Hipster Harry

I think Harry Styles is a charming person. I don't own any images and will happily remove them or give credit as appropriate. Everything else here is fiction. Alas. ~ NC-17/NSFW Hipster Harry lives here: bluechroniclesofhipsterharry.tumblr.com

[chroniclesofhipsterharry]

Hipster Harry playing ball with your cousins. You're not sure what the hell were you thinking inviting him to the family Super Bowl Party, but it sure wasn't standing slack-jawed as he wrapped his giant hands around the ball, pumped his arm and let it fly. You didn't come to your senses until far too late - after the sound of your aunties cackling at your swoon face caught his attention. When he gave a too coy, dimpled glance and mouthed "Later," you heard the "oooooh's" ring out around you and knew your aunties would never let you live it down.

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Hipster Harry in the kitchen of your Auntie Anita’s Goan restaurant. He spent hours talking Indian pop music with the staff and finally cajoled your aunties into teaching him their lamb biryani recipe. He came back to you steeped in cardamom and coriander, with the taste of home lingering on his tongue.

[chroniclesofhipsterharry]

Hipster Harry snuck your phone away at some point in the endless evening and set this pic as your lock screen, a fact you only discovered when he texted you in the wee hours after he dropped you off.

"I surge to life in your hands -Hxx."*

He’d been taking his time, wooing you with stories and love notes and heart pangy lines from Neruda. You stared at the image, smitten by how the openness of his face mirrored what he’d shown you of his heart. And that was all it took, really. You grabbed your coat and set off to put the proof to his words.

Part 1 of 2. Part 2 is NSFW (18+). Find it here: http://bluechroniclesofhipsterharry.tumblr.com/post/81392694894/hipster-harry-as-he-was-when-you-found-him-you

*With apologies/credit to swoony Pablo Neruda for the words

[chroniclesofhipsterharry]

Hipster Harry the day he modeled for your fashion photography course shoot. You'd only just met at the start of the semester and you thought he was a sweetheart for volunteering to help. When his coltish legs first swung into focus through your viewfinder, though, you lowered your camera and stared, mesmerized. By the time you realized you'd failed to take a single frame, he'd made his way to you - his face splitting into a dopey grin right before he cupped your face in his hands and pressed a plush kiss to your mouth.

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Hipster Harry at the after-after party of your BFF's wedding. The end-of-the-nighters finally convinced him to sing something for the bride & bride. With a quiet grin, he took the stage & offered them many happy years. But as his low, a capella take on Tom Waits' "All I Want Is You" flowed, his eyes found yours in the crowd and didn't leave you 'til the last note was sung. "Give you the stars above, the sun on the brightest day. Give you all my love, if only you would say, 'I want you, you, you. All I want is you.'"

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Hipster Harry practicing for the match with Johnny and the Cobra Kai. Because even hipsters wanna make Mr. Miyagi proud.

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Hipster Harry takes the stage for the Five In Fifty monologue show at a local gallery. His casual grin disarms the audience, leaving them wholly unprepared. Then he whispers of the shadows that lie the line of your body - a breadcrumb trail to the house of sadness in your loose-limbed wilderness. Heart broken away in gingerbread bits, rattled bones propping up your swollen soul. Scars left by witches who failed to devour you. And in the wreckage, the stone hearth where the fire of you burns on and consumes him.

[chroniclesofhipsterharry]

Hipster Harry on your favorite "dirty weekend" away in Paris. You marked the first night with a desperate shag on a tucked-away park bench, slightly drunk and all the way lost on the way back to your room, stopping sticky and still hungry afterwards to whisper against each other's mouths in darkened doorways. Spent mornings spread soft and naked across his thighs as he penned postcards home using the swell of your ass cheeks as a desk - punctuating his favorite lines with sucking kisses to your thighs until his postscripts had you thrashing and clutching the sheets. Wandered side streets in the afternoons, listening to him banter with secondhand shopkeepers in French about bookbinding and hand-set type as he leafed through boxes of vintage postcards. Fisted his curls in your hand at dusk as you drag his mouth to yours, leading him ("Astray!" he says with a grin) down the avenue and into another night.

[chroniclesofhipsterharry]

Hipster Harry’s been away for a month, building houses and learning pottery from the locals in a small town in South America. No email. No telephone. Just a smattering of handmade postcards and notes filled with sundry tales of his adventures. When you finally get him alone, he takes your face in his hands and gives you a long gaze until you finally break. “I really want to kiss you right now." “I really want you to kiss me right now." And so you pounce, tugging him in with your hands at his neck, fingers digging into the hair at his nape. Your moan slips free as you skate your tongue across his lips and then he’s all in - pulling at your hips, hands rucking up your shirt to trace your spine. When you’ve worked each other over and lie dazed and dizzy and spent, you ask him what he was waiting for. And he tells you how every night he was away, he’d close his eyes and think about coming home to you, about how badly he’d want to kiss you and have you and tell you everything all at the same time. So he decided to let you choose…because more than anything else, he wanted to make you happy.

[chroniclesofhipsterharry]

Hipster Harry came through the door from his walk and barely drew breath before launching into an account of the guy he met near the empty corner lot who is turning it into a baseball diamond for the neighborhood kids and how Harry offered to help him build benches and sun shades just as the local soft-serve food truck pulled up and offered free cones to everyone volunteering and how Harry and the owner got to talking so he hopped on board and made a roundtrip run with him in the truck ("He's got a special playlist of international 'ice cream truck' songs, how cool is that?") to the salvage yard to get supplies for the benches before popping back home to get his tool box and bring you this here ice cream cone. And as he pauses to lick the drips from his hand and smiles at you, you shake your head and melt just a little bit yourself.

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Hipster Harry coming through the check out lane at the hardware store. Unbeknownst to you, he's building you a treehouse in his backyard. You told him you always wanted one when you were young 'cause you thought being so high up meant the heavens could hear your dreams better and help them come true. He decorates it with pillows and feathers and love notes and puts a little window in the roof "so the sun and moon and stars can keep an eye on you." And later, when you're sprawled out on the cushions with his warm, sleepy breath puffing against your ribs, you gaze up at the winking stars and know they heard you all along.

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Hipster Harry finishing his latest short story about the first time his childhood bestie (the little girl who loved animals so much she wanted to be Dr. Doolittle when she grew up) had to put an animal down.  He'd told you before how it tore his heart to see her wracked with sobs and how tight he held her just to make sure she wouldn't shake apart.  But you didn't realize until you finished the story that he eventually coaxed her up and out of the house, to every ice cream place in the neighborhood, until milky-drunk on whip cream and caramel fudge, they ended up at the roller rink where they finished off the night with chaste kisses and hand holding as the final strains of "Total Eclipse of the Heart" wound down the last couples skate, because nothing chases away sorrow faster than sweetness, music, joy and a touch of warm affection.

For @shescardinal (thanks for the inspiration, bb).

[chroniclesofhipsterharry]

Hipster Harry just before he grabbed your hand and lead you away from the post-show masses lingering in the park with a nod and a quiet, "C'mere with me?" All throughout the long day you had circled each other in a slow dance of feint and thrust. A nudge here, a squeeze there. A shivery shoulder rub when you said your neck was cold. A surprise attack on his hair as his leaned back against your knees and purred at the light scratching of your nails on his scalp. And now, as he backs you flush against a tree with one hand on your cheek and one on your hip, the only reposte you can manage is a whispered, "Allez!"

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Hipster Harry in one of your favorite coats. Standing on the corner together outside the liquor store while your friend pops in for provisions. You shiver in the breezy night and sneak glances at him, snug and glowing in the streetlight. "You look warm - that coat looks warm." "It is warm," he says nodding and, spreading it open wide, "warm...and big enough for two." You blink once, twice, then pounce cat-like into his arms, nuzzling into his chest, his chuckle vibrating against your cheek as he wraps you tight against him. He nudges your head back with a quiet, "Hey," and you try not to moan as his lips and tongue, hot on yours, chase away the last of the chill.

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Hipster Harry’s reaction when he was unanimously voted, "Housemate I'd Most Like To Go Friends-With-Benefits With." He managed to hold in his laughter until Housemate Liam's indignant, "What about ME?" Harry consoled him with blanket fort cuddles as the night wound down, artlessly reminding Liam in the process why even he had voted for Harry.

[chroniclesofhipsterharry]

BB Hipster Harry was a precocious young lover. He wooed you with a love note he made out of found objects, whereon he inscribed, "My love for you serves many ends, each learned with the soft push and nudge of your affection, to bring your smile, your sighs, your eyes to sights pleasing, to leave you (better than I found you) a better man."

[chroniclesofhipsterharry]

Hipster Harry is a firm believer that when you emerge the next day in the clothes you wore out last night, it shouldn't be called the walk of shame but the walk of gratitude. To live deep and suck out all the marrow of life - Thoreau had it right.