemed ‘okay’- or worse, they may ask him a serious and inciteful question, and instead of a wave of relief washing over him, he feels as if he is drowning in confusion, re-examining every decision he has ever made- every word inked to a notebook, every harmony, and every insecurity crashing to the surface, swallowing the sand that he once thought to be an indestructible base. 

After the usual formalities, he finds the opportunity to disperse from his team, fulfilling all obligations and in dire need of a glass of scotch. One of which he orders at the nearest bar, taking a hearty sip to switch the temperament of his mood, and hopefully the rest of the evening. 

-He spends what he would describe as a decent amount of time strolling and exploring the venue, making sure to never linger, stand up straight, and use the glass of icy whiskey in his palm as a welcomed coping mechanism. But, as he rounds another corner, the space before him is large, scattered with big names and faces all huddled in boastful groups, their arms flailing arrogantly, animatedly telling the same stories told on a loop, hoping for new audiences and with that, fresh chuckles of admiration. He wants to roll his eyes, but he knows better, instead raises his glass to his rosy lips, but is extremely disappointed when his tongue is met with only a single droplet of drink. 

Thankfully, one positive of this room was the shining and welcoming bar set up directly in the middle. His feet have carried him over with little encouragement, the base of his polished boots almost bumping against the nearest stool. The bartender stands before him in the blink of an eye, eagerly awaiting to soothe his appetite and he aids, ordering his usual, deeply grateful as the waiter dashes off with great determination. 

In the meantime, he turns to face the crowded room leaning back and balancing all of his weight on his lower back. The place is a clusterfuck of chromatic garbs, glistening jewels, and jovial jealousy- most are reasonably recognisable after a good glance, but each patron moving so poignantly makes it a proper challenge. 

In the wake of the evening, he wonders if he would have even spotted her if not for the sudden outburst of obnoxious laughter coming from his left. Nevertheless, his attention snaps to the small but unnecessarily loud group of Grammy Guys and Golden Globers. Two of the men are mentioned far too regularly in the media, drowning in offers and loved by all; they are both donning bright, domineering, and fashion-forward fits- at least that’s how he thinks the public would profess so. Oddly though, there is one member of the group who seems greatly displeased, her arm folded across her chest, nursing a nearly-empty champagne flute and challenged with the task of faking enjoyment. 

He feels as if chances keep falling at his feet, the tightness of fright that stirred at his stomach the last fortnight has suddenly melted into a mess of frantic hope and successful manifestation. So frantic that her presence will be as fleeting as the past- worried that looking away would wash her existence from the earth. It's only when the waiter politely calls out a second time that he jolts to alertness, twisting his body to hastily receive the beverage as well as expressing his appreciation. 

Mercifully, when he looks over, she is as real and as present as earlier- bar the furrowing frown softly creasing at her forehead, lips begging to lull into a bored sulk. The group’s storyteller has geared up to start another riveting tale, and if it weren’t for the absolute fascination of her pout, he might have bothered to follow along.

Whatever the story, she is oblivious, slowly losing the will to act interested and attempting to drum up an excuse for leaving. Her gaze is glancing anywhere and everywhere, raking over the clothing of her peers, observing the other guests, and for a second, it seems she may have given the bar a brief look-over. Then she focuses her intentions on the clothing of the storytelling, her creased brows suddenly raising into ones of curiosity, and he wonders more than ever what she might be experiencing within. 

He knows it would be in his best interest to find a way to say hello- there is no reason he wouldn’t be embraced by a group of an A-list actor, a triple-platinum singer, and the most beautiful stranger- but his feet stay stuck to the shined hard-wood, and the voices in his head have started a barbershop, harmonizing to the tune of ‘you messed it up last time… you’ll mess it up again’. Perhaps it would be rude to interrupt, rude to assume she’s displeased, perhaps even rude for assuming she isn’t. 

By the grace of the gods, another bough of laughter breaks out, paired with the most gorgeous and gleeful giggle. He looks away bashfully, as if her laugh had been the result of his entertainment alone, shy within her presence- well, within the same room. Surely he had misread then, her discomfort must not have been real- and as he is about to shamefully accept his error, the group grows smaller and she begins to walk closer. Striding with stern confidence, she turns her back on the men and makes her way over to the bar- and in turn, hopefully, he. 

She seems to glance him over, painfully brief and somehow sending a shooting pain along his spine as she stops and tilts her body over the bar counter to catch the attention of a patron. With as much speed as moments earlier, he can hear the way the bartender scurries around at the mention of her asking for a margarita, but the scuffle is being drowned out by the swell of sweetness taking over his brain at the sugary song that slips past her plump lips and peppers love bites along his heart. Only a short while later her drink arrives and she sounds far too grateful in turn. 

The tips of his fingers tingle as she suddenly turns around, mimicking his stance of utilising her elbows for balance, her forearm mere millimetres from his own and for the love of god he prays she won't glance down and notice the goosebumps dancing along his skin. But she doesn’t- instead, she tilts her chin and cranes her neck to give his face a proper look. It's too late to start wishing she wouldn’t recognize him- he’s certain she does after their last… encounter- but if she had any ill feelings, it went unvoiced as she only smiled, the corners of her eyes creasing cutely. 

She sips lowly, her lips glossed with pink tonic to match- a droplet threatening to slip slowly and waterfall down the bottom of her cupid bow, balancing on her upper lip and begging to be licked free. Perhaps by his tongue. Her attention returns to the now two famous men fiddling on the roof for the opportunity to one-up each other. But her grimace is telling, the distaste gathering between her brows, her bottom lip sucked and trapped between her front teeth. 

He wants to giggle, or do anything, but he has become an inferno of self-doubt and cannot argue the fire into simmering long enough for him to string a sentence together. Why can't he just say hello, has he become such a hermit that the mere thought of a pretty girl has him in such a shameful frenzy? 

And then she speaks as if it is the easiest thing she has done all day, her voice deep, but silky, each word as wonderful and skin-tingle-inducing,

“Were you working up the courage to say hello…” she raises the glass, taking a classy sip, her lips glossy and decorated grains of salt- her tongue darting out to lick away the residue, “Or, do you just get off on watching me suffer?”

He almost choked on his scotch and saliva as she confirmed that not only had she noticed him, but she was certainly aware of the way his eyes remained hooked and dreamily dedicated to her direction. And she is mere centimetres away, he can practically feel her skin simmering, heating him with lack of intent. His thoughts are threatening to spew honesty, telling him to trust himself and slip into smoothness. Though, he can only muster enough courage to mutter with excessive haste,

“Would rather get off from making you feel good.” 

Half incoherent, but heard nonetheless, a burst of bashfulness attempts to paint her cheeks a beautiful blush red, but she shoves all flattery to the depths of herself and puts on a confident front, 

“Say that again?”

And now he is the one begging his face from blooming with splotchy pink, but he certainly doesn’t succeed, shocked that his inhibitions had invaded his thoughts to the point of saying stupid things out loud. With a quick, and vital switch in conversation,  

“Seemed like you were very interested in that conversation… didn’t want to interrupt.”

He hopes his aversion has done the trick, and when a soft bubble of giggles bursts from within her chest- symphonic and swoon-worthy, he feels he may never recover. 

She tilts her body to get a better look at her companion and the pearly crystals of her gown sparkle with such vigour that they flicker along her face, highlighting her features, only furthering his fascination. She speaks boldly, her words bemused and seeped with disbelief, 

“Interested? In the disaster of garments, those men are wearing?”

He glances over at the two men who are still engaged enthusiastically. She isn’t wrong, the first man’s entire suit is ill-fitted, crumpling in all the wrong places, chromatic lime combined with a loosely hanging fuchsia bowtie. Horrendous. And so, he laughs, loudly and lacking any shame, his lips letting his teeth peek past, cheeks swelling cutely, 

“Christ, I don’t wanna hear what you think about mine-” 

“Good.” She interjects with surety, “You look good.” 

And he wants to ask for more- for her to flower him with flattery and elaborate on all of the elements and flares that encompass the fashion she deems as ‘good’. Grievously, he gives in to the little voice in his head that whispers and pleas for him to play it cool,

“Yeah?” Very cool.

She nods stoically, wisdom coating her eyes, glittery silver mixing with a slight hint of endearment. It may be the meekest of motions, hardly a smile in sight, but his chest swells nevertheless and he hopes with everything in him that she keeps up the kindness as she speaks up,

“Don’t let it get to your head.” Glitter dances across his face as she rolls her eyes, playfully scoffing and allowing a small smile to peak out to the corner of her cheeks.

Now he needs to see her grin in action, needs to feel the butterflies negging at his stomach from the sound of her giggles turning to laughter. A million and one ideas spring to mind, silly anecdotes, flat-out questions, compliments, suggestions of attraction- literally anything and everything- and then, his bubble of blooming euphoria bursts as a man, mid-fifties and dressed with elegance, saunters over with ease.  

And when her eyes swell with recognition, it becomes definite that their conversation will now accommodate another body. But his disappointment does not dwell, he was savouring each second with her to begin with- after their last encounter, he felt eased to have had even a moment of restoration. 

The man joins with a joyous gesture of his raised arms and grinning teeth as he stretches out and embraces her with a classic kiss to both cheeks. She reciprocates with cheeriness and open arms, exclaiming “Andreas,” before the words “lovely to see you” are muffled from her mouth brushing the velvet material of Andreas’ suit. 

“You flatter me.” Andreas applies European etiquette, taking a slight step back to see her better. Paired with that, Andreas’ attention aims at her conversational partner, eyes widening with recognition and warmth at the reality of who stands with her. 

Opening his mouth to attempt a formal introduction, he is shocked to silence, jaw slack, as she delicately reaches out and just barely places her palm on her upper arm, 

“This is Harry.” She says it like she’s said it before- he wonders to who, when, what about? 

His ears are engaging in a soft ringing sound, sweet sirens singing at him the fact that she knows who he is. It’s hardly heard when Andreas extends a hand, greeting and praising the opportunity of finally having a chance to connect. 

Andreas speaks of a collaboration, marvelling over the creative concepts coming to fruition- all of them embracing the things he is best known for- whatever the topic, it proves hard to pay mind to, as the space on his arm where her hand once sat is still holding his attention.

The only thing that could tear his thoughts away- and does- is her voice, perking up with curiosity. She asks for some form of clarification, perhaps the location of another guest she hopes to mingle with. He’s struggling to hear her words, still stuck on the silky flow of her vocals, vibrating along the his already flaming skin.

Oh, but he definitely understands when she utters a polite, “Gentlemen, please excuse me”, her teeth peaking out from her peachy lips, a kind smile mirrored in her eyes.

He can confirm she is seeking out a woman, as her back becomes his only view, her body relaxed, shoulders straight, her silky gown shimmering as she sees what she wants and slips back into a crowd of gaudy party-goers.

She is gone and he is stood facing Andreas, his glazed gaze fading into focus as he maintains his manners and once more musts up the energy to engage in conversation. But, as always, he is late to the jump,

“So, how do you know, Y/n?”

This may be the best interruption of the evening- perhaps of the past year- he hadn’t known the pattering at his heart would be so poignant at the present of finally hearing her name. Pieces are fitting together like a puzzle- he wishes to find plenty,

“I don’t, really,” he hums honestly, “we keep bumping into one another."

[elioslover]

The Trophy Series (Masterlist).

I figured I should create a sub-masterpost for the little series of shorts I've been doing in which Harry and reader have a habit of bumping into one another at award ceremonies!

(Other Writing)

📸 Going for Gold (Grammys)

📸 Bronze is Better (Brits)

📸 Silver Screen (Film Festival Mingling)

📸 Pretty in Platinum (-)

[elioslover]

Preview: Grapejuice Part Four!

Premise: Harry has been pining over Y/n - his best friends slightly older sister - for as long as he can remember. But she still refuses to see him as anything other than her brothers goofy obnoxious bestie. This chapter is when the filth kicks!! - Em. xo

LET ME KNOW IF YOU WANNA BE ADDED TO THE TAGLIST

Grapejuice masterpost / Other writing

🍷

You are no longer willing to suffering behind your sunglasses, the sun sizzling down on your already hot skin, you feel like a roast on the spit, pathetically begging for Harry to take a hearty bite.

His face is masked by a denim baseball cap, one arm flexed behind his head like a pillow, and you wonder if he’s asleep at this point, using that as the push you needed to get up and cross over to his sunbed.

Bending down and leaning your body over his own, your bikini-clad breast brushing against his chest as you reach across him for a book-you couldn’t even recall the title of- resting next to his half empty lemonade on the side table.

“You’re kidding.” Harry informatively mumbles through the material.

“What?” You feign innocence, pressing further into him, your waist coming down on his stomach.

“You know exactly what you’re doing.” He continues, but lets you continue with your teasing.

“Getting my book?” You innocently ponder, taking much longer than necessary, letting your fingers dance along the cover, tapping along and further sticking his and your your skin together.

Harry removes his flexed arm from its position as a pillow, using his thumb to hook under and remove the cap from hiding his face.

He looks at you with a stern furrow of the brows, but his eyes are nothing but amused- and slightly turned on,

“You’re a little liar.”

With ease, Harry wraps his arms around your waist, giving you a good squeeze as he flips you over, causing you to snatch a hold of the novel just as you find yourself bent and folded over his lap, ass up in the air, your chest resting against his thighs,

“What the-” You try.

Now Harry has you, and you feel silly for thinking you could have ever gotten away with being so reckless, banking on the falseness of his lack of interest in your presence. He had lured you right in- leaving you laying across him, completely at his will.

Not that you would want to be anywhere else- you can’t help the embarrassment stirring at your stomach, ringing in your ears, you hope Harry doesn’t notice, and it seems he is far more focused on the sultriness of your arched back, your bikini bottoms becoming a frame for the ass cheeks that he quickly deems an artwork.

His fingers glide along the curve of your spine, satisfied with the shiver that shakes your body beneath his touch,

“You’re a naughty one, aren’t you?” He notes, letting his hands continue to trail along your curves.

He ponders for a moment, watching for each reaction you might let slip, hyper-focused on your shaky breaths, the rise and fall of your breasts against his legs. He needs more though- needs to hear you,

“I think it’s time you’re punished for all of this brattiness.”

“I’m not a brat.” You huff defensively for no reason but to protect your pride, still stuck and at his will.

“But you act like one.” He tuts factually, his hands gliding along your lower back before his palms finally settling on your ass cheeks, giving you the softest of pats.

“That’s the same-”

Harry refuses to let you finish, his tone dripping with discipline, his hands squeezing at your skin to ensure to cut you off and keep you focused on his filthy intentions,

“Keep reading that book.”  He has you hooked like an unknowing fish, baiting you with the promise of leaving little red marks along your pillowing bum cheeks, “Since you found it so, so important…”

Your lip’s part with the desire of protest, letting the book loosen in your hand, waiting on it to finally part from your palms. But Harry is watching like a hawk- waiting for you to misbehave once more, knowing you far too well. Still, you rally all of the defiance you have to spare,

“I-”

“Read the book, Y/n.”

[elioslover]

Neighbour!Harry Concept

Just imagining Harry and reader are neighbours who barely speak, maybe they greet each other on occasion but mostly keep to themselves. Harry is in his recluse era so there’s loads of oversized hoodies and sweatpants and obviously the little hair clip. And his stubble would be growing out, just like his moustache oof. Reader is usually quiet and doesn’t seem too bothered about making friends with people in the building. But every Friday night, reader comes home later than the rest of the week, plays some jazzy music- the walls are thin, because obviously, and the evening always ends with reader moaning and whining freely, unbothered by the fact that they have neighbours, and Harry is blessed and cursed with the gift of getting to listen.

The first time, he was just laying in bed, scrolling through apps when the sweet symphony of pleasure started to build up slowly, playing in the background like the soundtrack for his life. He’s unsure of what to do- it’s not like he can just shut the door- he considers putting in earphones, but those are all the way across the apartment and… reader just sounds so inviting, coaxing him to stay put and let the melody of climaxing play out in full. The next Friday, like clockwork, reader has been playing music all evening, Harry was catching up on some emails, laptop lazily spread across his lap. It starts off as soft little whimpers, almost inaudible, but his head is pressed against the wall, and he is soon to catch on. He wonders if reader has a boyfriend, or girlfriend, but he’s never seen anyone else coming or going. But on Fridays, Harry gets home earlier and therefore can’t guarantee if a guest is over or not. He feels filthy, unable to stop his hand from dropping and palming himself through his sweats, and as the moaning only increases in both speed and volume, its not long before Harry is stroking himself to the sultry sounds of his neighbour- and whoever else got the pleasure of having such praise in their honour was a lucky son of a bitch. He finishes to the sounds of “please, please”, "so good", mixed with his deep grunts and the visual of his body thrusting into them in place of whoever seems to make them feel so good.

This becomes habitual, and by week five, Harry is no longer just looking forward to Fridays, but finds himself rushing out of work early just in case. Seeing the reader around the building has changed too, his eyes linger on them during short elevator trips, trying to get glances of what they’re reading or listening to. His curiosity has surely peaked but he cannot help the blushing mess he becomes when he remembers his dirty little secret. His friendliness proves successful and reader warms up to him after several good mornings and have a lovely day’s, moving from simple greetings to statements about the weather, chuckling over a crazy neighbour, and Harry valiantly offering to carry their groceries.

Around week ten, Harry has to admit that he’s losing his cool, finding himself thinking about reader outside of their Friday activity, in the shower, on the sofa, anywhere and everywhere he shouldn’t be. He wonders what the readers feels like, how they like to take it, what makes them moan with such enthusiasm. He even considers intercepting the ‘guest’ one Friday in the crazy hopes of at least putting a face to a name. instead of being ludicrous, he instead takes the opportunity of bumping into reader in the hallway to invite them over for a cup of tea and he mistakes the blushing on readers cheeks for nervousness but is super relieved when they say yes.

He asks when they’ll be free to come over and reader says, “any day of the week is great… except for Fridays.” And Harry’s like, here’s my chance to find out about the mystery guest so he says, “Ah, Fridays are reserved for date night?” but reader only laughs sweetly and replies, “The exact opposite. Friday’s are self-care days.” And boy, oh, boy, Harry’s mind is in the gutter, his cock is twitching at the mere thought, and he is desperate to give in to the temptation of saying something stupid like “I’d like those pretty little moans of yours to be a result of me” lmao he definitely cannot wait for Friday to arrive.