#I don’t get through a week without thinking about this fic holy mother of moly

[skeecatt22]

Every time I draw them, I go more insane and the designs get more fucked up, especially for Grian.

Did some shit shading this time as well just for you pookies 🥰

[thesunnyshow]

Name: Leo

Writing Blog URL(s): @hereisleo

What fandom(s) do you write for?: I write for ATEEZ, VICTON and ONEUS.

Age: ‘99 liner

Nationality: Indonesian 

Languages: Indonesian, English, Japanese and a sprinkle of Korean.

Star Sign: Leo

MBTI: INFP-A

Favorite color: Neutral but mostly black! (Other than neutral colours, I’m partial to blue, dark green and red).

Favorite food: Indonesian and Japanese cuisine! The taste of home!

Favorite movie: Resident Evil franchise.

Favorite ice cream flavor: Vanilla.

Favorite animal: Owl ever since I was a small child.

Go-to karaoke song: None. I don’t enjoy karaoke.

Coffee or tea? What are you ordering? 

Both! Recently, I’ve been ordering black coffee again whenever I stop by a cafe.

Dream job (whether you have a job or not) 

I’m interested in a lot of fields of work, it used to be Red Cross worker, paramedic and flight attendant. Now it’s barista-bartender. It’ll likely change in the future too.

If you could have one superpower, what would you choose? 

Teleportation, let’s travel the world!

If you could visit a historical era, which would you choose? 

The Golden Age of Piracy! I want to sail! And such freedom to spite against governmental standards.

If you could restart your life, knowing what you do now, would you? 

Without a doubt, yes. I’m always down for changes and new adventures.

Would you rather fight 100 chicken-sized horses or one horse-sized chicken? 

Holy moly… 100 chicken-sized horses...

If you were a trope in a teen high school movie, what would you have been? 

The quiet smarty one at the back of the class. Common? Yes. But it’s true.

Do you believe in aliens/supernatural creatures? 

This universe is too big to be only occupied by humans.

Fun fact about yourself that not everyone would know? 

Badminton is my favourite sport!

When did you post your first piece? 

June 2019!

Why did you decide to write for Tumblr? 

I always love writing so I wanted to share my creations and see how they fare in the world instead of keeping them for myself.

Do you write fluff/angst/crack/general/smut, combo, etc? Why? 

I mostly write platonic relationships, fluff, slice of life, romance, comfort and a lot of AUs. It’s what I’m comfortable with and thrive in best! I do enjoy writing mystery, crime/murder and angst once in a while. Gotta let the dark side out too.

Do you write OCs, X Readers, Ships...etc? 

Usually, it’s either member centric and or ‘X reader/ + Reader’, it’s not always romance when reader insert is involved :)

What genres/AUs do you enjoy writing the most? 

Definitely friendship and slice of life! AU wise, I’m a sucker for the supernatural side: demons, angels, mythical creatures and mythology, they are all right up my alley. I also enjoyed writing crime AU and anything dark, nothing like unleashing the inner criminal legally through words… and occasionally being questioned, “What’s going on in that head of yours?”

What tropes do you love, and what tropes can’t you stand? 

Tropes I love, I’m a sucker for friendship/platonic, slow-burn enemies to lovers, the cafe/bar occupation, single parent, the demon is suddenly your guardian angel, the breakup and the crime syndicate dynamics. Tropes I can’t stand on the other hand aren’t much, I don't actively read a/b/o dynamics, Hogwarts, hybrids and werewolf/vampire. It’s mostly AUs now that I listed them.

What is your favorite work and why? Your most successful? 

Oh this is tough. I think it would have to be ATEEZ: ‘Supernatural Activities’ series. I’m proud of how ‘Dante’s Inferno’ & ‘Angels in the Streets’ turned out and they are well received too.

Who is your favorite person to write about? 

Song Mingi of ATEEZ. Somehow writing about him always seems personal. Maybe it’s the similarities we carry. It seems like a lot of the time, the bias is the one who is most similar to us.

What inspires you to write? 

Simply the need to escape reality and it’s an outlet to expel excess emotions I carry sometimes. All is well in the mind after I write and sleep.

What do you hope your readers take away from your work? 

I hope it provides you an escape for a brief moment, I hope it makes you happy. I hope you could enjoy the world with a touch more romanticism, we are all a part of the aesthetic we see in the media and more. Sure it’s a tough world but there are good in it too.

What do you do when you hit a rough spot creatively? 

I take a break. It’s no use for me to push on when I hit a rough patch. I’ll read and do everything else except writing. It rarely happens as I’m constantly full of ideas, it’s the lack of motivation that keeps me from creating.

What do you think makes a good story? 

To be honest, if I enjoyed it, it’s good. I’m a simple person with simple pleasures.

What is your writing process like? 

Messy 😂 There’s no getting around it. I would rewrite a paragraph three times if I don’t like it, delete a thousand words, scrap a different story to incorporate it into another. I don’t always start from the beginning either. A writing piece could take anywhere within several minutes, a few hours to days, weeks and months. It all depends on my motivation and how busy work is keeping me from writing. (Psst, it’s mostly the former).

Do you think there’s a difference between writing fanfiction vs. completely original prose?

Yes. Writing in the fanfiction world, more often than not, we are already given much of the relationship dynamics and setting. (Unless it’s AU then that's a whole different animal, it might as well be an original prose). In original prose, we have to weave most, if not all, of the world and characters building… I hope I understood the question right...

Would you ever repurpose a fic into a completely original story? 

Maybe. It’s usually the other way around. I have thoughts to repurpose an abandoned original story for a fic series. Highly unlikely that I’ll actually do it.

How much would you say audience feedback/engagement means to you? 

A lot! Please! It’s the biggest motivation for us content creators to keep creating! You have no idea how fast my hand reaches for my phone every time tumblr notifications pop up, hoping for a reblog and comments in the tags.

What has been one of the biggest factors of your success (of any size)? 

My mutuals reblogging my works. They’re exposed to new eyes and the readers, on the other hand, find a new blog.

Do you think fanfic writers get unfairly judged? 

Yes. Fanfic writers are as important to the fandom community as the rest of the content creators are. 

Do you think art can be a medium for change? 

Absolutely. Art is a fantastic gateway to many things. 

Do you ever feel there are times when you’re writing for others, rather than yourself? 

Only when I decided to take requests which happens like once a year and maybe even less.

Do you ever feel like people have misunderstood you or your writing at times? 

No, I don’t think so. No one has asked me to clarify any of my writings. One anon used to send me asks about world expansion and said anon turned into a dear friend. 

Do your offline friends/loved ones know you write for Tumblr? 

NOPE. DON'T LET THEM KNOW. I WON’T LET THEM KNOW. NEVER. Leave my virtual writing world be. *puts ‘do not cross’ yellow tape all over*

What is one thing you wish you could tell your followers? 

Please leave me some feedback, even keyboard smashes are fine, I can translate those. Don’t be shy to leave me asks if you want to chat, ramble, or get something off your chest. This is a safe place for you, an escape from reality.

Do you have any advice for aspiring writers who might be too scared to put themselves out there? 

Don’t be afraid. As hellish this platform is, it'll help you grow in the writing department. I know this is not the best advice but you have to try to see the result. 

Are there any times when you regret joining Tumblr? 

I don’t think so. There were moments of “Why do I even bother?” but it happens and will happen again in the future but no regrets. 

Do you have any mutuals who have been particularly formative/supportive in your Tumblr journey? 

I do! Most of the ones who were there from the beginning aren’t there anymore but it’s alright. Their lives outside of Tumblr are always more important than anything else. I don’t have to heart to unfollow their pages. My current handful of mutuals are an amazing bunch too! The sheer talent and creativity they possessed are out of this world. I love seeing their posts outside of the writing world, their personalities shine through and my heart feels fuzzy whenever I see it. Though I don’t interact often with most of them, I adore them all and consider them good friends. 

Pick a quote to end your interview with: 

Since we, writers, create in order to find escape and or brush up our skills or simply for the sake of creating. As we broaden our skill sets, “Necessity is the mother of invention. Failure is the mother of success.” Common, I know, but it’s comforting to know that failure can be a motivation to do better. Don’t stay down, always rise again.

BONUS: K-POP CONFIDENTIAL

[aqua-harry]

She’s Just Not That Into You » Finale (A Harry Styles Miniseries)

Miss the previous parts? Part One » Part Two » Part Three » Part Four » Part Five » Part Six

Check out the inspiration behind Harry’s home here! The amazing @graceak​ made a phenomenal playlist to go along with Harry’s story, and I could not recommend it more. You can find that here!

Holy moly. Could it be? Could I, the queen of never posting when she says she will, have made it through seven weeks without missing an update?! I’m alarmed, yet proud. It’s a milestone in the life of a fic-writer, especially one like me, who in the past has abandoned countless stories. But then again, I never had the support I received with this one. It’s all because of the messages I’ve gotten over the past month and a half that this series became what it did. It’s not the best story ever written, nor is it the most popular story ever written, but the amount of love and support I’ve gotten from every single one of you who has liked, reblogged, or left me a message is incredible. I thank all of you with all of my heart and could not feel more loved than I do right now.

Twenty minutes before the party started, Harry found himself wringing his hands in front of the oversized mirror you’d chosen for his bedroom.

Was his outfit appropriate?

A simple black button-down paired with a simple black pair of jeans and a simple black Chelsea boot was appropriate, wasn’t it?

Well, they were all Gucci, but they were still simple. And, in Harry’s eyes, Gucci was always appropriate.

He fiddles with his rings, straightening them so that their ornate details were facing out. He makes sure his necklaces are in check, moving the clasps back to the nape of his neck before running a hand through his hair, piecing out the strands like Lou had taught him to do in order to style his shortened locks properly.

That’s about as good as it’ll ever get, he thinks to himself before turning away from his reflection.

He walked through every room, ensuring that everything was in its place and ready to go. He wasn’t sure how it couldn’t be in its right place, though, considering Carly had put the finishing touches on everything last night.

He’d spent one night in his new home and knew that it wouldn’t feel complete until he had you in it. Everywhere he looked, he saw you. How could he not? You put bits and pieces of yourself into each design you did. That’s what was so special about you, Harry thought. You left your mark on everyone and everything.

Bounding down the stairs, he adjusts the platters of hors d’oeuvres he’d catered once he hits the kitchen, not wanting to worry about food all night, yet still wanting his guests to have plenty to snack on throughout the mixing and mingling. He straightens the rocks glasses next to the variety of liquor he’d accumulated throughout the years, making sure not too much of the ice had already melted in the bucket that was placed next to the shiny silver scoop.

He was nervous, he’ll admit.

He’d never really thrown a party like this before - his old house was thrown together and served as a place for him to land, not necessarily a place for him to show off. But, now, he wanted to show off his domain. He wanted his friends to be proud of him for living in such a place - for having the smarts to hire someone like you (and Carly) to decorate his home and turn it into something as spectacular as it was.

And, if he was being honest with himself, he wasn’t nervous only because he wanted to impress his friends.

He’d be seeing you again, and it wasn’t under the pretense of business. That would be two nights in a row he’d be around you as just a friend, as just someone he casually invited to his party the night before, almost as an afterthought.

Except it wasn’t an afterthought.

It was more of a party just so he could see you again.

The bell rings, and he’s glad to see it’s Gemma and her boyfriend when he opens the door. She always arrived early when she figured her little brother might be in need of some help - although, nowadays, he needed less and less of it.

“Hiya!” she cheerfully greets as she steps in the foyer, plopping a bottle of his favorite champagne in his hands, along with a boxed candle he knew the label of all too well.

“Thank you,” Harry grins, kissing his sister on the cheek.

“Know you’ve got about a million and a half of ‘em, but it never hurts to ‘ave another!” Gemma flicks the box in his hands with her index finger when he inspects it. “Figured you could take it on your trip.”

“It’s perfect,” he kisses her cheek again. “Coats can go in ‘ere,” he holds his gifts in one arm, opening the hallway cupboard with another.

“Mum’s gonna be late - had a bit of a fashion emergency, as it were. So ‘m here early and at your service! Need any help?” she asks as she hangs her coat, taking her boyfriend’s as well.

“Don’t think so…” he trails off. “How ‘bout I give you two a tour before everyone else gets ‘ere?”

“Well, that’d be lovely, Harry,” Gemma clasps her chest, faux-impressed with her brother’s manners.

He tries not to roll his eyes, knowing that his older sibling can sense his nervousness. Gemma was fully aware of how uneasy Harry got whenever something was expected of him - no matter how many gatherings he’d hosted or how many performances he gave, he’d always be a bit nervous before having to step in front of a crowd of people. His sister, as brash as she could be sometimes, was always the best at calming him down.

Harry walks his two guests through his house, letting them explore the bits and pieces you’d picked out for him, nodding and asking questions that made them seem more interested than they probably were. But, that wasn’t fair of him to assume.  His sister, even though she joked and prodded at him, was always interested in what Harry had to say. And, really, the look on her face as she walked through the rooms of her brother’s house said it all. She was proud of him, and that was enough for Harry.

Guests start to arrive almost immediately after he’s done giving Gemma and her date the spiel he’d played out in his head more than he’d ever like to admit, and by that time, Harry’s nerves had begun to subside. Once he saw his mother, he felt the most relaxed he’d felt all day, allowing her to fawn over him in the way she does when she hasn’t seen her only son in far too long for her liking.

The typical groups begin to form once a majority of his guest list shows up - his friends were all acquaintances with one another, yet they still seemed to break off in the way all people tended to, Harry noticed. It was always the same groups, too. His “fashion” friends, his “entertainment” friends, his “music” friends, his “beauty” friends, his “art” friends, his family - he never saw them as the labels they placed upon themselves, but he found it interesting, nonetheless.

He tried not to let his eyes wander to the door every five seconds, waiting for you to enter with a smile on your face. It was cold, being the beginning of February, and he’d pictured you with a rosy nose and cheeks while you waved to him from across the room. He didn’t want to miss your entry - he’d be damned if he didn’t catch the image of you walking through his door in the first place he considered to be his very own home.

He allowed himself to wonder, for a second, if you’d show up at all.

You were a woman of you word, were you not?

You’d show up.

You had promised, after all.

But, like he always does, Nick managed to distract Harry from his surroundings. They cackled with one another, Gemma rolling her eyes yet laughing too, Anne sheepishly grinning whenever Nick wrapped his arm around her shoulders. He fit into their family without even trying to - a third sibling that was more annoying to both Gemma and Harry than either of them could ever be to one another - and no matter how much time had passed between reunions, they always seemed to fall back into their regular patterns.

Harry was genuinely happy.

It wasn’t that he’d never been happy in his life, but he couldn’t recall a time when he was this happy.

He was embarking on the life he’d always imagined for himself.

His time with the band was something he’d never regret. His life was the way it was because of the band, and he would always be grateful for that. But, now, on the eve of the trip that could very well change the course of the rest of his life, he knew he stood on the precipice of who he was truly meant to be.

And, he thinks, it all started with the small bit of courage you sparked within him after leading by example.

If you could start over, surely, he could as well.

“Sorry I’m late,” a hand rests on his shoulder as he takes a sip from his drink. “Was movin’ all sorts of stuff from the old store to the new one all day and I didn’t want to show up gross and sweaty!”

Harry’s heart jumps at the sound of your voice; at the coldness of your hand through his shirt; at the way you giggle when you see his face light up, all of the pressure in his head he’d gathered throughout the day vanishing.

Poof.

You’d made it, just like you’d said you would.

“Wouldn’t have minded,” he smiles, accepting the kiss you place on his cheek as he leans in for a hug. “Thanks for coming.”

“Of course,” you step back, laughing when Nick places his chin on your shoulder as he stands behind you. “Hello, Nicholas,” you pat his cheek, immediately refocusing your attention back to Harry. “The place looks great. Are you happy with it?”

“More than happy,” he grins. “‘m in love with it.”

The two of you stand in front of one another, no more than a foot apart, smiling. Staring.

“Well!” Nick clears his throat. “Not that it matters, but I’m in love with it too!”

“That’s great, love,” you step out of his backwards hug so you can face him. “Carly and I worked so hard just for you.”

“Ey!” Nick blurts, his teeth showing beneath his wide smile. “Don’t quite appreciate the sass, young lady! Especially considerin’ that you’re a full hour late.”

“‘s not your party,” you shrug, grabbing Nick’s vodka soda from him and taking a sip. “Harry’s fine with my tardiness. Don’t really care what you think.”

“Well, well, well,” he tuts, raising an eyebrow.

“Harry,” a voice says from behind the trio of you. “Aren’t y’ going to introduce us? Our mother taught you better than that!”

“Gem,” Harry warns, gripping his sister’s shoulder. “This is my sister, Gemma,” he introduces her like he’s on Wheel of Fortune, waving his hand up and down in an obnoxious way that makes you smile. “And my mum, Anne.”

“Lovely to meet you!” you give Nick his drink back, accepting Gemma’s hand in a firm shake that gets the approval from Harry’s older sister. “You’re both gorgeous!”

“Oh, and you as well, love!” Anne chooses a hug, kissing you on the cheek. “‘ve both heard so much about you. So glad to finally put a face to a name.”

You laugh when you hear Harry’s groan at his mother’s confession, wiggling a bit in a way that makes Harry’s stomach flip over when Gemma winks at you. Anne, always sentimental, thanks you for helping create her son’s dream home, insisting that you come by hers for a bit of sprucing up. You agree, a light hand on her bicep and a soft smile on your face while Gemma asks you about the color choices in the living room.

If you’re troubled by Anne’s insinuation, you don’t show it. Harry observes the way you talk with the two most important women in his life, answering every question they throw at you with ease, happy to do it, he observes. Which, to him, was absolutely mad, as his sister and mother could come off as quite the firing squad when faced with something they were excited about.

And, it seemed, they were endlessly excited about you.

It’s strange, really, how everything had fallen into place. You looked like a natural, standing there with his family, laughing at whatever remark Gemma made and intently hanging on Anne’s every word. He leaves the three of you to talk once the conversation turns from Harry’s interior design to what shade of liquid lipstick Gemma is wearing.

Every now and then, throughout the evening, Harry can feel your eyes on him. He’ll look up from a conversation or walk back into the living room and he’ll see you, locking eyes with him. It scares him. It scares him to think that he’ll be without your gaze the second you leave; how he’ll probably forget how it made his heart pound whenever he met your eyes from across the room.

But could he ever forget how you made him feel?

He doesn’t think so.

And if he could, he didn’t want to find out.

You field compliments throughout the evening when Harry points all praise towards you. Yet, of course, you skillfully dodge all credit, putting all of the responsibility onto Carly, who hasn’t left your side since she’d found you talking to Nick. You remind everyone how she was the one to execute the design and how lucky you were to have her be on your team, coaching your mentee through all of the interactions with ease.

Harry watches you work whatever conversation you’re having at the time, catching when you playfully elbow Nick after he makes fun of the Pink Room, stating that he was just jealous you hadn’t thought to be so bold when you were decorating his house. It makes Harry chuckle to himself, which in turn makes him apologize to one of his more serious friends as he explains that no, he wasn’t laughing at their concept of turning baby formula into a 3D art exhibit to highlight the importance of breastfeeding.

It was just you, distracting him, yet again.

After Harry excuses himself to his bedroom for a restroom break, he can’t find you in the common areas when he returns. Sighing, he hopes you didn’t leave without saying goodbye, but gives himself hope when he realizes that there were a handful of other places you could be.

He finds you in the kitchen, leaning up against the counter while you chew on half of a crab cake - the other half in your hand - as you scroll through your phone. His boots click on the dark hardwood floor, indicating his entry.

“Don’t mind me while I eat all of your hors d’oeuvres,” you giggle, covering your mouth politely. “I skipped dinner, so now ‘m compensating. And maybe taking a break from...” you gesture vaguely with your hands.

“By all means,” Harry nods, smiling as he props himself up against the newly-installed marble countertop opposite of you.

The open floor plan of his new home allows the two of you to survey the party as you continue to snack, the space between the rest of the guests and the two of you a welcome reprieve from the chatter. A silence that feels anything but awkward washes over you as you watch the other rooms. It’s comfortable, at worst, and it’s something Harry wants to find himself wearing more often, this safety-net of bliss that came with stepping away from a crowded room with a partner who understood the necessity of it.

“Do you have anyone to help you clean up?” you ask. “Or is it just you?”

“Just me,” he smiles, the ice clinking in his glass. “The food was catered, but I didn’t want waitstaff runnin’ around all night. Disingenuous, y’know?”

“I can stay,” you take a sip of your drink. “You shouldn’t be spending the night cleaning when you’ve got to go to Jamaica in the morning.”

“Don’t have to do that.”

“I know,” you nod, blotting your lips with a cocktail napkin. “But it worries me to think that you may leave my beautiful designs cluttered with dirty dishes while you’re off in some tropical paradise,” you raise an eyebrow up at him. “Wouldn’t trust m’self t’ not break in to make sure you cleaned it properly.”

“Ey!” he scoffs. “That wouldn’t ‘appen!” he chuckles along with you. “But I won’t refuse, ‘specially if the help is comin’ from you.”

You smile at him knowingly, nodding in agreement.

The party, Harry thinks, goes on far too long. He’s polite - always - and doesn’t force anyone to leave sooner than they’d like, but all he can think about his how desperate he is to be alone with you in the kitchen you designed for him, standing side-by-side as he’s elbow-deep in washing-up suds and handing you a platter to rinse clean.

Domesticity never suited him, but with you, he was willing to give it a go.

His closest friends are the last to leave, with his mother and sister bidding him adieu not long before them, giggling to themselves about a sleepover at Gemma’s place as they skipped, happily buzzed, behind Gemma’s very sober boyfriend.

Nick pats Harry on the back when he notices that he - unlike so many times before - isn’t the last one out the door.

“Go get ‘em, tiger,” he whispers in his ear as he hugs his friend goodbye.

“Shut up,” Harry rolls his eyes, playfully pushing him away. “You’re an idiot.”

“Love you too, Hazza!” Nick sing-songs as he steps out of the foyer and into the winter night. “‘ave a good time in Jamaica, yeah? Bring me back a souvenir! Puka shell necklace or summat. Very 90s, very in.”

“’ll be lucky t’ get a secondhand t-shirt, Grimshaw.”

“Sod off, Styles!”

The friends flip each other off as Harry closes the door, locking it behind him.

Noticing you’ve occupied the downstairs half-bath closest to the living room, he leaps up the stairs two or three at a time, needing to rid of his restless energy somehow. Reaching his bedroom, he flops on the bed, his breathing unsteady for a moment as he counts to ten in his head.

Sitting up, he decides it best to change out of his designer clothes and into something more appropriate for cleaning up. Settling on a plain t-shirt and his standard pair of ripped jeans, he ruffles his shorter hair in the mirror, taking a deep breath before walking back downstairs and into the living room.

He chooses a favorite vinyl of his from the custom shelves you’d recommended to him, relaxing a bit when the first chords of Fleetwood Mac’s Dreams begins to play. Collecting the empty glasses of his guests from the coffee table, he makes his way into the kitchen, stopping in the doorway when he’s met with a scene that makes his lungs seize-up.

You’d taken your shoes off and piled your hair on top of your head in a haphazard way that made you seem...human. Strands of the locks were left out by the sides, framing your features in a way that made Harry’s fingertips lose all feeling. You’re smiling as you softly sing along to the music, your bare feet keeping time with the beat.

“Say women, they will come and they will go,” you sing. “When the rain washes you clean, you’ll know. You’ll know,” your head sways along with your hips as you begin to run the water for the dishes, reaching for a large platter you’d placed by the sink.

When you hear him set the glasses down on the counter, you turn around and lean back against the sink, the light in the room dim enough to make you look heavenly, yet bright enough to make Harry want to stare at you until the end of time.

He could, he thinks...

...stare at you until his last breath.

He’d never get sick of it.

“You tryin’ to seduce me, Styles?” you smile over the rim of your glass as you take a sip, pointing at him with an elegant index finger, the nail of it painted an oxblood red.

“Why?” he asks, stepping closer to you. “Does doin’ a man’s dishes turn you on?”

“Can’t say that it does,” you laugh, setting your drink down. “But a little Fleetwood Mac goes a long way…”

Although you can’t hear it - at least, he doesn’t think you can - his heart is pounding out of his chest. It’s rattling his ribcage with the knowledge that you’re in his home after dark, your feet bare and your hair pinned up, just the two of you.

He stares at you then. Really stares. Getting one last look at you before he flies away for a month to a place where there is no you, there is no possibility of you. He thought it was a good idea to get away, to clear his head of the nonsense that had muddled his mind over the past year, but now, he’s not so sure.

“What?” you smile, maintaining eye contact with him, unwavering despite his fiery gaze.

He shakes his head, looking away as he pulls at his bottom lip. He laughs - he can’t help it - and although he’s not had much to drink over the course of the evening, he’s braver than he ever was with half a bottle of whiskey in his system.

Taking a large step forward, he doesn’t think twice before clasping your face between his hands and pulling your mouth to his. His stomach flips when you let out the smallest gasp, the beat of his heart skipping off rhythm when you place a hand on his chest to steady yourself. He stays there, motionless, his mouth atop yours while he tries to find some sort of regularity in his breathing.

He can’t do it.

He can’t breathe, but that’s okay.

He slowly moves his lips against yours, the slickness of his lower lip sliding across yours in a way that made backing out an option. An option he silently begged you not to take, but an option, nonetheless. Your lips are frozen beneath his, your fingers gripping at the worn material of his t-shirt, all other movement paralyzed until further notice.

He moves his again, this time capturing your upper lip between the two of his, terrified to make a movement that would cause you to snap out of whatever spell you were under - terrified that you would run out of his house and never return.

You take a sharp breath in, your lips no longer still against his, your breathing steady once more as you respond to his kiss. His brow furrows when your mouth moves against his, a pained, sorrowful look on his face, although he was feeling anything but.

You taste of the fresh lime that was squeezed into your drink; you taste of the vanilla bean lip balm you must’ve applied minutes before; you taste of weeks and weeks of confusion, suddenly released into a maddening burst of light that had Harry seeing stars; you taste of a memory that couldn’t quite be placed - possibly a memory he hadn’t lived yet, possibly a memory he wouldn’t live for years; you taste of the longing he’d felt as he wrote those lyrics in the leather-bound journal he’d kept by his side for years; you taste of the burn in his throat he felt after he thought he’d never see you again.

He pulls you closer to him, your hand trapped between your bodies as he gently encourages you with his palms at your cheeks, his fingertips lost in the hair at your neck. You’re the first to give - your mouth opens to his in a sickeningly sweet way that gives Harry hope - and his body relaxes when you accept the swipe of his tongue across your lower lip.

There’s an urgency in his actions. Some of it was making up for lost time, he imagines, but most of it was addiction. He’d already become dependent on the feel of your mouth against his own, the way your lips moved languidly across his with the promise of more to come. He’d never been hooked on anything as quickly as he was hooked on your kiss, but somewhere in the back of his mind, he wasn’t surprised. You’d never done anything that hadn’t had him reeling, so why would your lips be any different?

It was a juxtaposition, this kiss.

On one hand, Harry was relieved. On the other, he was terrified.

On one hand, Harry was excited about the doors this opened. On the other, he was terrified of them.

On one hand, Harry was planning a future with you based on this connection alone. On the other, he was terrified that his past would muck it all up, even if you had forgiven him.

Maybe it was less juxtaposition and more exposure therapy.

Either way, he’d never forget it.

He smiles against your mouth when you sigh as he pulls the tip of his tongue across your lower lip, granting him entry into your mouth. You move your hands to the back of him, one finding a home in the nape of his neck and the other running down the broadness of his shoulders and stopping at the waistline of his jeans. His stomach flips when you pull his hips closer to you, when you tug at the shorter hairs at the base of his head, when you pull away slightly, teasingly, adorably, and go back in for more.

He doesn’t want to break away from you, and he’s unsure if the lightheadedness he’s experiencing is due to lack of air or intoxication-via-kiss, but he has to breathe, otherwise he risks passing out. He wanted this to last forever - he wanted your lips to be a bright pink by the time he was done with you, your hair mussed and your eyes wild as you followed his mouth for more - and he couldn’t very well make it last if he was unconscious.

He pulls away begrudgingly, resting his forehead on yours while the two of you breathe heavily. Your eyes are closed, but when you open them slowly and look up at Harry, he swears he’s never wanted anything more in his entire life.

But he was used to that when it came to you, wasn’t he?

“Hi,” you smile, your tongue jutting out across your lip.

“Hi,” he whispers, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

“Arguably,” you clear your throat, fiddling with the necklace chains resting on back of his neck. “‘ve never been to Jamaica,” your eyes are locked on his, and he realizes you’re the only person he struggles to maintain direct eye contact with. It was almost like staring straight into the sun, looking at you. “But I can tell you right now that I fuckin’ hate it. Hate the whole country.”

“Why’s that?” he questions, his brow knitting in the middle, an ever-present wrinkle deepening with his confusion.

“Well,” you sigh. “You’re about to leave and stay there for a month, which means we won’t get to do this again for a good 30 days.”

“February’s only 28 days this year,” he catches on, his pupils dilating at your confession. “And three of them ‘ave already gone. So it’s technically only 25.”

You smile, leaning your cheek into his palm and closing your eyes.

“Don’t go,” you whisper so softly, Harry doesn’t think he heard you properly.

“I ha-”

“We’re just getting started.”