can you tell its my first time making lineart. I have 0 artistic talent in my bones I am sorry for your eyes. Hey everyone!! I’m back with another follow forever!! I finally hit another milestone! Thank you so much!!
Hopefully this wont mess up your notifications, but I love you all!! Thank you once again ❤️
1. find comfort in their words and home in their soul.
2. know your limitations and stride past them. reach out and discover what it is you so desperately crave.
3. allow them to reach into your stomach and hang cocoons of brilliantly colored butterflies from your ribs.
4. build your personal style around the scars that decorate your neck and drape across your shoulder blades. they’ll want to see them.
5. be reckless with your heart and careful with theirs. they will never know how much of yourself you have thrown into caring for them.
6. be more honest with them than you have ever been with yourself and try not to think too hard about why these words suddenly slip from your throat as if you ever wanted them to.
7. never tell them how much you care. never tell them the way your heart beats faster when they call you this or tell you that. never let them see how their every action seals your heart in a hard wax shell of love.
Have a little angsty Lourry ficlet, because I watched Harry’s documentary and couldn’t help but thinking about Louis watching it and… yeah. I have Feelings, let me tell you them.
Louis locks himself up in his bathroom to watch it. It makes no sense,
since he’s alone anyway, but he can’t help himself, can’t shake the adolescent
shame at the idea of being caught doing something that feels so intensely
Harry looks both hauntingly young and impossibly older from one frame to
the next. Jamaica shows him with more stubble than Louis’s ever seen him with,
constantly disheveled in a way that feels more genuine than anything Harry has
shared of himself for years. It fills Louis with yearning, with wanting to be a
part of it, even though he doesn’t even really know what “it” is yet.
to be a part of Harry’s life is an absurd emotion, something he thought he’d
gotten rid of years ago. Something he should have long ago outgrown.
The hiatus made it easier to convince himself that was true.
But the documentary shows Louis’s lies for what they are, easily undone
by a simple shot of Harry grinning into the camera, pink lips and shining eyes.
It’s always been so infuriatingly easy.
He’s got to pause the video when Harry talks about the band. Their band. He didn’t
expect it to hurt, but it does, the ache physical, pulling at Louis’s bones
from the inside. Harry sits there, pretending that the pressure wasn’t
destroying them, gnawing at their souls bit by bit. Talks about never faking
it, making Louis wonder how many people are going to buy into it, take him at
his word, no matter how absurd such a claim is, how many times they had to fake
it, fake a smile, a hug, or an entire friendship.
There was a lot of love in the band, there still is. But there’s a lot
fame took away, too.
Maybe Harry really never had to fake it.
It didn’t feel that way, back then.
The documentary moves away from the band, and Louis feels himself
breathe a little easier, leaning back against the bathtub where he’s sitting on
the dirty bath mat, phone precariously perched on his bent knees.
Harry gets his hair cut on-screen, because of course he did, and Louis
allows himself a smile as Harry grins at his mum. It’s nice, seeing him that
happy. It’s bittersweet, too, because he never really looked that happy at the
end, not like he does now.
The music is amazing, but not as amazing as watching Harry singing it,
his entire being so clearly thrown into it, face twisting with every bend of
the songs, body vibrating with it. Louis’s enthralled, letting himself stare in
a way he hasn’t in years, drinking Harry in like he’s parched for it.
There used to be a time when he didn’t feel the need to pretend to
anyone that he wasn’t parched for it. Certainly not to himself.
He’s got to pause the video again when Harry starts talking about his
guitarist. The way Harry looks at him… the glint of adoration in his eyes…
Louis’s seen it all before, a lifetime ago, seen it directed at himself, even
though the face beaming up at him was softer and framed by unruly curls.
It hurts more than the band talk did. Hurts enough that Louis flips his
phone shut in the middle of it, narrowly stopping himself from throwing it
across the tiled floor.
Part of him wants to warn that guy, to tell him not to give into it. He
can see it on his face; the sheer bewilderment at being the object of Harry’s
devotion. That little shy dismissive laughter, the twitching of the lips,
repressed grins when you think you still have a grip on this.
From the video, though, Louis knows it’s already too late.
He remembers, as clearly now as he did back then. The feel of Harry
giggling against his shoulder, the soft touch of Harry’s fingers sliding under
his t-shirt (just a touch, nothing to read into it, nothing at all). The caress
of wet lips against his neck, and brushing it off with a laugh, telling himself
it’s nothing, just puppy play.
Leaning into it, into him, into whatever is on offer, until suddenly you
find yourself craving for more, gasping against Harry’s mouth and more fucking
vulnerable than you’ve ever let yourself be in your entire life.
He wants to warn that guy, that Mitch, that if the fans don’t ruin it,
then Harry will. That no matter how many times Harry gives himself to him,
he’ll always slip right through Mitch’s fingers in the end, as easily as he
spilled into them.
Of course, he won’t. Cannot, anyway, because Mitch clearly would have no
idea who Louis really is, has probably been kept blissfully oblivious to that
part of Harry’s life. Starting new, Harry had said, or something close to it.
Louis got over it, anyway. Got over it so well he’s sitting on his
bathroom floor, his fingers shaking, his cheeks prickling with tears he refuses
to wipe away because wiping them would mean accepting he’s cried at all, and he
He got over it, and that Mitch guy will get over it too, as will all the
ones that will follow him.
It gets easier after that. Louis gets lost into the music, unbothered by
the allusions to Harry’s hook-ups; it’s never been about that, really, always
has been way more complicated than that. Louis’s always known how to deal with jealousy. What he’s never known how to deal with is the piece of his heart Harry took away and never fucking gave back, not even once he was done keeping it like a shiny trinket.
The end of the video sneaks up on him, 50 minutes of his life gone in a
flash, his bum suddenly sore from sitting on the bathroom floor for so long,
legs cramped from staying so still. They show Harry and Mitch cuddling on a
couch, Harry belting out song lyrics while Mitch stays plastered against his
armpit, and the easy familiarity of Mitch’s fingers wrapped around Harry’s
wrist makes Louis feel like he’s looking at alternate versions of themselves.
It’s heartwarming in a cruel selfish way, knowing someone else will get through it all.
He shuts his phone for good after the credits end, and pretends that he’s not going
to watch it again.