i also like that you can be blonde since that wasn't a thing before either but

anonymous asked:

Yeah a drabble is what I was kinda hoping for... The pormt is : I found love (were it wasn't suppose to be) Thank u so much ur amazing BTW...

Oh God, don’t thank me just yet. You might hate me after reading this. It sucks so bad. Especially the ending. I have no excuse, I’m sorry. I can try again if you’d like. OR, you can send me another prompt and I’ll try to make it up to you.

I found love (where it wasn’t supposed to be) 

It’s when all the hype has died down, his ears have stopped ringing, and he’s home after three back-to-back show, clad in his comfiest pyjama pants and an old t-shirt he hasn’t worn in ages – whilst he’s leaning against the doorframe separating Bobby’s kitchen from the living room, watching Harry bounce a two year-old Theo on his lap, that something just sort of…clicks.

He’s in love. Niall Horan is in love.

With Harry freaking Styles, of all fucking people.

He thinks the realization should floor him, scare him. And five years ago, it might have. In fact, five years ago, when he was in this same position, watching Harry play Scrabble with his da and Greg, it would have scared 16 year-old Niall shitless.


Sixteen year-old Niall, who tells himself it would never be possible – that it would never be a thing – and that he should just forget about whatever warmth he was feeling in chest.

Seventeen year-old Niall, who convinces himself it’s nothing, that Harry looks at everyone like they hung the moon – and that even if it is just Niall, it would never work anyway.

Eighteen year old Niall, who lets Harry kiss him in the privacy of their hotel room – commits it to memory, savours the feeling of Harry’s lips and the taste of his mouth – and then pushes Harry away because they just can’t, they shouldn’t; they’re bandmates, they’re co-workers, they’re friends – but they can’t be (shouldn’t be) lovers, it doesn’t work like that, and it never will.

Nineteen year old Niall, who can’t help himself – who falls into bed with Harry over and over until he loses count, until it doesn’t matter how many times it’s been anyway because, either way, he’s screwed; nineteen year old Niall, who believes Harry when he tells Niall they don’t have to be a thing, they don’t have to be serious, if that’s what Niall wants.

Twenty year old Niall, who tries to convince himself it’s not his heart that’s breaking when Harry starts dating someone else; who reminds himself that Harry is allowed to date whoever he wants because they’re not really a thing and they were never supposed to be serious, and they both know it.

Twenty-one year old Niall, who tries to see someone else – and fails because even if he isn’t supposed to be with Harry, even if it’s never going to be serious, it’s what he wants; twenty-one year old Niall, who isn’t afraid to want what (or who) he wants anymore, who lets himself have it.

He’s 22 years old now, and it’s come full-circle – and not only is he not afraid, but he isn’t at all surprised either.

Because, well, it’s Harry, isn’t it? It’s always been Harry, even when it shouldn’t have been; even when it wasn’t supposed to be.


He’s 22 years old now, and his heart is racing in his chest, pounding in his ears as he watches Harry cuddle Theo to sleep, clad in what Niall’s pretty sure are his sweatpants and one of his old jumpers, whilst talking quietly with Bobby and Greg and Des, and Niall’s never been more in love, he thinks.

He’s never felt more love either. It’s the greatest feeling in the world.

Niall’s pulled out of his thoughts, then, by a combination of Harry calling his name and Theo wrapping his rather tired-self around carefully around Niall’s legs. He catches a glimpse of Harry’s gaze before he looks down at the toddler grinning tiredly up at him. “What’s up, little man?” he murmurs, bending down the Theo into his arms.

Theo rubs his eyes, yawns. “Bedtime.”

That’s when Niall notices that Greg’s got Theo’s jacket in one hand and his gummies in the other; that Bobby’s stood to walk them out to the car.

He bids his brother and his nephew a goodbye, with a promise of seeing them both again tomorrow and then watches, absentmindedly, as his da follows them outside. So absentmindedly, in fact, that he doesn’t even notice Harry’s wrapped an arm around Niall’s waist until Harry presses a kiss against the shell of his ear.

“Hi,” Harry whispers.

Niall turns around to face him, smiles softly as Harry presses another kiss to his lips. “Hi.”

“What are you thinking about?”

The blond cocks an eyebrow, tilts his head. “What makes you think I’m thinking?”

Harry smirks. “You’ve been quiet ever since we got off stage – and you’re never quiet when you get off stage. So spill, Horan.”

And Harry’s not wrong, is he. Niall’s sort of been in a fog all night – for the last three days, even – and riding the high of pure adrenaline in his veins from show after show after show in Dublin. He’s been a lot more quiet tonight, though. More thoughtful.

“I, um,” he starts – stops when he hears his voice shake nervously. He’s had a lot to think about these last few months, and now it’s like it’s all come down to this night, with this realization. “I-“ He cuts himself off a second time; he’s not sure he can say it. But Harry’s looking at him, sort of expectantly but also sort of softly, the way he looks at Niall when he knows that Niall’s stuck in his head and he’s perfectly content with waiting patiently for Niall to find the words. He can’t say nothing. He has to say something.

“I’m glad you’re here,” he whispers instead, lets the breath he’d been holding slip softly through his lips. It’s not what he was going for, and he could probably have done better, but Harry grins, toothy and dimply, and Niall’s shoulders sag in relief.

As if on cue, his father comes back inside, and Des calls out from the living room for them to join him before he drinks all the beer himself – and that’s got Bobby moving faster than Niall’s seen him move in ages because he’ll be damned if an Englishman finishes off the beer without him.

Niall moves to follow, but then Harry drags him back into the kitchen until his back is pressed up against the pantry in the back corner and the length of Harry’s body is pressed up against Niall’s. His body sort of melts into Harry’s, as it always has, and he closes his eyes in anticipation of what he’s sure is going to be another kiss, despite both of their fathers sitting in the other room.

“Hey,” Harry murmurs instead, pressing their foreheads together and nuzzling Niall’s nose with his own.


“I love you too.”