up until a week ago harry was homeless but let's not go there

anonymous asked:

I know requests are closed but could you possible do a little blurb where y/n is Harry's current gf and she gets a little jealous that Carolina is about someone else and Harry's wondering why she doesn't like the song cause every time he asked her about it she shuts down and they fight and h gets mad cause y/n is "hindering his creativity" and they fight but then make up? Thanks love id really appreciate it

I hated that I’d become this person.  Jealousy was not in my repertoire.  I knew the deal when I’d started dating Harry Styles.  He was committed to his art.  He wrote about experiences he’d had which could range from things he’d done to people he’d hung out with.  I was lucky enough to become one of those experiences though he’d never written a song about it.

And maybe that’s where I was stuck.

We’d been dating for a year.  I resisted him at first, I didn’t want the spotlight that came with dating someone like him.  I’m not a girl who walks around in Gucci everywhere I go.  In fact, most weekends I look homeless while I run around LA in workout clothes and not a stitch of makeup.  But he’d persisted.  And he’d finally won me over.  A combination of his kindness and undeniable charm and I fell fast.  He told me daily that I was the one who inspired him.  I was his home.

But yet, he’d never written a song about me.

When he’d come home from Jamaica with new songs burning a hole in his pocket, I was almost as excited as he was to hear them.  We’d been apart for two months with limited communication at his request.  I understood, I didn’t get upset.  But I also wouldn’t say it had been easy.  Missing Harry, whether he was a thousand miles away or two miles away, was just part of my day now.  It went with the territory.

And I was blown away.  I was.  The songs were other worldly.  They were a perfect mix of every artist we listened to together.  They were Harry.  He gave me a little rundown of each song.  What had inspired him, what parts he’d written versus the parts other people had written, how the arrangement came about.  He knew I liked hearing about how the songs were built so he indulged me.  Just one more reason why I loved him so much.

He saved Carolina for last.  He said it was the song that got them out of their funk in the studio when they felt like everything they were coming up with was crap.  I liked it.  A lot.  It was fun and infectious and the kind of song I’d enjoy blasting while driving down the highway.

However, when he launched into the explanation for the song, my love for it dwindled until it was gone.

And that’s where I was stuck.

Keep reading

anonymous asked:

hii! i wanted to ask you for a fic rec in which harry is in like a bad situation? maybe he's abused somehow and louis saves/helps him? something like birds in gilded cages? sort of a harry's louis baby kind of fic, thank youu (and ignore me if this is a request you don't like)

(I don’t know why this is showing up on my main blog, sorry!) Also, I literally just read Birds in Gilded Cages last week! LOVE LOVE LOVE! Reminded me of Club Mad, which has sadly been deleted, but would be perfect on this list that you want! I think I have a good understanding of what you’re looking for, so hopefully you find something you like! And I don’t mind doing doing ANY kind of Fic Rec, honestly! I really enjoy making these!

1. we’ll play hide and seek to turn this around (give me love like never 
    before)  by Wankerville
Words: 19k 

“So here’s the thing,” he starts. “I didn’t mean what I said a few weeks ago to like, hurt your feelings or anything. If you like painting your nails, then you should do that, and not like, care if anyone else doesn’t like it because their opinions shouldn’t matter, you know?” Louis takes a breath, finally glancing over to see the boy wide-eyed and pink-cheeked. On a whim, he adds, “And like, I noticed you scraping it off and you haven’t been wearing any and I think you should because that’s what you like.”
or an au where harry paints his nails and drinks strawberry milk and is too nervous for it to be nothing and louis’ just trying to figure out whats wrong with him

Part 1 of strawberry milk fic

2. Pretty Boy by iwillpaintasongforlou
Words: 32k

Harry’s been forced into a high-class prostitution ring because his heroin-addicted mother is too strung out to realize that her boyfriend is pimping out her son. Louis is the crown prince of England and gets into a lot of mischief and thinks it’s normal to pay prostitutes to “get a good night’s sleep.” They probably aren’t meant to see each other beyond that one random night, but then again, they probably aren’t meant to see each other at all.

3. The King and I by iwillpaintasongforlou
Words: 43k

Louis -better known as The Rogue- is the legendary King of the Thieves of London, the underground network of criminals who run the city. Zayn is his second in command, Niall is an Irish fugitive with ultra high-tech hacking skills, and Liam is a dirty cop who lets Rogue and his crew get away with just about anything. Harry is Britain’s absolute worst criminal and a professional scapegoat who flees Cheshire in search of good treatment, and just might find it under the wing of London’s regal mastermind.

4. Escape by AngKeats
Words: 47k

“Buddy…you really don’t have to go,” Louis added, making him falter in his step.

Harry took short, frightened breaths into his lungs and turned.

Louis. That was a typical cowboy name. A good strong, male name. A good strong male who could be harmful. A good strong male who could over-power him and hurt him. Something in his kind blue eyes told him he wouldn’t, though. It was strange, being able to read him like that, but it was true. He didn’t want to hurt him. He wanted to help.

The intruder reached for his sleep bag and he clutched it to his chest protectively. His eyes flicked over Louis’ face but he didn’t move to touch him. Louis’ horse- Hunter- gently butted his arm with his nose.

“Hunter seems to have taken a shine to you,” Louis continued as though he hadn’t just chased him halfway down his drive and was still without a name for him. “Why don’t you come up for breakfast?” He invited.

5. i love you more by shoulderbone (lavenderforluck)
Words: 47k

Boys like Harry can’t fall in love. But then he meets Louis. A love story in two parts.

6. Even Angels Have Their Demons by AFangirlFantasy
Words: 50k

Louis is appointed the role of Guardian Angel, and his first mission is a boy named Zayn Malik. Unfortunately, it seems that a certain Demon has gotten to him first.

Or… an Angel/Demon AU where Angel Louis hates Demon Harry, but somewhere along the way that stops being so true.

7. Green Doe Eyes by AngKeats
Words: 51k

“Can I fix you?” Louis asked as Harry looked over at him, eyes wet and red, tip of his nose pink and cute. He licked his plush lips and nodded.

Louis let out a thankful sigh and reached for Harry’s hand, ignoring the way Harry flinched when they touched.

He stripped off the useless bandage and winced at the re-opened wounds. He noticed the blood under Harry’s fingernails and realised he’d scratched at them until they bled.

“Harry…” He whispered, tears coming to his own eyes as he felt Harry tremble under his touch, eyes averted shamefully as he swallowed his tears away determinedly. “No, don’t be scared, it’s okay,” Louis assured. “I’m not going to judge you…I just need to protect you,” he explained.

8. American Rose by justgotowisharder
Words: 53k

“Your voice sounds rosewood when you’re lying.”
“I didn’t lie, Harry.”
“You’re lying right now.”
Louis rolls his eyes, sighing. “Honestly, fuck your synesthesia.”

(The story where Harry hears in colors and Louis’ voice is multicolored. Harry hates his disorder, Louis hates to be gay. Little they know, they’re meant to be)

9. Since I’ve Found You by Rearviewdreamer
Words: 74k

Louis woke up on the morning he was meant to volunteer at the Feed the Homeless program at St. Mary’s church hoping for an opportunity to give back a little to a city that has given him everything he could ever want. Little did he know, there was one more great thing waiting there for him; a boy with radiant green eyes in a weathered jacket and a beat-up backpack slung over his shoulders.

10. Only You by mystic_believexx
Words: 78k

A strict school, a forbidden love and a burning hatred that turns to passion so hot Louis’ in very real danger of getting burnt…

After pulling one prank too many on their high school’s Principal, Louis and Liam get transferred to Stanford Institution, a boarding school with a reputation for handling rebellious teens. Louis’ determined to buckle down and follow the rules so he can come back home as soon as possible but unfortunately for him, his roommate-one Harry Styles- has other plans.

Sometimes things have a funny way of working out…

11. Saving You by AngKeats
Words: 90k

Harry Styles works in a seedy strip club in Las Vegas and uses the big ‘C’ to get through his mediocre existence. Once he’s done dancing he goes home with whoever bids the highest and the lifestyle leaves him feeling empty and alone.

Louis Tomlinson is a successful businessman but hasn’t had the best time with friends and love so he’s become a lonely recluse who puts business before pleasure…until he hears about a guy who looks like a girl and visits a little strip club in the city.

Harry is being bought by Louis not for the night but for good and his testing ways push Louis to the limit…

12. Give Me Truths by iwillpaintasongforlou
Words: 110k

Louis is a psychology student with a tattoo count as high as his genius IQ. Harry is in a (sort-of) relationship with a homophobic man and hates himself a little more every day. Things fall apart and Louis puts him back together.

Or, the one in which Louis falls in love with a fragile boy and tells him every beautiful truth in the world, as long as it makes him happy.

13. But Please, Don’t Bite by shyserious
Words: 122k

“Melodic little jingle sounded from a bell hanging over the doorframe and warm indoor air curled heavily around his shivering body for the first time in months. Harry suddenly felt a sting in the corners of his eyes and had to force down a broken sob. Fuck, he was a mess. Such a mess. He had to focus.”

Sad Blue Eyes

Harry wasn’t a caring man.

He wasn’t the type to hold doors open for others or give extraordinary tips to his waiters. Harry was a relatively busy man, spending the majority of his time keeping his company in check. He was relatively young for a CEO, yet none could really tell by the way he carried himself. Tense shoulders and evil glare are constant features that Harry holds, so he’s maybe not the most approachable person in London, but that doesn’t mean he’s evil.

He’s been accused of it before. Scorned lovers and enraged ex-employees alike have screamed several obscenities to him several times before, making their negative opinions of him quite clear.  

Anyway, despite the copious amount of people that absolutely loathed Harry and deemed him as a selfish, good-for-nothing prude that had way too much money and way too little respect for the life he lived. 

They were wrong, for what it’s worth. Having grown up in a poor family and built himself up completely on his own (with a lot of help from his mother), Harry knew how lucky he was to be where he was. He wasn’t nearly as stuck-up as people thought. 

For example, unlike most of London’s elite, Harry understood early on that the sacrifice of terrible traffic of London for the “look” of importance was not worth it. No, anyone who actually lived in London knew that the fastest way around the city was the tube, so that’s what Harry used, no matter the odd looks he got when he and his Armani-suit clad self rushes onto the tube. 

That’s how Harry met Niall.

It started as a simple glance- a random meeting of eyes that should’ve been brushed off with a simple shrug. Green clashed with blue, and Harry stopped in his tracks. The big, sad blue eyes that were staring back at him wavered, but didn’t stick, looking away relatively quickly. Harry had let his eyes roam for a just a moment, scrutinizing the boy with blonde hair that darkens considerably at the root, freckles dotting across his face, and ratty old clothes that held testament to why the teenage-looking boy was sitting on the subway floor. 

Harry’s heart got a bit heavier, but he continued on his way home. 

It became a commonality for Harry to see the boy on his way home from work. He was always sat in the same place against the same pillar in the same station. It’s a nice station, so Harry understands. Not only was the station cleaner than most, but it was also a lot safer, which, for some reason, put Harry at ease. 

Somehow, their eyes always found each other. Until the day came that the blonde wasn’t there.

It had left Harry unsettled for the rest of the day, twitchy fingers and all, for a reason he couldn’t really understand. He shouldn’t care about the fact that he didn’t see a random boy in the tube station. He really shouldn’t have but he did.

The blonde boy doesn’t return for 3 more days. It was agonizing, waiting for him to reappear. 

It’s much like the first time they met, with Harry stopping in the middle of the crowded subway in an instant. It’s like the sad, blue eyed boy was waiting for him, as he’s already staring at Harry when the brunette glances over to him. 

Harry was excited, extremely excited, but there was something else that was bothering him. Specifically, the muddied gash running along the blonde boy’s left cheek. It was bright and painful looking and Harry feels his hands begin to shake.

And that’s what makes Harry, despite the fact that he had a terrible day and all he wanted to do prior to seeing the boy was to go straight to bed, make the decision to walk straight over to the blonde. The boy looks surprised, and maybe a tad scared, but that doesn’t stop Harry from squatting down next to him. It’s awkwardly silent for a second, even though the station behind them is still loudly bustling. 

“Hey,” Harry says lamely, unsure of exactly what to do with 

“You’ve cut your hair.” The boy responds with a tilt of the head and a small grin and Harry is shocked by many things. First off, the blonde was Irish. Second, he noticed Harry just as much as Harry noticed him. And finally, Harry may just have fallen for that smile. 

Harry nods because, yeah, two days ago he had gone from flowing locks to a shorter, “more professional” look. 

“You’ve cut your cheek.” He returns, unable to contain himself from reaching out towards the boy. The Irish boy flinches a bit but allows it, sighing lightly. “I’m Harry.” The brunette says.

The blonde smiles, “I’m Niall.” 

And that’s where it all begins.

* * * * 

They meet regularly. Sometimes just in passing in the subway, but usually Harry will end up dragging the blonde up into the above-ground to eat something. Whenever he can, Harry takes the chance to feed the lad. When he’s busy, he drops off a doggie-bag, claiming he got “too much” at his own lunch, but he rather likes the lunches where he can actually take Niall out. They don’t talk about Niall’s apparent homelessness, nor do they talk about any aspect of his past, but they talk about everything else. It’s mostly about Harry. 

Niall loves to hear about his sister, his mother, and his (few) friends. Sometimes, usually when they’re eating at grubby fast-food type restaurants that Harry hates but deals with it because its Niall’s favorite, Niall will share little bits and pieces of his life. They’re often little snapshots of his life in Ireland, about his brother and how he’s got a nephew, somewhere out there. The stories never seem to mention how Niall got to London, nor why Niall can’t just call his brother for help but Harry can never find the courage to ask. 

And feelings grow. 

It’s terrifying for Harry as he’s never been the type to catch feelings so quickly. He’s used to being the heartbreaker, the one that could care less when a relationship ended. He was attached to someone that is virtually un-attachable, someone who could easily slip away from him during his work hours. 

So, in an ever-so-effective way of getting over his infatuation, Harry stops pining so much and rather hits up high-class bars and clubs and eventually one night he gets so pissed that he actually brings someone home. 

It’s a bird, shorter than him but still average height. She’s got dirty blonde hair with darker roots reminiscent of a certain someone but her eyes are all wrong. Brown-green and not at all the blue that Harry’s craving, but there was something tugged at his drunken mind telling him that she’d do. 

He’s not sure if he actually sees Niall that night. It’s much later than Harry’s ever been in the tube, but he had always assumed that Niall slept here. He thinks he remembers seeing the flash of electric light blue pass by his eyes, but by the time the “couple” reached the blonde’s usual pillar, any trace that might have been there was gone. 

That’s the second time that Niall disappears.

This time it’s only two days and Harry sags in relief when he sees him, leaning against the pillar and looking relatively normal, like a normal boy waiting for a train. He’s got small earbuds stuck in his ears and he’s tapping on a phone that Harry knows is well above what the blonde (who was basically living off of the daily meals Harry buys him just a week ago) can afford. His clothes have changed as well, different from his usual, torn light blue skinnies and white long-sleeved tee that was ten sizes too big. Now he’s wearing black skinnies and a dark green tee shirt that’s only about two sizes too big for him. Harry stands in front of him with a confused look on his face until the blonde resurfaces, and gives Harry a confused look right back. 

“Alright, Harry?” He says, almost like a question and Harry just shrugs his shoulders. 

“Where’ve you been the past few days?” He asks, “Missed you.” He adds deliberately. 

Niall’s somewhat standoffish stature deflates at that and he opens his arms, initiating the hugging process which had started only a couple of days after the two of them properly met. Harry hugs him closely and inhales deeply. He smells good.

Harry backs off slowly after that. 

Niall hasn’t “smelt good” since the day Harry met him. 

It’s why Harry had offered, several times, for Niall to go to his house to at least take a shower and/or take a nap. Anything, Harry had offered, but Niall always refused, using excuses of not wanting to be too much of a bother, or being “busy.” None of which Harry actually believed, but the brunette always made a point of not being too pushy or demanding of the blonde.

To the rest of the world, Harry had no qualms with being an absolute asshole but when it came to Niall, all bets were off. 

“So, where were you?” Harry asks and Niall regains that hard look in his eyes. 

He shrugs. “I was with an old friend of mine.” He answers vaguely. 

Niall wasn’t necessarily lying. Zayn had been his friend ever since he moved to London. The first person to ever talk to the sad, stuttering freak from Ireland. He had been sure to warn Niall of the dangers of the streets. He had also been sure to give Niall a good idea of how the blonde was to get things when he needed them. Whenever Niall was drowning, on the edge of death or loneliness, he could go to Zayn. Go to see Zayn and do whatever the tall, dark, and handsome man wanted him to do and in return, he’d get clothes, food, shelter. 

Niall wasn’t dumb. He knew what Zayn called “payment” is what others called “prostitution” but sometimes, especially on the streets, it’s best to act like you don’t know what’s going on. Either way, Zayn likes when Niall acts all innocent, so that’s what Niall does. 

Apparently, this time Niall had been a really good boy. 

“Yeah?” Harry says, sounding puzzled and maybe a little bit annoyed and Niall wants to kick himself. He’s ruining it.

Shaking his head, Niall shrugs once more, wound still stinging from a few days ago– still angry at Harry for something he wasn’t in control of. It wasn’t the brunette’s fault that he didn’t like the sad, homeless freak the way the freak liked him. “Yeah, my mate Zayn.” He replies cooly, like he’s some kind of regular kid.

“Did you guys.. have fun?” He asks, emphasizing the sentence in a screwed way and Niall’s eyes narrow considerably. He crosses his arms, walls building as he furrows his eyebrows. 

“Did you and that chick the other night have fun?” The blonde asks, completely aware of how petty and jealous he sounds. 

Harry’s eyes widen at that and he drops his shoulders. “Honestly? No. I was busy thinking about someone else.” He says, staring Niall straight in the eyes as he says so. Niall’s mouth drops open as his eyes widen. 

There’s no words said between them but it’s all too clear. Harry’s hands find themselves dug under the new shirt, itching to rip off the offending fabric and replace it with a shirt of his own. Niall’s eyes flutter shut and he tangles his fingers into the slowly growing curls on the back of Harry’s neck just as their lips meet. It’s soft and kindergarten at first, innocent and testing. They pause just like they do in the movies, like there was some kind of invisible spark that was only able to be summarized by the people actually feeling it. Then Harry forces their lips back together, completely disregarding the crowds of people scoffing and rolling their eyes at the obvious PDA happening right in front of them. 

Harry can’t make himself care. 

Until he does.

“Prostitute” is the first word that pops into his head. Not what he thinks of Niall, of course not, but what others would. “Gold-digger” and “whore” would be words of child’s play by the time the tabloids got around to reporting about CEO Harry Styles’ new “boy toy.” Harry would be deemed a sugar daddy before his 30th birthday and his company would definitely feel the malice of the world’s heat. He’s never been secretive about his sexuality, but Harry knows that fighting words would be instituted the second the world figured out about his new, homeless boyfriend. 

He wasn’t afraid for himself. Maybe he was a tad bit worried for his company but mostly, he was worried for Niall. There’s no way of knowing how he got to where he was in life. 19 years old and alone on the streets, not a penny to his name nor a diploma for his education. Harry wasn’t about to put Niall through another bout of hatred. 

“Niall, Niall wait. Please. We can’t.” He gasps, pulling away from the blonde who stares at him in lustful confusion. 

“Oh,” He pants softly and Harry’s in love with the glint in his eyes, the blush on his cheeks, “Do you wanna go back to yours?” He asks and Harry’s eyes close as he shakes his head. 

We can’t.” He reiterates and he knows Niall understands. The blonde is by no means stupid and Harry can tell by the way his body stills and the way his arms instantly fall to his side and how his eyes immediately fill with what Harry can only define as pure rejection. 

Niall backs away, sideways from his pillar, sadness filling his eyes as Harry flounders to find an excuse. “Please, Ni, let me just-” He tries, reaching for his wallet and Niall’s face screws up in disgust. 

“Fuck you and your charity.” He spits, and Harry shouldn’t be shocked by the language but he is, so much that he instantly stops everything and instead watches as Niall grabs the grimy backpack that he’s had forever and tugs it onto his back. 

And the people are watching, some with sympathy others in humor, all disperse and Harry’s left alone.

* * * *

So Niall goes to the only place he knows where to go. 

Zayn welcomes him back with open arms, introduces him to a couple of his friends and Niall sits with Zayn’s arm around his waist as the rest of the group smokes weed. 

He feels awkward and tired and all he wants to do is sleep and cry while someone hugs him but that’s not what Zayn does. Sure, Zayn will be affectionate but in the feral way, with rough kisses to the throat and calloused hands grabbing everywhere. Not the affection that Niall needs right now. Niall doesn’t want to be awake anymore, not when he keeps envisioning how different this situation could be if Harry hadn’t pulled away earlier. How they could be in Harry’s flat or in the subway’s bathroom or even in the god damn streets and how gentle and soft and loving Harry would be. 

He holds back the tears and gratefully takes the bottle that some random person hands him, chugging just like Zayn taught him all those years ago. He grins lazily later on as Zayn praises him, “That’s my boy!” and kisses him hard. Drunk, he can pretend that it’s Harry all night and he probably won’t notice much of the difference. At least, that’s what he blames it on when he allows Zayn to pull him into the back room.

The next few weeks are quite the same. Niall stays with Zayn and lives the life he did 2 years ago when he first came to London. Zayn is high almost all of the time but Niall likes him a little bit better then. When sober, Zayn likes to interrogate Niall about his past. This way, all Zayn wants to do is eat, cuddle, and fuck. It’s not ideal, and Niall finds himself often wondering about Harry, missing the butterflies he felt every time Harry even looked at him 

Three weeks later, he sees Harry. 

It’s weird. He was so used to seeing Harry everyday that his features have become foreign. His eyes look sharper, more slanted and green. His arms are slightly smaller yet more defined and his hair is definitely somewhat longer. Niall wants to run over to him and apologize, hug it out and try to really understand why Harry pushed him away, but he’s with his new group. 

By group, he means he’s been hanging out with Zayn and his little crew of friends while they skate on station railings and smoke way too much, just begging to get caught and feel the thrill of running from the cops. Niall doesn’t like it and he remembers that this, among other reasons, is why he left in the first place.

“I remember when you used to think about me as much as you think about him.” Zayn voices and Niall jumps. He sounds sober, which could be true seeing as the last time Niall saw a joint in his mouth was at 11 that morning. “I remember when you were in love with me like that.” He slurs and Niall rolls his eyes, pushing Zayn off of his back where he’s hanging. Maybe it’s true, maybe Niall was a little bit more than half-way in love with his pseudo-savior and sexual guide, but that was only a bit before Niall realized that Zayn was not boyfriend-material.

“Get over yourself you twat.” He says lightly, adding a giggle that makes Zayn peck his nose. Niall shivers and he knows Harry’s watching. It’s weird how he knows without even seeing the guy, but he’s been able to feel Harry’s stare since the day they met. 

He glances over as well to see Harry’s eyes, blazing and furious as he looks between Niall and Harry. He’s across the way, not far across the street, and Niall can see him begin to make his way over to the group. 

“I think..” Niall begins slowly, privately to Zayn as the hazel-eyed man stares across Niall’s shoulder. “That I’m gonna be leaving you, Zaynie.” He says with a genuinely sad edge to his voice. 

“I thought I was your sugar daddy, Ni!” Zayn calls loudly, and Niall doesn’t have to be looking at Harry to know he flinched. “Jokes, babe.” He murmurs, hugging Niall tightly before releasing him.

Niall looks back at Harry, who’s been coming closer and closer with every second, but he can’t help but give Zayn a sad look. Zayn simply smirks, as if he doesn’t believe Niall. “Go off to your sugar daddy. I’ll see you soon, Niall,” Zayn says, like a promise, and despite how much Niall may love Zayn, he hopes the man is wrong. 

He turns quickly on his heel and goes to meet Harry halfway, pulling him away from the group that’s now avidly staring at them and around the corner. 

“What are you doing here?” Niall asks quickly as they walk down the road. 

Harry gives him a bewildered look. “Hello to you too, Niall, yeah, I’ve missed you as well!” He blabs and Niall attempts to hide his smile. 

“Harry…” He sighs, and the brunette looks down at him. “Why did you push me away?” He asks timidly, big sad eyes back in full action and Harry takes a minute to breathe. 

Then he blurts, “I love you.” 

Niall’s eyes turn from sad and confused to.. just confused. Then happy. Then, “I love you too. But, that doesn’t answer my question.”

Harry, trying to keep himself from being stunned into silence from Niall’s quick agreement to his statement. “I, uh. I’m a guy who works in a big company.” He says shakily. “A big company.”

“And… you’re not out?” Niall asks, nose scrunched and eyebrows furrowed in the way he always does.

“No, I’m out, it’s just… I kind of own the company.” He says, “And I was worried about how the press would treat you. I don’t know what kind of past you’ve had… we’ve never exactly gotten around to talking about it, but… I don’t want to put you through anymore pain, Niall.” Harry says, face unwavering. 

Niall’s face breaks out into a small smile. “Maybe we can talk about my past later.” He says softly, offering something he’s never offered to anyone else since his time in London began– honesty. 

Harry grins right back, once again unable to keep himself from touching his boy, cupping his cold cheeks gently. “I’d like that.” He says, and leans in, shoulders going lax as Niall loops his arms around them. And in an instant, like two magnets drawn together, they’re back where they should’ve been three weeks ago, snogging like the world was about to end. 

They stay like that, up against the brick wall of a nice looking bakery before the awkward coughs of passerby’s become too much and Niall pulls away.

“Do you wanna go back to yours?” He asks hesitantly, and Harry chuckles deeply, digging his nose into the crook of Niall’s neck.

“Let’s call it ours from now on, yeah?” Harry mutters sweetly and promptly kisses the blonde before he can begin arguing. 

I’m so so sorry this is late. I’ve recently had a bad few weeks, for several different reasons and I can’t promise that things will be getting any better, but I can say that writing this really made me happy, for what its worth. It kind of reminded me why I like to write these things in the first place, so thank you for reading and giving me the platform to share these things because I truly so appreciate it. 

Prompts are open! I do any Niall-centric OTP, OT3, OT4, and OT5! You can see my previous writings here and my master post here

"How do I passively-aggressively say 'fuck you' in a cake?"

To say it was a slow day at the bakery was an understatement. Harry had never worked on a day with almost no customers. There were always a few that would come in needing to pick up an order, or to say hi to Barbara, or something.
Harry lets out what he intends to be a loud sigh, but it ends up coming out more like a raspberry with how his hand is propped under his chin and by the way his lips are smushed together.
With no customers ringing the bell above the door, he figures he better get caught up on his bakery duties other than manning the register. But it was after he already does everything that he needs to do, and then some, he gets really unamused. He filled all the orders for the coming week, filled the showcases, organized the back fridge, swept the floors, done the dishes, Christ, he even straightened the labels on the dishes holding the pastries.
He swears he’s never been so unstimulated in his life.
Harry is soon starting to doze off into his hand, after he’s been waiting for a good fifteen minutes staring out the window. There are only so many different London skies to see before you’ve seen them all, and he stayed up too late last night and he’s just so tired…

Before he knows it the bell above the door is chiming and the loud swoosh of air and cold draft overtakes him, he jumps in his seat, and the beanie on his head falls down a bit from the sudden movement.
A young girl, about his age, charges into the store, and before he can even wake up or try to process what’s going on she’s slamming a 20$ bill onto the counter in front of him,
“How do I passively-aggressively say ‘fuck you’ in a cake?” She’s staring at him with glaring eyes, and he’s so shocked by what’s happening he’s left speechless.
“I… uhm..” he stutters out, completely at a loss for words. She doesn’t look like she’s messing around, but he simply doesn’t know how to respond.
“My boyfriend of a year and a half has been cheating on me for months… I thought I’d get a cake to let him know I found out… Maybe you could write a mean message for me? Or m-maybe I can smash it in his face.” Tears start to glimmer in her eyes as her confidence spurred from anger subsides and Harry’s stomach clenches.
Harry can’t believe this. Even if he did write something obscenely offensive on it, it would still be too nice. Even if she smashed it into the blokes face.
No way.
She’s got to be the sweetest person he’s ever met.
“You want to buy your douchebag of an ex a cake?”
“I.. I-uh, well,” she lets out a watery sigh. He takes a moment to really look at her, and she has tears welling up in her eyes, “Now that I’m here it seems stupid, I’m sorry for bothering you, you probably have better things to be doing.” She puts her face in her hands and scrunches up her shoulders.
“I’m so sorry, I-I’ll go now,” she whispers, obviously crying.
Harry is furious.
Not at her, but at the asshole who made her feel so awful. Harry is exasperated at the thought of anyone cheating in a relationship, but especially with this girl who seems too sweet and compassionate to deserve such mistreatment.
When she turns to leave, Harry knows he has to do something,
“No!” He shouts, startling her, she looks back at him with wide eyes, her jumper falling off her shoulder.
“Shit! I’m sorry I didn’t mean to scare you,” he scratches the back of his neck, “I just, do you want a cupcake?”
Smooth, Harry thinks to himself.
“Sorry?” She questions him.
“I just made some cupcakes, do you want one? I can make you some hot chocolate and we can go sit if you want, you’ve had a rough go of it today huh?”
“Oh I couldn’t,” she smiles sadly, “I don’t want to interrupt your job or anything-”
Harry laughs at that, “I promise it’s okay, it’s not like we’ve got a full shop, right?” He gestures to the empty tables in the front of the bakery, “Unless you’ve got to be somewhere or something.”
“No, I can stay,” she responds pulling out her wallet, “How much is a cupcake and a hot chocolate then?”
“Don’t worry it’s on me,” he grins at her.
“Are you sure? I don’t want you to have to take it out of your check.”
Harry is already on the way into the back room to get their treats.

Harry learns a lot about her.
Simply put, he is just infatuated. He’s captivated by every word that comes out of her mouth. Her voice is hypnotizing, it drips like warm honey and his ears buzz with delight.
He learns that she’s in love with animals, specifically dogs, and that she wants to go to veterinary school in the states to fulfill her lifelong dream. She tells him with a serious face that dogs are like people to her, and that every time she sees one on the street or with their head out the window, she makes an effort to wave at them and tell them hello.
She’s probably one of the most giving people he’s ever met.
Obviously, she doesn’t speak directly about this, but he picks it up from her various stories when she was younger. Once, during finals week, she gave her favorite Spanish teacher a Christmas gift every day until it was time for break. When she got her first job, she dedicated her first paycheck to buying all her baby cousins cute onesies and pajamas. She organized a clothing drive at her school for the homeless shelter in her city downtown.
How can she be real?
He learns about her family situation, her abusive mother and alcoholic stepdad, and when her eyes pick up a watery gleam, he quickly changes the subject.
He doesn’t want to see her cry again.
How can someone take advantage of such a sweet person?
She’s got cartoon ducks on her purse for Christ’s sake.
Harry has been so caught up in listening to her undividedly he doesn’t notice how much time is passed or the fact that the sun has gone down and the streetlights have come on.
It’s only when she gives out a cute yawn, and stretches her arms above her head, (while lifting her shirt in the process and exposing her tummy and cute belly button, making all the blood in Harry’s body move into the crux of his thighs) that he realizes that they should probably end this soon.
He glances at the clock, his eyes shooting wide open before he snaps his head to look out the window.
“Shit!” He exclaims, bolting out of his chair and almost slipping onto the ground in the process.
“What?” She responds exasperated, “Is there something on my face? Do I have frosting in my hair? Christ not again, I can’t believe how many times that’s happen-”
He gawks at her for a moment before chuckling quietly.
“No love, I promise you look wonderful. It’s just- shit, I was supposed to have the shop closed down almost two hours ago.”
“Two hours ago?!” She all but screeches, “Oh my goodness, I’m so sorry, this is all my fault, shoo Harry! I’ll get out of your hair I promise.”
He opens his mouth to argue, but she doesn’t give him a chance, resting her soft hand gently on his shoulder, she looks him in the eyes and gives him a kiss on the cheek and a sweet hug. He takes little time in wrapping his arms around her waist and savoring the feeling of their bodies pressed together, but before he has time to really take her in, she’s already pulling away.
He’s blushing, for sure.
“Go on Harry, thank you for everything.” She smiles at him shyly.
He awkwardly stares at her for a moment, before turning around and running to the back of the shop to start on the dishes and nightly duties.

Barbara is going to kill him, he concludes as he walks out of the back well after closing time. He’s shrugging his apron off and wrestling his coat on when he notices something on the front counter next to the register. He steps over quietly and picks up the note.
“Thank you for the treats, they were almost as sweet as you were.”
At the bottom of the note, her name and number are signed, and Harry actually physically pumps his fist into the air.
He starts to put the note into the pocket of his jacket, when a ten pound note falls out and flutters to the ground.
Another note is attached to the bill.
“Hope this covers the cupcake and chocolate.”

Harry’s fucked, she’s got him wrapped around her finger.

anonymous asked:

Harry and grace #10

Harry Styles wasn’t as confident as he let on. In fact, he was quite insecure about every aspect of his life. His jokes were never very funny. He never got picked first when Niall organized football matches. Sometimes he was plagued with a bit of stage fright before a gig. He wasn’t a good cook. He was useless at Sudoku. But nothing rattled his nerves quite like his relationship with his girlfriend did. They’d been a couple for two years and they were living together, but whenever he thought about their future, he got a feeling in his gut that reminded him of the time Grace made him try twelve different chocolate cupcakes in one sitting.

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The Fringe Benefits of Failure, and the Importance of Imagination-- by J.K. Rowling

President Faust, members of the Harvard Corporation and the Board of Overseers, members of the faculty, proud parents, and, above all, graduates,

The first thing I would like to say is ‘thank you.’ Not only has Harvard given me an extraordinary honor, but the weeks of fear and nausea I’ve experienced at the thought of giving this commencement address have made me lose weight. A win-win situation! Now all I have to do is take deep breaths, squint at the red banners and fool myself into believing I am at the world’s best-educated Harry Potter convention.

Delivering a commencement address is a great responsibility; or so I thought until I cast my mind back to my own graduation. The commencement speaker that day was the distinguished British philosopher Baroness Mary Warnock. Reflecting on her speech has helped me enormously in writing this one, because it turns out that I can’t remember a single word she said. This liberating discovery enables me to proceed without any fear that I might inadvertently influence you to abandon promising careers in business, law or politics for the giddy delights of becoming a gay wizard.

You see? If all you remember in years to come is the 'gay wizard’ joke, I’ve still come out ahead of Baroness Mary Warnock. Achievable goals: the first step towards personal improvement.

Actually, I have wracked my mind and heart for what I ought to say to you today. I have asked myself what I wish I had known at my own graduation, and what important lessons I have learned in the 21 years that has expired between that day and this.

I have come up with two answers. On this wonderful day when we are gathered together to celebrate your academic success, I have decided to talk to you about the benefits of failure. And as you stand on the threshold of what is sometimes called 'real life’, I want to extol the crucial importance of imagination.

These might seem quixotic or paradoxical choices, but please bear with me.

Looking back at the 21-year-old that I was at graduation, is a slightly uncomfortable experience for the 42-year-old that she has become. Half my lifetime ago, I was striking an uneasy balance between the ambition I had for myself, and what those closest to me expected of me.

I was convinced that the only thing I wanted to do, ever, was to write novels. However, my parents, both of whom came from impoverished backgrounds and neither of whom had been to college, took the view that my overactive imagination was an amusing personal quirk that could never pay a mortgage, or secure a pension.

They had hoped that I would take a vocational degree; I wanted to study English Literature. A compromise was reached that in retrospect satisfied nobody, and I went up to study Modern Languages. Hardly had my parents’ car rounded the corner at the end of the road than I ditched German and scuttled off down the Classics corridor.

I cannot remember telling my parents that I was studying Classics; they might well have found out for the first time on graduation day. Of all subjects on this planet, I think they would have been hard put to name one less useful than Greek mythology when it came to securing the keys to an executive bathroom.

I would like to make it clear, in parenthesis, that I do not blame my parents for their point of view. There is an expiry date on blaming your parents for steering you in the wrong direction; the moment you are old enough to take the wheel, responsibility lies with you. What is more, I cannot criticize my parents for hoping that I would never experience poverty. They had been poor themselves, and I have since been poor, and I quite agree with them that it is not an ennobling experience. Poverty entails fear, and stress, and sometimes depression; it means a thousand petty humiliations and hardships. Climbing out of poverty by your own efforts, that is indeed something on which to pride yourself, but poverty itself is romanticized only by fools.

What I feared most for myself at your age was not poverty, but failure.

At your age, in spite of a distinct lack of motivation at university, where I had spent far too long in the coffee bar writing stories, and far too little time at lectures, I had a knack for passing examinations, and that, for years, had been the measure of success in my life and that of my peers.

I am not dull enough to suppose that because you are young, gifted and well-educated, you have never known hardship or heartbreak. Talent and intelligence never yet inoculated anyone against the caprice of the Fates, and I do not for a moment suppose that everyone here has enjoyed an existence of unruffled privilege and contentment.

However, the fact that you are graduating from Harvard suggests that you are not very well-acquainted with failure. You might be driven by a fear of failure quite as much as a desire for success. Indeed, your conception of failure might not be too far from the average person’s idea of success, so high have you already flown academically.

Ultimately, we all have to decide for ourselves what constitutes failure, but the world is quite eager to give you a set of criteria if you let it. So I think it fair to say that by any conventional measure, a mere seven years after my graduation day, I had failed on an epic scale. An exceptionally short-lived marriage had imploded, and I was jobless, a lone parent, and as poor as it is possible to be in modern Britain, without being homeless. The fears my parents had had for me, and that I had had for myself, had both come to pass, and by every usual standard, I was the biggest failure I knew.

Now, I am not going to stand here and tell you that failure is fun. That period of my life was a dark one, and I had no idea that there was going to be what the press has since represented as a kind of fairy tale resolution. I had no idea how far the tunnel extended, and for a long time, any light at the end of it was a hope rather than a reality.

So why do I talk about the benefits of failure? Simply because failure meant a stripping away of the inessential. I stopped pretending to myself that I was anything other than what I was, and began to direct all my energy into finishing the only work that mattered to me. Had I really succeeded at anything else, I might never have found the determination to succeed in the one arena I believed I truly belonged. I was set free, because my greatest fear had already been realized, and I was still alive, and I still had a daughter whom I adored, and I had an old typewriter and a big idea. And so rock bottom became the solid foundation on which I rebuilt my life.

You might never fail on the scale I did, but some failure in life is inevitable. It is impossible to live without failing at something, unless you live so cautiously that you might as well not have lived at all – in which case, you fail by default.

Failure gave me an inner security that I had never attained by passing examinations. Failure taught me things about myself that I could have learned no other way. I discovered that I had a strong will, and more discipline than I had suspected; I also found out that I had friends whose value was truly above rubies.

The knowledge that you have emerged wiser and stronger from setbacks means that you are, ever after, secure in your ability to survive. You will never truly know yourself, or the strength of your relationships, until both have been tested by adversity. Such knowledge is a true gift, for all that it is painfully won, and it has been worth more to me than any qualification I ever earned.

Given a time machine or a Time Turner, I would tell my 21-year-old self that personal happiness lies in knowing that life is not a check-list of acquisition or achievement. Your qualifications, your CV, are not your life, though you will meet many people of my age and older who confuse the two. Life is difficult, and complicated, and beyond anyone’s total control, and the humility to know that will enable you to survive its vicissitudes.

You might think that I chose my second theme, the importance of imagination, because of the part it played in rebuilding my life, but that is not wholly so. Though I will defend the value of bedtime stories to my last gasp, I have learned to value imagination in a much broader sense. Imagination is not only the uniquely human capacity to envision that which is not, and therefore the fount of all invention and innovation. In its arguably most transformative and revelatory capacity, it is the power that enables us to empathize with humans whose experiences we have never shared.

One of the greatest formative experiences of my life preceded Harry Potter, though it informed much of what I subsequently wrote in those books. This revelation came in the form of one of my earliest day jobs. Though I was sloping off to write stories during my lunch hours, I paid the rent in my early 20s by working in the research department at Amnesty International’s headquarters in London.

There in my little office I read hastily scribbled letters smuggled out of totalitarian regimes by men and women who were risking imprisonment to inform the outside world of what was happening to them. I saw photographs of those who had disappeared without trace, sent to Amnesty by their desperate families and friends. I read the testimony of torture victims and saw pictures of their injuries. I opened handwritten, eye-witness accounts of summary trials and executions, of kidnappings and rapes.

Many of my co-workers were ex-political prisoners, people who had been displaced from their homes, or fled into exile, because they had the temerity to think independently of their government. Visitors to our office included those who had come to give information, or to try and find out what had happened to those they had been forced to leave behind.

I shall never forget the African torture victim, a young man no older than I was at the time, who had become mentally ill after all he had endured in his homeland. He trembled uncontrollably as he spoke into a video camera about the brutality inflicted upon him. He was a foot taller than I was, and seemed as fragile as a child. I was given the job of escorting him to the Underground Station afterwards, and this man whose life had been shattered by cruelty took my hand with exquisite courtesy, and wished me future happiness.

And as long as I live I shall remember walking along an empty corridor and suddenly hearing, from behind a closed door, a scream of pain and horror such as I have never heard since. The door opened, and the researcher poked out her head and told me to run and make a hot drink for the young man sitting with her. She had just given him the news that in retaliation for his own outspokenness against his country’s regime, his mother had been seized and executed.

Every day of my working week in my early 20s I was reminded how incredibly fortunate I was, to live in a country with a democratically elected government, where legal representation and a public trial were the rights of everyone.

Every day, I saw more evidence about the evils humankind will inflict on their fellow humans, to gain or maintain power. I began to have nightmares, literal nightmares, about some of the things I saw, heard and read.

And yet I also learned more about human goodness at Amnesty International than I had ever known before.

Amnesty mobilizes thousands of people who have never been tortured or imprisoned for their beliefs to act on behalf of those who have. The power of human empathy, leading to collective action, saves lives, and frees prisoners. Ordinary people, whose personal well-being and security are assured, join together in huge numbers to save people they do not know, and will never meet. My small participation in that process was one of the most humbling and inspiring experiences of my life.

Unlike any other creature on this planet, humans can learn and understand, without having experienced. They can think themselves into other people’s minds, imagine themselves into other people’s places.

Of course, this is a power, like my brand of fictional magic, that is morally neutral. One might use such an ability to manipulate, or control, just as much as to understand or sympathize.

And many prefer not to exercise their imaginations at all. They choose to remain comfortably within the bounds of their own experience, never troubling to wonder how it would feel to have been born other than they are. They can refuse to hear screams or to peer inside cages; they can close their minds and hearts to any suffering that does not touch them personally; they can refuse to know.

I might be tempted to envy people who can live that way, except that I do not think they have any fewer nightmares than I do. Choosing to live in narrow spaces can lead to a form of mental agoraphobia, and that brings its own terrors. I think the willfully unimaginative see more monsters. They are often more afraid.

What is more, those who choose not to empathize may enable real monsters. For without ever committing an act of outright evil ourselves, we collude with it, through our own apathy.

One of the many things I learned at the end of that Classics corridor down which I ventured at the age of 18, in search of something I could not then define, was this, written by the Greek author Plutarch: What we achieve inwardly will change outer reality.

That is an astonishing statement and yet proven a thousand times every day of our lives. It expresses, in part, our inescapable connection with the outside world, the fact that we touch other people’s lives simply by existing.

But how much more are you, Harvard graduates of 2008, likely to touch other people’s lives? Your intelligence, your capacity for hard work, the education you have earned and received, give you unique status, and unique responsibilities. Even your nationality sets you apart. The great majority of you belong to the world’s only remaining superpower. The way you vote, the way you live, the way you protest, the pressure you bring to bear on your government, has an impact way beyond your borders. That is your privilege, and your burden.

If you choose to use your status and influence to raise your voice on behalf of those who have no voice; if you choose to identify not only with the powerful, but with the powerless; if you retain the ability to imagine yourself into the lives of those who do not have your advantages, then it will not only be your proud families who celebrate your existence, but thousands and millions of people whose reality you have helped transform for the better. We do not need magic to change the world, we carry all the power we need inside ourselves already: we have the power to imagine better.

I am nearly finished. I have one last hope for you, which is something that I already had at 21. The friends with whom I sat on graduation day have been my friends for life. They are my children’s godparents, the people to whom I’ve been able to turn in times of trouble, friends who have been kind enough not to sue me when I’ve used their names for Death Eaters. At our graduation we were bound by enormous affection, by our shared experience of a time that could never come again, and, of course, by the knowledge that we held certain photographic evidence that would be exceptionally valuable if any of us ran for Prime Minister.

So today, I can wish you nothing better than similar friendships. And tomorrow, I hope that even if you remember not a single word of mine, you remember those of Seneca, another of those old Romans I met when I fled down the Classics corridor, in retreat from career ladders, in search of ancient wisdom:

As is a tale, so is life: not how long it is, but how good it is, is what matters.

I wish you all very good lives.

Thank you very much.

Copyright of J.K. Rowling, June 2008

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