From the moment he stepped into your life, you were aware of
what all he could do to you. Bucky Barnes was a walking warning himself, a
constant reminder for why you cannot be anyone else’s but his. You are head
over heels for him and all he has to do is look at you and throw that sexy
smirk along with those twinkling blue orbs and you were done for good.
You find yourself daydreaming about him – a lot, often about
his lips, how he would roam them all over your body, pressing gentle feather
light kisses on your sensitive skin, leaving goosebumps in his wake. How his
perfect lips would mould with yours, sucking all the air from your lungs,
leaving them red and swollen. How he’d graze the tip of his nose along the
underside of your jawline, breathing you in. He’d connect lips on the column of
your throat, biting and sucking bruises and it would take him little to no time
in discovering that sensitive spot on your neck which makes you release that
sweet harmonious noise.
i’ve definitely written a headcanon on this (in my ancient ‘bee writes’ tag) but i still wanna read a thing where Tater comes over to Vegas on Kent’s birthday to celebrate, just the two of them. He usually goes out to celebrate with the team, but this year apparently everyone else has other plans for the Fourth of July and they didn’t seem keen on inviting Kent for some reason, which hurts a little bit, since he thought he’d finally integrated himself by this point), but it’s nothing Kent isn’t used to.
After being wined and dined that night, Kent is not exactly drunk but he’s definitely giggly and can’t keep his hands off Tater as they stumble back to the apartment. Tater picks him up when they exit the elevator, to Kent’s delight, and he makes a half-squeal as he wraps his legs around Tater’s waist.
“Key’s in my back pocket,” Kent says mid-kiss, tangling his fingers in Tater’s hair. There’s just something so great about Tater being able to hoist Kent up like he weighed nothing. The fact that his teammates forgot his birthday isn’t even bothering Kent anymore, not when his boyfriend has his hands all over Kent’s ass.
They’re making out heavily by the time Tater gets the door open. It’s also about when they hear the sound of an entire hockey team from inside the apartment scream: “HAPPY BIRTHDAY, KENT FUCKING PARS–oh, Jesus fuck–”
(Hilly knows a couple things as a tadpole. He knows there’s probably a lax
bro hitting on him, and that Bitty’s super-secret boyfriend may or may not be a
middle-age lumberjack sugar daddy.)
Hilly knows a few things about Samwell’s hockey dynamics. He knows he is a
tadpole; he initially expects to be hazed to the ground and forced to eat dog
food or something like his roommate, who is currently rushing a frat. He
expects the Haus to be dirty and filled to the brim with red cups and sticky
floorboards. He also knows not to hang out with the lax team because Ransom and
Holster said so, even though a cute boy who he thinks is from the lax team
winked at him in his Intro to Anthropology class. He knows that NHL’s very own
Jack Zimmermann, son of ‘Bad Bob’ Zimmermann and legendary hockey extraordinaire,
is a Samwell alumni, and had slept in the very room which Chowder, their
goalie, currently inhabits.
But Hazeapalooza turns out to be nothing as bad as he expects (he even gets
homemade pie out of it, even if Holster gives him the side-eye). And the Haus
is cleaner than a sports frat house should be. The hockey team is nice (and surprisingly
socially aware) and Hilly likes Samwell fair enough, but he misses home
But Bitty makes things better. Hilly likes Bitty a lot. He likes hanging around
the Haus and watching Bitty roll pastry dough with a practiced, methodical hand
because it reminds him of how his mom used to bake cookies for him and his
sister. Bitty doesn’t mind too much (he thinks) that Hilly may want to go on a
date with a lax bro. Bitty bakes him peach cobbler with crumbles toasted a
golden brown and talks about his family’s jam recipes. Bitty is open and warm
and welcoming. However, the one thing Bitty doesn’t talk much about is his
Steve shares a unique bond with one of the women in Sam's va class.
Steve looks up hearing
Shauna’s voice. She’s holding a small
“From the kids. Open it.”
She sits to watch him shift the tissue paper out of the way to reveal a
“I don’t-“ Steve turns the
case over and understands. “Oh my –this is Nico’s drawing, from our last
class.” On the back of the phone case is
an image of a boy with Cap’s shield, saving a blond-haired man from the top of
a building. The lines are confident, if
“There’s a shop on Etsy
that puts whatever you want on a phone case.
Steve reached to hug her
and then stopped, holding out his hand instead.
“Sorry. Thank you.”
Shauna grinned, leaning
forward to hug him. “Today’s feeling
like an okay day for a hug, actually.
Shauna had introduced
Steve to an art therapy class for children at the elementary school just down
the street from the VA. Every student
was different but they all needed and outlet.
So don’t we, Shauna had said. She was right, and Steve loved it, finding the time no matter what to volunteer at least
once a week.
A/N: this was a request from an anon and I finally got it done! It’s meant to go with this amazing piece of art. :-) this piece is dedicated to the amazing @tiostyles because Brianne kept it from getting lost in the void LMAO. her support inspired me to finish it so thanks Brianne ilyvm :-) sorry for any mistakes or typos! Drop by my inbox with opinions bc I’m kinda?? Iffy on it?? Anywho, enjoy!
Harry likes to think he has stamina. He’s proven it countless of times before and he’s sure he will continue to prove it until the end of his days.
A great example would be that one time on the tour bus when he had popped a stiffy around 9 PM and couldn’t do anything about it since no one was planning on going to bed yet, so he couldn’t sneak away to handle it. He’d had to wait until well after 1 AM, when the snoring elephants known as his band mates were conked out cold, to sneak into the bathroom with his Astroglide and rub out a quick one to a picture of Y/N wearing nothing but a pink, sheer silk button-up with the word “Styles” embroidered on the chest pocket.
Or the time when he and Y/N had attended a family get-together that his mother had thrown at his old house in the new pool she had built. Y/N had gotten the brilliant idea to grope him during a game of water volleyball and he’d had to play actively, all whilst doing his best to make sure no one saw the raging boner tenting his Gucci lion-printed swim trunks. After the underwater fun was over and the barbecue was done, his mom had condemned him to stay and help clean up. Washing dishes with his dick leaking wasn’t exactly his idea of a good time.
After that long night, Harry had given his mom a quick kiss goodbye and ignored her comments about how it was odd for his jacket to be tied backwards around his waist. He’d dragged a grinning Y/N to his car, setting route to their apartment but somehow ending up in an abandoned mall square, fucking in the backseat of his Rover.
And don’t even get him started on the time he lost three rounds of Go Fish to Y/N and, as retribution, had to wear a vibrating cock ring to Lux’s birthday party. Trying to explain to a four year old why his lap was vibrating, all while maintaining a cool composure, should’ve been made into an Olympic sport because the sheer amount of concentration and determination needed was truly out of this fucking world. Not only that, but fucking in a bathroom the size of a coat closet wasn’t necessarily prime, either. Lou had been having her upstairs bathroom remodeled and the one in the living room was too obvious, so they’d had to sneak down to the one in the basement. It was tiny, cramped, and smelled way too much like lemon-scented Lysol. His left leg had fallen asleep, but as if that wasn’t bad enough, Y/N had decided to up and leave halfway through and left him horribly blue-balled. Giving a toast to his goddaughter’s coming-of-age wasn’t really fluent when casually trying to cover up the bulge in his jeans with a Hello Kitty placemat.
However, all throughout these situations, Harry had managed to keep an unfazed, calm façade and had not given in to the woes of the intense exertion that was required of him. So, yes, he most definitely likes to say he has stamina. He’s entitled to say it. With all of the shit he’s been through, it’s the least he deserves.
But tonight, his hardcore ability to sustain such troubles has decided to fail him. And, hell, did it fail him.
Harry’s not quite sure what happened, but he knows that it’s likely do to all of the post-performance adrenaline that has been bubbling and toiling through his veins since he set foot off stage after his surprise LA performance at the Troubadour. It had been quite the show, considering he’d had Stevie bloody Nicks accompanying and dueting with him. Every nerve-ending on his body was set to full throttle, every hair standing to the very tip with excitement-induced electricity, and as he stepped outside the building, the cool night air burned his simmering skin like acid (which he’s pretty sure cool air isn’t supposed to do).
He was sweating buckets from the stage lights and the close proximity of the venue, but he loves the intimacy of it all. He felt more connected to his fans this way, so he thinks it to be worth it. His body, however, begs to differ.
Right after they’d disappeared backstage, Stevie had immediately demanded that they all go out for drinks to celebrate Harry’s blooming career, and how could he say no to her? Two Fiji waters and a limo ride later, they ended up in a classy joint that Harry didn’t care enough to try and interpret the name of because it was in a language he didn’t know (French, maybe? Or Italian?), and he was oh-so very wired. The champagne was bubbly and silky smooth against his sensitive taste buds, the dim miniature chandelier above their booth casting just enough shadows to hide the itchy flush that is crawling up his neck.
His sheer black shirt is sticking to a thin sheen of sweat that has materialized down his back and he’s fairly certain that his golden-glitter pants weren’t this tight when he got them tailored. His feet feel as if they are floating in pools of sweat, the leather Gucci shoes not doing his heated body any favors. And that’s when he feels it.
Harry shifts slightly in his seat as Mitch slides in next to him, nudging his elbow off the table in a best-mate-rivalry type of way. His body instinctually bends forward slightly as all of his upper weight loses the support of the red oak surface, torso reeling to the side as he giggles and elbows him back, and that’s when it hits him like a bus. He feels his dick twitch against his damp thigh, his jerky movements combined with the frenzied nerves from the performance setting every comatose hormone in his blood on fire.
A small yip of surprise escapes past his lips, eyes wide as his thighs give a hard clench and his fingers tighten around his champagne flute. Stevie had been speaking about a concert she had done a while back in Georgia when Harry decides to have this teeny spectacle, his not-so-manly squeak slicing through the calm, cool atmosphere of the bar. Everyone looks over to him, eyebrows raised here and there in concern.
Harry swallows down his unsteadiness, forcing a tiny, soft smile across his stinging cheeks. He lifts his hand a bit higher in front of himself to draw attention to his drinking glass, swirling the golden liquid around for emphasis. “It’s the champagne. Sipped too fast.”
His voice comes out strained, but he manages to cover it up with a faux hiccup to give his whole act a touch of authenticity. Everyone seems to buy it as they return their attention to the other singer at the table, intrigued by her story. He hears Jeff mumble, “lightweight” under his breath, a couple of the guys snickering along with him as Harry pins the man with a death glare.
“You sure you’re alright?” Mitch’s soft voice hitches Harry’s ears, dragging his attention away from his producer. “You’re sweating and the lights are barely even on.”
“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine. Just taking me a little longer to wind down. Since I sung with a legend and all, y'know?”
But he’s not fine. Not fine at all. If anything, he’s doing the opposite of winding down. He’s winding up– a glance at his lap easily confirms that. He hears blood starting to pound in his head, toes starting to go numb as he feels his balls tightening in his briefs. An annoying piece of hair keeps falling into his eyes and he contemplates ripping it off, but wagers against it since that might be considered too much of a scene. The back of his thighs are chafing in the thick material of his sequined bottoms and he’s positive he has some killer pit stains going, but he can’t will his body to stop. So he does the next best thing: He snatches the champagne bottle and pours himself another glass.
Harry’s not sure how much time passes by. It’s a blur of fizzy liquid, bright laughter, low lights and a swelling dull ache in his groin. He’s not necessarily drunk but he is buzzed, the alcohol having smoothed out the rough edges of his craving. His upper lip itches every now and then as sweat accumulates on the faint hairs he’s grown out and he has to constantly wipe at his face as nonchalantly as possible to avoid detection. The lack of personal space around the table only grates at his nerves even more because he can feel the heat of all the bodies absorbing into his clothes, turning him into the most sparkly-pantsed rotisserie chicken to ever exist. And the most irritated, at that.
But Harry will be damned if he passes up this iconic opportunity to have drinks with an icon herself. He’d been dreaming about such a moment since he could walk and he refuses to let a boner destroy one of the best to-be memories of his life. At this crucial state, he calls upon all of the times he had managed to power through similar situations and uses them to pump himself (pun intended) up, getting it through his tipsy skull that he can do it. He covered a hard-on with a Hello Kitty decoration, for fuck’s sake. Anything is truly possible!
Unfortunately, after a few more minutes lull by, Harry apparently will be damned.
He thinks he’s finally got it under reign when he sneaks a peek under the elegant maroon serviette in his lap, watching his pride crumble beneath his slightly-clouded eyes. His dick had leaked through his briefs and into his flared pants, the patch of cloth over his crotch noticeably darker than the rest of the material. His eyes squeeze shut as his nails dig into the palm of his hand through the napkin, biting down on his tongue as he feels his cock decides to give up on the slow burn and rather starts to throb sharply under the table.
Fuck his hormones for deciding to make him be a horny fourteen-year-old today, fuck his post-performance adrenaline for choosing to whip him up into a mess rather than dissolving away quietly like usual, fuck the champagne for making his eyelids droopy and his tongue heavy (although he will credit it for helping take the edge off), and most of all, just fuck himself for believing he could progress through this little get-together without bursting at the bleeding seams.
And apparently the universe agrees with him because as Harry sits there, seeing angry flashes of blue and yellow behind his screwed eyelids and wallowing in his self-hatred, Stevie calls his name from across the table.
His head snaps up, eyes flying open in alarm as he attempts to calibrate himself back into the setting. A tight, croaky “hm?” thrums in his throat as he focuses on the blonde women across from him, her expression one of curiosity.
“Are you alright? You’re really pale, honey. And you seem kinda off a bit.” Stevie leans forward, setting down her almost-empty champagne flute and eyeing him thoughtfully.
Everyone’s attention turns to him, all of the separate conversations that had been going dying down to soft murmurs and silence. Harry’s not one for stage fright (his career had beaten that out of him ages ago), but he’s pretty sure this is how it feels. It feels like every person around him is seeing straight into his soul and he’s never wanted to disappear into thin air more than at this moment.
“I’m fine!” He swallows thickly, nodding weakly and he’s honestly trying to convince himself more than anyone else.
“S'just the rush of having you here is still…” he motions around the air with his arms to suggest an aura of excitement, “it’s still circulating– hasn’t piped down. It’s a dream come true and the starstruck feeling hasn’t stopped lingering. Plus, all the jumping around I did is really coming back to bite me in the ass. Never wear heels, guys. Huge mistake.”
The entire table bursts into a chorus of light laughter, Harry smiling sheepishly as he pushes the hair back from his face, ignoring how damp his scalp is. He chuckles quietly as his friends begin to take digs at his wardrobe and nearly faints when Stevie comes to his rescue, threatening to break one of the drinking glasses over Jeffery’s head for attacking Harry’s “unique and renowned” sense of style.
After a bit more banter, Stevie excuses herself to go use the loo. He sees her walking around to his side of the rounded booth, leaning down to talk beside him.
“I can tell you’re really out of it at the moment. Y'look really tired. Why don’t you go ahead and go rest up and me and you can do lunch tomorrow? You’ve been kinda detached the whole time and I’d really like to get to know you a bit more. Maybe even talk a collaboration. Who knows?” She pinches his broad shoulders playfully in a way that reminds him of his mom, patting him on the back. “I’ll text Roger to set up a reservation at Cafe Habana. Heard you fancy it?”
Harry nods so fast he feels whiplash lick at the back of his brain. “Yeah! It’d be an honor.”
“Alright. See you then.”
He watches as she walks away, rounding a corner to the restrooms and he immediately turns to Mitch, who’s in the middle of actively listening to Jeff and Sarah’s conversation about a Discovery Channel documentary over mermaids.
A tap to the shoulder gets Harry his designated attention and he speaks quick and breathless. “I’m going back to my hotel. Tell everyone I was feeling really tired, will you?”
Harry manages to wriggle his way out of the booth without embarrassing himself, leaving the trusty serviette behind as he sprints for the glass doors of the bar, socks damp in his loafers and that stupid piece of hair flopping against his forehead. The cold late night air runs the simmering stiffness from his skin (but leaving it as is somewhere else), swirling into his lungs and refreshing his mind. He has a driver on the phone in a split second and is getting into a limo the next minute, headed for his hotel with the window down and the wind sifting its fingers through his curls, helping air out all of his pent up frustration.
Before he knows it, Harry’s fumbling with the key card to his king suit, cursing under his breath as it gets jammed and squinting angrily at the tiny red light that flashes on the silver mechanism. As soon as the door pushes open, he surges through, kicking it closed and tearing down the column of buttons on his expensive silk shirt. His mind immediately begins to weave out a fantasy, the fingers that are popping open his shirt molding from his own into Y/N’s. And just like that, she’s there with him. She’s there, sponging her gentle, warm lips against the racing pulse on his neck, licking down his collarbones and biting at the the tight muscles of his broad shoulders as she roughly rips the sticky shirt down his arms.
Harry’s breathing is ragged as his fingers fly to his belt buckle, fumbling with the clasp and seeing nothing but her taunting, lust-filled eyes as she’d sharply yank the leather strap from around his slender hips, undoing his zipper as he toes off his squeaky shoes.
His pants are discarded in a pile by the couch and he’s rummaging through his Nike carry-on for his trusty bottle of Astroglide, positive that he’d tucked it into the inside pocket of the bag. He comes up fruitful, whooping silently in victory as he paces to the humongous bed across the elegant room, feeling her imaginary presence looming behind him as he crawls onto the fluffy comforter.
He momentarily wagers whether he should call up Y/N for some help because having her voice is better than having to envision it. He weighs against it, knowing that since it’s 1 AM here in LA, it’s around 9 AM over in London and she’s more than likely not even up yet considering she loves sleep almost as much as she loves him.
Harry sits with his back against the tall headboard, shimmying out of his dark red CK briefs and spreading his legs wide open, sighing in relief as he feels his balls settle beneath him onto the mattress. He hadn’t realized the true extremity of how wound up he had been until now.
He thumbs the cap of the lube open, wiping off the crusty dry bits against the duvet and squirting some onto his palm, shivering at how cool it is. After some shifting around and stacking a couple of pillows into a plush mountain, he gives his cock a few leisurely tugs, worrying his lip between his two front teeth and hissing out all of the accumulated stress from the entire night.
It doesn’t take long for him to get a set rhythm, his rings scraping softly against his prick as the lube squishes in between the cracks where the metal and the skin of his fingers meet.
Harry’s head leans back again the cold mahogany surface of the bed frame, his hand working up and down his engorged length as he gulps down the screams that are threatening to overcome him, mewling her name out into the dimness of the room. His translucent skin is bumpy with green and blue veins, the head of his cock a dangerous shade of reddish purple as a tiny river of precome leaks out steadily. It runs down and over his fingers as he pumps himself, mixing with the lube to form a cloudy mess. His toes are curling against the sheets and his back muscles are contracting against the headboard as his body bends all out of shape in order to produce an orgasm.
His huge hand squeezes himself snugly, breathy whimpers and quick, low moans streaming from his mouth without control because he just doesn’t care anymore. He doesn’t care because Harry can see her– sees her as she is pressed up against his side with one of her legs holding his own wide open, her small hand stroking him messily as she sucks love bites onto his chest and tweaks his puffy nipples, breath gooey and warm and so fucking hot as she mumbles praises against into neck. “God, you’re so fucking big, Har. All thick and warm inside me and nice and heavy in my mouth, yeah? Wanna make you come. Can you do that for me?”
Long, drawn-out “ohs” and “ughs” fill the stale air around him, wet slapping sounds bouncing back from the paisley-printed walls of the large room as Harry nods his head, not caring whether she’s here or not to see it. His face contorts into expressions of sheer bliss, eyebrows raising and scrunching in pleasure as his jaw hangs loose, head rutting back against the surface of the frame as cracked whines drip endlessly from his swollen, rosy lips. He thumbs over his sensitive cockhead, massaging circles into the skin and jerking against the mattress as he feels a boiling warmth pooling in his tummy, getting ready to explode at any given second.
Harry’s chest is flushed a dull red as he urges himself not to come, wanting to make this last as long as possible. Sweat stings every pore across his skin and he pretends it’s Y/N’s nails scratching memories across his torso. She’s everywhere; plastered across the ceiling and the walls of the room, all over his twitching body, her smell burning his nose and her pretty lips and doey eyes deeply rooted into his brain. It’s her own hands that are cupping and working him towards release as she licks sloppily at his tip, sucking gently every now and then while keeping direct eye contact with him. She spits on him just how he likes it, twisting her fist around his circumstance to give the handjob an array of new sensations.
His own hand mimics the fantasy, teeny mewls of, “oh, shit” and “fuck, it’s so good” rawing his jugular. He slows his pace, working down his cock gruelingly, pulling the foreskin down to reveal the shiny tip to the chilly air. He reaches down between his itching thighs, cupping his balls and fondling them, thumb pressing into the fleshy bit in the center and he can’t stop the stuttered sob that scrapes from deep in his lungs. Her ruby-red, bow-shaped lips are sucking a new sense into him, his eyes hazing over with the image of her kissing down his prick all the way to his balls and taking them into her palm, tugging and sucking fervidly.
Harry can feel his insides pass the boiling point, his abdomen and thighs giving foreshadowing clenches as he sinks down into the mound of feather pillows, torso twisting and thrashing as he crosses into dangerous grounds of stimulation. The cushions close around him as his dives deeply into them, swelling around his head and hugging his arms and sides, the light tickling sensation urging him to come undone. He’s breathing fast and spastic from his mouth and nose at the same time, tears squeezing from the corner of his eyes as he makes a variety of embarrassing, uncontrollable noises ranging from deep, choking grunts to high-pitched, sputtering whimpers.
And, of course, she’s there. The softness of the linen against his oversensitive body turns into her wandering fingers. The violent jerks of his fist melt into the warm velvet of her walls as she rides him. The rubbing of the pillow covers against the back of his head molds into her hands yanking and twirling at his matted, damp curls. And lastly, the caresses of his inhales and exhales as they leave his lips dissolve into her own breaths pushing into his mouth as her lips suck and chew at his, feeding bits of her intoxicating taste into his system to form a tight ball of sensual gratification at the pit of his stomach.
“Fuck, Y/N, fuck me. You’re such a good fucking girl fo’ me, aren’t you? Y'just feel so good…” Harry knows it’s borderline insane to be addressing her when he’s alone but he doesn’t care because he just has to get it all out somehow. In the cage of his mind, her voice responds to him, which is all that truly matters.
“Want you t'come, H. Wanna feel you fill me up.” It’s as if she’s hovering over him, staring right into his soul with those wide, innocent eyes as she bounces on his cock, tiny gasps leaving her swollen lips as not-so-innocent words slip freely from her mouth. “C'mon, Harry. Know you can be a nice boy and come for me, baby. Jus’ a little longer, yeah?”
The hand that was massaging his balls flies up over the pillow around his face, shoving the fluffy material into his mouth so that he can bite down all of his wails. The heels of his feet dig into the springy mattress, causing his back to buck off its surface. Harry’s chest heaves with every rattling gasp, teeny mewls of pleasure squeaking from his throat. His arm is taut with the effort he’s putting into his violent tugging, tattoos glistening with sweat in the dim light of a single bedside lamp. He throws his head back as far he can, tendons stretching tight and veins chiseling into existence down his neck and across his temples. A warm sensation suddenly inflates across his entire being and he can hear his teeth grinding down hard as his climax takes the reigns, thundering over his body without remorse.
When he bursts, it’s messy, to say the least. It splutters out in thick milky ribbons that splatter across his stomach and chest, his prick twitching nonstop in his clenched fingers. Flashes of red, white and yellow form webs behind his eyelids, bursts of brighter colors overlapping the spidery strands. He feels like it’s never going to stop– like he’s going to be squirting out forever because he can still feel the knot writhing in his stomach, demanding to be let out all at once. But he can’t take it; if he doesn’t stop, he thinks he’ll pass out.
Harry’s heart is hiccuping in his chest, the intense thumping suggesting it is trying to slam free through his ribs. His ears feel as if they were clogged with gauze, the only clear sound being the blood rushing through his head. His nose is the first thing that starts to go numb, the jittery sensation spreading across his whole face and crawling down his neck, taking ahold of every one of his nerve-endings. After the feeling has washed down his thighs is when he stops coming, his cock slowly going limp against his pelvis. After it’s spread across all ten of his toes is when he releases the wet fabric of the pillowcase from his aching teeth. After it’s dissolved away down to his chest is when his back muscles untangle themselves from each other, his whole torso slumping comatose into the elegant duvet. And, only after the feeling barely lingers in his fingernails and barely tickles the back of his skull, is when Harry’s eyes finally flutter open.
His head lulls to the side so that his chin presses against his left shoulder, gaze focusing on the neon green numbers of the digital clock on the polished nightstand. 1:17 AM.
He’d lasted seventeen minutes.
It’s quite shameful, he’ll admit. He usually lasts at least thirty solo and can work his way up to an hour with Y/N (with breaks, obviously). But he’d spilled in just over fifteen minutes, all because of a couple glasses of Billecart-Salmon Brut Rosé and some post-concert adrenaline.
Harry lays there for a while; how long, he’s not sure. He entertains his sleepy body with threading his fingers through his moppy hair, feeling small grainy bits of hair spray still sticking to the fluffed up mess. The sweat has dried to his skin, making the light breeze from the air vents feel cooler than normal and causing him to burrow under the thick comforter. The humungous flat screen on the wall in front of the bed shows his reflection with crystal clearness: He looks like he just went three rounds with a grizzly bear in an episode of Naked and Afraid. Except the name Naked and Fucked Out seems more appropriate. Or Naked and Covered In Jizz. He wipes himself down with some fancy rose-oil-infused tissues from a box inside one of the nightstand cabinets, setting the wad of napkins on the table to discard later.
After about ten more minutes of recovering, Harry kicks off the sheets, swinging his legs around the edge of the bed in order to get up. His movements are lazy as he takes his sweet time standing up, raising his arms above his head and stretching out the kink in his back until it cracks. He grabs the duvet, wrapping it carelessly around his hips and holding both sides together in one fist at his hip. For some odd reason, he doesn’t feel like walking around naked– he thinks it to be that the air conditioning has kicked in at full blast.
He shuffles hazily out of the bedroom section of the grand suite, all the way over to where his bottoms lay in a rumpled pile on the floor near the couch, leaning down to fish out his phone from the back pocket. Harry surfs through his notifications as he slowly walks towards the bar on the other end of the room, only really paying attention to a message from Jeff confirming Harry’s lunch with Stevie tomorrow. He walks around the marble counter of the bar, opening up the mini fridge and sifting through an assortment of colorful alcohol bottles. He hisses out a victorious, “Sick.” when he sees a bottle of Brachetto d’Acqui Rosso, his favorite sweet wine. He’s not up for anything strong at the moment– just something light and fizzy to sedate the gnawing in his stomach.
Harry snatches the most graceful glass he can find, using his teeth to rip open the crimson wrapping around the cap of the bottle and being thankful that it is the type he can unscrew. After pouring out half a glass, he leans forward on the counter on one elbow, sipping lightly and pulling up Y/N’s contact on his phone. As the line rings its toll, he licks at his lips patiently, savoring the hints of black cherry, raspberry and rose in his drink.
“Hello?” Y/N’s thick, drowsy voice crackles through the speaker and he immediately feels bad for calling her. He knew she hadn’t been awake but he just really wanted to hear her voice.
“Morning, love. How’s my favorite girl?”
“I was good until you woke me up.” She grumbles, the ruffling that comes through the line suggesting she is shifting around the bed and he imagines her rolling onto her side, tucking an arm under her head as she holds the phone to her ear with the other.
A fond smile twitches Harry’s cheeks as he tips back the glass again, letting the tangy yet silky liquid send a tingle through his tastebuds. “So you’re well? Nice. ’M good too, thanks for asking.”
Y/N sighs irritably, but he can tell she’s faking it. All she could talk about recently is how much she misses him, especially in the morning because it’s when she’s most cuddly. He knows she’s thrilled to hear from him and he’s happy to say the feeling is mutual.
“So, how’d the concert go?” She asks, excitement twinkling in her groggy voice.
“It was fucking amazing. Stevie’s just…wow. That’s it. Just wow. She even said she loves Two Ghosts and I nearly shit myself on stage!” Harry responds, setting the now empty class on the counter and filling it up some more, watching the effervescent liquid slosh around as Y/N sniffles on the other end. Her nose could get pretty backed up during the night due to her allergies.
“That sounds incredible, Har. You really deserved this. You’ve worked so hard for it.” He can hear the proud smile in her voice.
“Thank you, pet. Means the world, y'know? Actually, Stevie invited me to lunch tomorrow! She even knew that I liked Cafe Habana. Can you believe it?” Harry can’t keep the childish giddiness from his voice, his entire face lighting up at the thought.
Y/N’s bubbly laugh crackles through the phone. “That’s great, baby. So happy for you!”
He smiles timidly into the glass, blushing up a storm and he can never understand how Y/N has him so whipped without even trying. “Thanks. Again.”
Harry hears the sound of running water start up on the other end and he guesses she is up and about, probably brushing her teeth or washing her face.
“So,” her voice is muffled, confirming that she indeed is brushing. He can see her, standing in her Garfield pajamas with her hair up in a messy bun, her sparkly blue toothbrush hanging out of the side of her mouth as foam wets the corners of her lips. “Are you gonna tell me all the juicy details of the after party or not?”
He chuckles softly, hiking the duvet up his hips as it had begun to slide down. “Wasn’t really a party. We just went out for some drinks, s'all.”
“Oh, that’s nice! How did it feel to have Stevie Nicks toast to you? Y'know, since you love having your ego stroked and all.” Her teasing tone pokes at his self-proclaimed narcissism, but all he can truly think about is how she used the word “stroked” and it causes him to giggle at the coincidence.
Harry sips at his wine, eyeing the unkempt bed on the opposite side of the room and smirking to himself knowingly. “It was absolutely satisfying.”
I wanted to participate in akkr week with an art series about dorks being on their vacation but I failed miserably because of my own holiday. I feel so sorry;;;;
Gonna do a couple of arts anyway lolololol
hal loves to talk about his adventures in space, while barry listens and enjoys the sight of hal getting excited telling him about it.
-thank you for 300+ followers! i never had the opportunity to properly say thank you to you guys so this one is especially for you <3 i love you guys so much and every messages and tags that you put on my posts really warms my heart! stay awesome!