âïž SUMMARY: âListen, I know we joke around a lot, but if me being here is going to be a burden then please tell me and I can find somewhere else to stay in the city.â
âDonât be stupid,â you say simply. And thatâs that. Youâre left to stare at your best friend, whoâs wearing your shirt and sitting in your apartment, somehow filling the space like heâs belonged there all along. âYouâre always welcome here. And youâre in charge of dinner tomorrow, so do your best not to poison me.â
Your life in New York City is relatively peaceful. You have a comfortable job lecturing at NYU, decent friends, and a Manhattan apartment you definitely donât deserve to own alone. That is, until your childhood best friend shows up on your doorstep one morning, and all of a sudden youâre living together. It also doesnât help that said best friend is Harry Styles, and you refuse to acknowledge the fact that youâve been in love with him for most of your life.
MASTERLIST | TALK TO ME | STORY EXTRAS
âïž CONTENTS (to be updated):
chapter one
chapter two
chapter three
chapter four
chapter five
chapter six
âïž NOTE: doing a separate taglist for this fic, please send me a message if you want to be added!
hello everyone!! itâs been a bit đ„Č wanted to update you all on what things are looking like for my blog and unfinished ficsâŠ
i have been so, so busy with work, far more busy than i anticipated being so i will need to take a short break from writing in order to prioritize that. thank you SO so much for all of the support on my writing recently, it truly means the world and i wish i could write so much more for you right now but thatâs just not realistic given my schedule.
i hope to be back in the next month or so! and feel free to keep sending me messages, asks, or whatever. iâll still be on here, just lurking silently and not writing for the time being.
Hey just a a quick suggestion could you please add a little space between the Preview and the beginning of the new chapter because it makes it very hard to read or maybe just changing the font of the preview so we can differentiate which is whichïżŒ
omg yeah iâll do that now! sorry i totally didnât realize thereâs no division after you click read more. thanks for telling me đ«¶
preview: The rest of the world is so eager to view him like an object, assume that just because he spends his life in the public view, heâs somehow devoid of insecurities. But to you, heâs still the same Harry who cried backstage at Wembley after his voice cracked during a solo. The same shy, innocent boy who vomited backstage after his first show, terrified that heâd messed it all up.
An article criticizing Harry blows up on the internet, and it hits him harder than expected. Luckily, youâre there to help pick up the pieces.
MASTERLIST | READ MY LATEST SERIES
Industry disruptors and soul deconstructers, and smooth-talking hucksters out glad-handing each other
And the voices that implore, "You should be doing more," to you I can admit that I'm just too soft for all of it.
âSweet Nothing, Taylor Swift
âââ
The article is released on a Friday afternoon. It's absolutely brutalârips single every creative project Harry's ever done to shreds and leaves no endeavor unscathed. Every sentence is a biting remark, each paragraph swirled with vile accusations. It starts by criticizing his film roles, the creative direction he took in his third album, then accuses him of extorting his own fans. The author questions not only his artistry but his personhood, digs up unverified claims of rudeness and twists them into a narrative of Harry being an egotistical, ungrateful pop star. Within the hour, almost every major news station has picked the story up. It doesnât matter how far-fetched it is. The internet takes to the authorâs vitriol like wildfire, sharing it across social media platforms and online forums. Everyone wants to be the first to say they always knew something wasnât quite right about him, that itâs about time someone knocked him off his pedestal.
Itâs disgusting in every sense of the word. And it hurts even more because Harry is blissfully unaware. Heâs asleep beside you now, the two of you having settled into bed to take a quick nap together three hours earlier, when the internet had yet to point their pitchforks towards him. You know heâs been overextending himself lately, still sleeping off the jet lag from tour but unwilling to slow down his life on account of tiredness. Heâs always been like that, so dedicated to his music, because to him, putting less than two-hundred percent into the thing he loves most would be a waste. You can hardly remember the last time heâd slept earlier than two after coming homeâeven without touring commitments, heâs still found a way to keep himself busyâstaying late in the studio and meeting with executives from his record label to review the marketing plan for his next album. Heâs always thinking about the future, how he can reinvent himself and make sure he can stay doing what he loves for as long as possible.
Itâs why heâd deserved this chance to unwind and relax in the quiet of your home. But now, heâs going to wake up to a rogue journalist completely assassinating his character, when all heâs ever wanted to do is sing and make others happy. The way you see it, itâs not the least bit fair.
You look at Harry and brush his curls away from his face gently so as to not wake him. Your phone is still turned on, the article glaring angrily against your palm as you watch him sleep. He looks so peaceful, his arm curled around your waist and his legs tangled with yours as if he canât bear to be far away from you even in slumber. You wish everyone else could see him like this: soft and vulnerable, his lips upturned ever-so-slightly like heâs dreaming about something particularly pleasant.
The rest of the world is so eager to view him like an object, assume that just because he spends his life in the public view, heâs somehow devoid of insecurities. But to you, heâs still the same Harry who cried backstage at Wembley after his voice cracked during a solo. The same shy, innocent boy who vomited backstage after his first show, terrified that heâd messed it all up. Ten years down the road and heâs gained confidence, for sure. But when heâs not busy being this glittering, hip-wiggling rockstar who moves like heâs got the whole world in the palm of his hand, heâs just Harry. He still wrings his hands nervously before every performance, burns his tongue on hot tea thatâs meant to preserve his voice. You remember what he said to you back in June before his first stadium show: I donât think Iâll ever be able to be someone who doesnât care about what others think of them. He cares more than the articleâs author and the legions of people criticizing his every move online will ever know.
You shuffle forward, closing the gap between your bodies and press a soft kiss into Harryâs forehead. You donât expect him to stir from it, but it seems he was just about to wake up naturally before you disturbed him, so his eyes slowly open and he smiles when his vision focuses on you. You try to school your expression into something relatively normal. Unfortunately, Harry knows you too well and can immediately tell that somethingâs off. In any other situation, youâd be impressed by how well he can read you. Even with his mind suspended between alertness and sleep, he knows youâre upset and reaches for your hand in concern.
âHey, whatâs wrong?â Harry asks, rubbing circles into the back of your hand. He knows the repetitive motion grounds you when youâre anxious, so he continues to graze your skin with his thumb, willing you to relax.
âHââ you start to say, but youâre cut off by the sound of Harryâs ringtone. He reaches over you to grab his phone from the nightstand, his other hand still clasped with yours. When he falls back into the mattress, you manage to get a glance at his phone screen. Itâs displaying an incoming call from Jeff. Fuck.
Harry accepts the call, still ignorant to the situation. His gaze flickers over your face as the line connectsâhe's clearly still worried about you.
"Hey, H," Jeff says. You can hear him sigh through the phone, "have you been online recently?"
"Been asleep for the past," Harry pauses to check the time, "three hours, so that would be a no."
"Shit," Jeff says, sounding significantly less collected than he usually does. "Okay. Um, do me a favor and stay off of social media for now. I'll call you when it's all been resolved."
"What?" Harry sits up slightly at the sound of Jeff's voice, running a hand through his hair. "I'm confused. Is everything alright?"
"Listen, it's fine. I've got it all under control, just... don't go on Instagram, or Twitter, or anything."
"Jeff," Harry groans, "don't be cryptic. You're obviously dealing with something that's got to do with me, don't you think I have a right to know what's going on?"
There's silence over line for a bit, Jeff clearly ruminating over whether or not to tell Harry the truth. You chew on your lip worriedly, waiting for his voice to come through again.
"There's an article thatâs been published online," Jeff starts, "and it's highly critical of you. It's circulating through social media right now, and we're trying to put a stop to it. I've got a meeting with your label's attorneys in a few minutes, but seriously H, for your own good please do not read it. We'll have it taken down by the end of the day."
"Oh," Harry blinks, clearly caught off-guard. You can't blame him for it. People don't normally wake up from naps and find out half the internet has turned against them. "Alright. That's fine. Um, call me if you need anything. Good luck."
"H, I'm serious, don'tâ" Jeff begins, but Harry hangs up before he can finish his sentence. He's already sat up fully in bed, back leaning against the headboard as he types away furiously on his phone. You don't try to stop him from Googling the article; he deserves to see what's been written. You just sit up next to him and silently run a hand down his arm, tracing where the fabric of his t-shirt ends and the familiar ink on his skin begins. You reach for him and let him know that he has you to lean on.
"You know what they've written isn't true," you whisper, "you know that." Itâs all you can say for now.
Harry doesn't respond to that, his eyes too busy scanning through the article. He spends the next seven minutes reading every word silently, taking each criticism and judgement in. When heâs finished, Harry shuts his phone off with a click and sets it down silently on the bedside table. You avert your eyes from him, afraid that if you look up you might be able to see every morsel of hurt on his face.
In the end, Harryâs the first to break the silence.
âWho approved that?â Is what he says, his voice faltering almost imperceptibly at the end. Itâs quiet enough that only someone who knows him as well as you do would be able to notice.
âH,â you respond, splaying your hand across his chest and letting his head fall gently onto your shoulder.
âNone of that is real. Itâs not a reflection of who you are.â You say that with conviction. Heâs got the most beautiful soul, does everything with so much heart. Heâs so full of love that at times you worry he might burst from it. Itâs completely unfair what heâs been reduced to.
âYou can only read shitty things about yourself for so long before you start to believe them,â Harry says brokenly, and his composure gives away then. He takes a trembling breath in and you feel a wetness start to form on the sleeve of your shirt. You donât have to look at him to know heâs crying.
Itâs in moments like these where his façade starts to crumble, and you see him transform back into the boy you once knew, before the whole world knew his name. Spending every day terrified that at any given moment, people wouldnât want to listen to his voice anymore and the rug would be pulled from under his feet. Fearing that he might wake up one day and have to return to Holmes Chapel, even though heâs always been too big for the small town he grew up in.
âLove,â you say, pressing a hand to his cheek. His skin is flushed and you can see the ghost of a tear falling down the side of his face. âHow is anyone meant to believe anything theyâve said is valid, when they donât know you? I know exactly who you are, and the person theyâre talking about in that article is not it.â
Harry sniffles at that, pulling himself closer to you. You see him glance at his phone, so you turn it over facedown and revert your full attention back to him.
âYouâre so incredibly special,â you continue, carding your hands soothingly through his hair, âyouâve achieved an immense amount of success in the last ten years. Youâve impacted so many people, used your platform to do so much good. Thereâs always going to be people who want more from you, who criticize and tell you youâre not doing enough. But you are doing enough, H. Seriously. Youâre only human, and itâs not your fault that others expect you to be more than that. And even so, I think you make a pretty exceptional human already. You know how many people walk up to me when Iâm alone and ask me to tell you that youâve changed their lives? Thereâs so many that Iâd lost track of the number about seven years ago.â
Harry opens his mouth to say something in response, but you pat his face gently and give him a smile as if to say, Iâm not finished yet.
âAnd beyond that, who cares about the industry, about what faceless people online have to say about you? At the end of the day, youâre enough. Iâm not here for the Harry Styles who fills stadiums or commands attention at movie premieres. Iâm here for the Harry who accidentally leaves the coffee pot on for too long because heâs too busy trying to get me to dance with him in the kitchen. For the Harry who keeps movie stubs and pebbles deep inside his pockets because he wants to keep a souvenir to remind him of every little thing weâve done together. The Harry whoâs a huge sentimental sap, whoâs got the biggest heart in the world.â
You finish with a sigh, gazing at Harry earnestly and hoping that he can feel the gravity of your words.
âYouâre right,â Harry smiles softly, clasping a hand around your wrist, voice slightly raspy still. âI shouldnât let it get to my head. Itâs just hard sometimes, you know? I feel like I might be a little too soft for all of it.â
âI love your softness and vulnerability,â you say, âAnd getting upset when people are dragging your name through the mud is perfectly normal. I canât even begin to imagine how overwhelming it is for you. But youâll always have me right here beside you. And trust me, Iâd be going to war for you over Twitter right now if I knew Jeff wouldnât kill me for doing so.â
Harry laughs at that, loud and open in the way that you love. âMy Princess Charming,â he says, wrapping his arms around you in a crushing hug. âForever prepared to defend my honor.â
True to his word, Jeff and Columbiaâs legal team get the article taken down in record time. They say Harryâs allowed to post a response to it, if he wants, but heâs never been one to start fights over the internet so he settles on this instead.
A single picture, posted to his Instagram of your hands, your fingers intertwined like the two of you were built to be extensions of each other. The caption is simple. It reads:
I find myself running home to your sweet nothings
Outside, theyâre push and shoving; youâre in the kitchen humming
All that you ever wanted from me was sweet nothing.
He turns the comments off, not wanting to entertain any further commentary. Itâs a picture meant for just the two of you, a reminder that all the noise coming from the outside means nothing when you have each other. Itâs sweet. Itâs nothing. And yet somehow, itâs everything youâll ever need.
âââ
reblogs & feedback are highly welcomed and appreciated <3
preview: The rest of the world is so eager to view him like an object, assume that just because he spends his life in the public view, heâs somehow devoid of insecurities. But to you, heâs still the same Harry who cried backstage at Wembley after his voice cracked during a solo. The same shy, innocent boy who vomited backstage after his first show, terrified that heâd messed it all up.
An article criticizing Harry blows up on the internet, and it hits him harder than expected. Luckily, youâre there to help pick up the pieces.
MASTERLIST | READ MY LATEST SERIES
Industry disruptors and soul deconstructers, and smooth-talking hucksters out glad-handing each other
And the voices that implore, "You should be doing more," to you I can admit that I'm just too soft for all of it.
âSweet Nothing, Taylor Swift
âââ
The article is released on a Friday afternoon. It's absolutely brutalârips single every creative project Harry's ever done to shreds and leaves no endeavor unscathed. Every sentence is a biting remark, each paragraph swirled with vile accusations. It starts by criticizing his film roles, the creative direction he took in his third album, then accuses him of extorting his own fans. The author questions not only his artistry but his personhood, digs up unverified claims of rudeness and twists them into a narrative of Harry being an egotistical, ungrateful pop star. Within the hour, almost every major news station has picked the story up. It doesnât matter how far-fetched it is. The internet takes to the authorâs vitriol like wildfire, sharing it across social media platforms and online forums. Everyone wants to be the first to say they always knew something wasnât quite right about him, that itâs about time someone knocked him off his pedestal.
Itâs disgusting in every sense of the word. And it hurts even more because Harry is blissfully unaware. Heâs asleep beside you now, the two of you having settled into bed to take a quick nap together three hours earlier, when the internet had yet to point their pitchforks towards him. You know heâs been overextending himself lately, still sleeping off the jet lag from tour but unwilling to slow down his life on account of tiredness. Heâs always been like that, so dedicated to his music, because to him, putting less than two-hundred percent into the thing he loves most would be a waste. You can hardly remember the last time heâd slept earlier than two after coming homeâeven without touring commitments, heâs still found a way to keep himself busyâstaying late in the studio and meeting with executives from his record label to review the marketing plan for his next album. Heâs always thinking about the future, how he can reinvent himself and make sure he can stay doing what he loves for as long as possible.
Itâs why heâd deserved this chance to unwind and relax in the quiet of your home. But now, heâs going to wake up to a rogue journalist completely assassinating his character, when all heâs ever wanted to do is sing and make others happy. The way you see it, itâs not the least bit fair.
You look at Harry and brush his curls away from his face gently so as to not wake him. Your phone is still turned on, the article glaring angrily against your palm as you watch him sleep. He looks so peaceful, his arm curled around your waist and his legs tangled with yours as if he canât bear to be far away from you even in slumber. You wish everyone else could see him like this: soft and vulnerable, his lips upturned ever-so-slightly like heâs dreaming about something particularly pleasant.
The rest of the world is so eager to view him like an object, assume that just because he spends his life in the public view, heâs somehow devoid of insecurities. But to you, heâs still the same Harry who cried backstage at Wembley after his voice cracked during a solo. The same shy, innocent boy who vomited backstage after his first show, terrified that heâd messed it all up. Ten years down the road and heâs gained confidence, for sure. But when heâs not busy being this glittering, hip-wiggling rockstar who moves like heâs got the whole world in the palm of his hand, heâs just Harry. He still wrings his hands nervously before every performance, burns his tongue on hot tea thatâs meant to preserve his voice. You remember what he said to you back in June before his first stadium show: I donât think Iâll ever be able to be someone who doesnât care about what others think of them. He cares more than the articleâs author and the legions of people criticizing his every move online will ever know.
You shuffle forward, closing the gap between your bodies and press a soft kiss into Harryâs forehead. You donât expect him to stir from it, but it seems he was just about to wake up naturally before you disturbed him, so his eyes slowly open and he smiles when his vision focuses on you. You try to school your expression into something relatively normal. Unfortunately, Harry knows you too well and can immediately tell that somethingâs off. In any other situation, youâd be impressed by how well he can read you. Even with his mind suspended between alertness and sleep, he knows youâre upset and reaches for your hand in concern.
âHey, whatâs wrong?â Harry asks, rubbing circles into the back of your hand. He knows the repetitive motion grounds you when youâre anxious, so he continues to graze your skin with his thumb, willing you to relax.
âHââ you start to say, but youâre cut off by the sound of Harryâs ringtone. He reaches over you to grab his phone from the nightstand, his other hand still clasped with yours. When he falls back into the mattress, you manage to get a glance at his phone screen. Itâs displaying an incoming call from Jeff. Fuck.
Harry accepts the call, still ignorant to the situation. His gaze flickers over your face as the line connectsâhe's clearly still worried about you.
"Hey, H," Jeff says. You can hear him sigh through the phone, "have you been online recently?"
"Been asleep for the past," Harry pauses to check the time, "three hours, so that would be a no."
"Shit," Jeff says, sounding significantly less collected than he usually does. "Okay. Um, do me a favor and stay off of social media for now. I'll call you when it's all been resolved."
"What?" Harry sits up slightly at the sound of Jeff's voice, running a hand through his hair. "I'm confused. Is everything alright?"
"Listen, it's fine. I've got it all under control, just... don't go on Instagram, or Twitter, or anything."
"Jeff," Harry groans, "don't be cryptic. You're obviously dealing with something that's got to do with me, don't you think I have a right to know what's going on?"
There's silence over line for a bit, Jeff clearly ruminating over whether or not to tell Harry the truth. You chew on your lip worriedly, waiting for his voice to come through again.
"There's an article thatâs been published online," Jeff starts, "and it's highly critical of you. It's circulating through social media right now, and we're trying to put a stop to it. I've got a meeting with your label's attorneys in a few minutes, but seriously H, for your own good please do not read it. We'll have it taken down by the end of the day."
"Oh," Harry blinks, clearly caught off-guard. You can't blame him for it. People don't normally wake up from naps and find out half the internet has turned against them. "Alright. That's fine. Um, call me if you need anything. Good luck."
"H, I'm serious, don'tâ" Jeff begins, but Harry hangs up before he can finish his sentence. He's already sat up fully in bed, back leaning against the headboard as he types away furiously on his phone. You don't try to stop him from Googling the article; he deserves to see what's been written. You just sit up next to him and silently run a hand down his arm, tracing where the fabric of his t-shirt ends and the familiar ink on his skin begins. You reach for him and let him know that he has you to lean on.
"You know what they've written isn't true," you whisper, "you know that." Itâs all you can say for now.
Harry doesn't respond to that, his eyes too busy scanning through the article. He spends the next seven minutes reading every word silently, taking each criticism and judgement in. When heâs finished, Harry shuts his phone off with a click and sets it down silently on the bedside table. You avert your eyes from him, afraid that if you look up you might be able to see every morsel of hurt on his face.
In the end, Harryâs the first to break the silence.
âWho approved that?â Is what he says, his voice faltering almost imperceptibly at the end. Itâs quiet enough that only someone who knows him as well as you do would be able to notice.
âH,â you respond, splaying your hand across his chest and letting his head fall gently onto your shoulder.
âNone of that is real. Itâs not a reflection of who you are.â You say that with conviction. Heâs got the most beautiful soul, does everything with so much heart. Heâs so full of love that at times you worry he might burst from it. Itâs completely unfair what heâs been reduced to.
âYou can only read shitty things about yourself for so long before you start to believe them,â Harry says brokenly, and his composure gives away then. He takes a trembling breath in and you feel a wetness start to form on the sleeve of your shirt. You donât have to look at him to know heâs crying.
Itâs in moments like these where his façade starts to crumble, and you see him transform back into the boy you once knew, before the whole world knew his name. Spending every day terrified that at any given moment, people wouldnât want to listen to his voice anymore and the rug would be pulled from under his feet. Fearing that he might wake up one day and have to return to Holmes Chapel, even though heâs always been too big for the small town he grew up in.
âLove,â you say, pressing a hand to his cheek. His skin is flushed and you can see the ghost of a tear falling down the side of his face. âHow is anyone meant to believe anything theyâve said is valid, when they donât know you? I know exactly who you are, and the person theyâre talking about in that article is not it.â
Harry sniffles at that, pulling himself closer to you. You see him glance at his phone, so you turn it over facedown and revert your full attention back to him.
âYouâre so incredibly special,â you continue, carding your hands soothingly through his hair, âyouâve achieved an immense amount of success in the last ten years. Youâve impacted so many people, used your platform to do so much good. Thereâs always going to be people who want more from you, who criticize and tell you youâre not doing enough. But you are doing enough, H. Seriously. Youâre only human, and itâs not your fault that others expect you to be more than that. And even so, I think you make a pretty exceptional human already. You know how many people walk up to me when Iâm alone and ask me to tell you that youâve changed their lives? Thereâs so many that Iâd lost track of the number about seven years ago.â
Harry opens his mouth to say something in response, but you pat his face gently and give him a smile as if to say, Iâm not finished yet.
âAnd beyond that, who cares about the industry, about what faceless people online have to say about you? At the end of the day, youâre enough. Iâm not here for the Harry Styles who fills stadiums or commands attention at movie premieres. Iâm here for the Harry who accidentally leaves the coffee pot on for too long because heâs too busy trying to get me to dance with him in the kitchen. For the Harry who keeps movie stubs and pebbles deep inside his pockets because he wants to keep a souvenir to remind him of every little thing weâve done together. The Harry whoâs a huge sentimental sap, whoâs got the biggest heart in the world.â
You finish with a sigh, gazing at Harry earnestly and hoping that he can feel the gravity of your words.
âYouâre right,â Harry smiles softly, clasping a hand around your wrist, voice slightly raspy still. âI shouldnât let it get to my head. Itâs just hard sometimes, you know? I feel like I might be a little too soft for all of it.â
âI love your softness and vulnerability,â you say, âAnd getting upset when people are dragging your name through the mud is perfectly normal. I canât even begin to imagine how overwhelming it is for you. But youâll always have me right here beside you. And trust me, Iâd be going to war for you over Twitter right now if I knew Jeff wouldnât kill me for doing so.â
Harry laughs at that, loud and open in the way that you love. âMy Princess Charming,â he says, wrapping his arms around you in a crushing hug. âForever prepared to defend my honor.â
True to his word, Jeff and Columbiaâs legal team get the article taken down in record time. They say Harryâs allowed to post a response to it, if he wants, but heâs never been one to start fights over the internet so he settles on this instead.
A single picture, posted to his Instagram of your hands, your fingers intertwined like the two of you were built to be extensions of each other. The caption is simple. It reads:
I find myself running home to your sweet nothings
Outside, theyâre push and shoving; youâre in the kitchen humming
All that you ever wanted from me was sweet nothing.
He turns the comments off, not wanting to entertain any further commentary. Itâs a picture meant for just the two of you, a reminder that all the noise coming from the outside means nothing when you have each other. Itâs sweet. Itâs nothing. And yet somehow, itâs everything youâll ever need.
âââ
reblogs & feedback are highly welcomed and appreciated <3
preview: The rest of the world is so eager to view him like an object, assume that just because he spends his life in the public view, heâs somehow devoid of insecurities. But to you, heâs still the same Harry who cried backstage at Wembley after his voice cracked during a solo. The same shy, innocent boy who vomited backstage after his first show, terrified that heâd messed it all up.
An article criticizing Harry blows up on the internet, and it hits him harder than expected. Luckily, youâre there to help pick up the pieces.
MASTERLIST | READ MY LATEST SERIES
Industry disruptors and soul deconstructers, and smooth-talking hucksters out glad-handing each other
And the voices that implore, "You should be doing more," to you I can admit that I'm just too soft for all of it.
âSweet Nothing, Taylor Swift
âââ
The article is released on a Friday afternoon. It's absolutely brutalârips single every creative project Harry's ever done to shreds and leaves no endeavor unscathed. Every sentence is a biting remark, each paragraph swirled with vile accusations. It starts by criticizing his film roles, the creative direction he took in his third album, then accuses him of extorting his own fans. The author questions not only his artistry but his personhood, digs up unverified claims of rudeness and twists them into a narrative of Harry being an egotistical, ungrateful pop star. Within the hour, almost every major news station has picked the story up. It doesnât matter how far-fetched it is. The internet takes to the authorâs vitriol like wildfire, sharing it across social media platforms and online forums. Everyone wants to be the first to say they always knew something wasnât quite right about him, that itâs about time someone knocked him off his pedestal.
Itâs disgusting in every sense of the word. And it hurts even more because Harry is blissfully unaware. Heâs asleep beside you now, the two of you having settled into bed to take a quick nap together three hours earlier, when the internet had yet to point their pitchforks towards him. You know heâs been overextending himself lately, still sleeping off the jet lag from tour but unwilling to slow down his life on account of tiredness. Heâs always been like that, so dedicated to his music, because to him, putting less than two-hundred percent into the thing he loves most would be a waste. You can hardly remember the last time heâd slept earlier than two after coming homeâeven without touring commitments, heâs still found a way to keep himself busyâstaying late in the studio and meeting with executives from his record label to review the marketing plan for his next album. Heâs always thinking about the future, how he can reinvent himself and make sure he can stay doing what he loves for as long as possible.
Itâs why heâd deserved this chance to unwind and relax in the quiet of your home. But now, heâs going to wake up to a rogue journalist completely assassinating his character, when all heâs ever wanted to do is sing and make others happy. The way you see it, itâs not the least bit fair.
You look at Harry and brush his curls away from his face gently so as to not wake him. Your phone is still turned on, the article glaring angrily against your palm as you watch him sleep. He looks so peaceful, his arm curled around your waist and his legs tangled with yours as if he canât bear to be far away from you even in slumber. You wish everyone else could see him like this: soft and vulnerable, his lips upturned ever-so-slightly like heâs dreaming about something particularly pleasant.
The rest of the world is so eager to view him like an object, assume that just because he spends his life in the public view, heâs somehow devoid of insecurities. But to you, heâs still the same Harry who cried backstage at Wembley after his voice cracked during a solo. The same shy, innocent boy who vomited backstage after his first show, terrified that heâd messed it all up. Ten years down the road and heâs gained confidence, for sure. But when heâs not busy being this glittering, hip-wiggling rockstar who moves like heâs got the whole world in the palm of his hand, heâs just Harry. He still wrings his hands nervously before every performance, burns his tongue on hot tea thatâs meant to preserve his voice. You remember what he said to you back in June before his first stadium show: I donât think Iâll ever be able to be someone who doesnât care about what others think of them. He cares more than the articleâs author and the legions of people criticizing his every move online will ever know.
You shuffle forward, closing the gap between your bodies and press a soft kiss into Harryâs forehead. You donât expect him to stir from it, but it seems he was just about to wake up naturally before you disturbed him, so his eyes slowly open and he smiles when his vision focuses on you. You try to school your expression into something relatively normal. Unfortunately, Harry knows you too well and can immediately tell that somethingâs off. In any other situation, youâd be impressed by how well he can read you. Even with his mind suspended between alertness and sleep, he knows youâre upset and reaches for your hand in concern.
âHey, whatâs wrong?â Harry asks, rubbing circles into the back of your hand. He knows the repetitive motion grounds you when youâre anxious, so he continues to graze your skin with his thumb, willing you to relax.
âHââ you start to say, but youâre cut off by the sound of Harryâs ringtone. He reaches over you to grab his phone from the nightstand, his other hand still clasped with yours. When he falls back into the mattress, you manage to get a glance at his phone screen. Itâs displaying an incoming call from Jeff. Fuck.
Harry accepts the call, still ignorant to the situation. His gaze flickers over your face as the line connectsâhe's clearly still worried about you.
"Hey, H," Jeff says. You can hear him sigh through the phone, "have you been online recently?"
"Been asleep for the past," Harry pauses to check the time, "three hours, so that would be a no."
"Shit," Jeff says, sounding significantly less collected than he usually does. "Okay. Um, do me a favor and stay off of social media for now. I'll call you when it's all been resolved."
"What?" Harry sits up slightly at the sound of Jeff's voice, running a hand through his hair. "I'm confused. Is everything alright?"
"Listen, it's fine. I've got it all under control, just... don't go on Instagram, or Twitter, or anything."
"Jeff," Harry groans, "don't be cryptic. You're obviously dealing with something that's got to do with me, don't you think I have a right to know what's going on?"
There's silence over line for a bit, Jeff clearly ruminating over whether or not to tell Harry the truth. You chew on your lip worriedly, waiting for his voice to come through again.
"There's an article thatâs been published online," Jeff starts, "and it's highly critical of you. It's circulating through social media right now, and we're trying to put a stop to it. I've got a meeting with your label's attorneys in a few minutes, but seriously H, for your own good please do not read it. We'll have it taken down by the end of the day."
"Oh," Harry blinks, clearly caught off-guard. You can't blame him for it. People don't normally wake up from naps and find out half the internet has turned against them. "Alright. That's fine. Um, call me if you need anything. Good luck."
"H, I'm serious, don'tâ" Jeff begins, but Harry hangs up before he can finish his sentence. He's already sat up fully in bed, back leaning against the headboard as he types away furiously on his phone. You don't try to stop him from Googling the article; he deserves to see what's been written. You just sit up next to him and silently run a hand down his arm, tracing where the fabric of his t-shirt ends and the familiar ink on his skin begins. You reach for him and let him know that he has you to lean on.
"You know what they've written isn't true," you whisper, "you know that." Itâs all you can say for now.
Harry doesn't respond to that, his eyes too busy scanning through the article. He spends the next seven minutes reading every word silently, taking each criticism and judgement in. When heâs finished, Harry shuts his phone off with a click and sets it down silently on the bedside table. You avert your eyes from him, afraid that if you look up you might be able to see every morsel of hurt on his face.
In the end, Harryâs the first to break the silence.
âWho approved that?â Is what he says, his voice faltering almost imperceptibly at the end. Itâs quiet enough that only someone who knows him as well as you do would be able to notice.
âH,â you respond, splaying your hand across his chest and letting his head fall gently onto your shoulder.
âNone of that is real. Itâs not a reflection of who you are.â You say that with conviction. Heâs got the most beautiful soul, does everything with so much heart. Heâs so full of love that at times you worry he might burst from it. Itâs completely unfair what heâs been reduced to.
âYou can only read shitty things about yourself for so long before you start to believe them,â Harry says brokenly, and his composure gives away then. He takes a trembling breath in and you feel a wetness start to form on the sleeve of your shirt. You donât have to look at him to know heâs crying.
Itâs in moments like these where his façade starts to crumble, and you see him transform back into the boy you once knew, before the whole world knew his name. Spending every day terrified that at any given moment, people wouldnât want to listen to his voice anymore and the rug would be pulled from under his feet. Fearing that he might wake up one day and have to return to Holmes Chapel, even though heâs always been too big for the small town he grew up in.
âLove,â you say, pressing a hand to his cheek. His skin is flushed and you can see the ghost of a tear falling down the side of his face. âHow is anyone meant to believe anything theyâve said is valid, when they donât know you? I know exactly who you are, and the person theyâre talking about in that article is not it.â
Harry sniffles at that, pulling himself closer to you. You see him glance at his phone, so you turn it over facedown and revert your full attention back to him.
âYouâre so incredibly special,â you continue, carding your hands soothingly through his hair, âyouâve achieved an immense amount of success in the last ten years. Youâve impacted so many people, used your platform to do so much good. Thereâs always going to be people who want more from you, who criticize and tell you youâre not doing enough. But you are doing enough, H. Seriously. Youâre only human, and itâs not your fault that others expect you to be more than that. And even so, I think you make a pretty exceptional human already. You know how many people walk up to me when Iâm alone and ask me to tell you that youâve changed their lives? Thereâs so many that Iâd lost track of the number about seven years ago.â
Harry opens his mouth to say something in response, but you pat his face gently and give him a smile as if to say, Iâm not finished yet.
âAnd beyond that, who cares about the industry, about what faceless people online have to say about you? At the end of the day, youâre enough. Iâm not here for the Harry Styles who fills stadiums or commands attention at movie premieres. Iâm here for the Harry who accidentally leaves the coffee pot on for too long because heâs too busy trying to get me to dance with him in the kitchen. For the Harry who keeps movie stubs and pebbles deep inside his pockets because he wants to keep a souvenir to remind him of every little thing weâve done together. The Harry whoâs a huge sentimental sap, whoâs got the biggest heart in the world.â
You finish with a sigh, gazing at Harry earnestly and hoping that he can feel the gravity of your words.
âYouâre right,â Harry smiles softly, clasping a hand around your wrist, voice slightly raspy still. âI shouldnât let it get to my head. Itâs just hard sometimes, you know? I feel like I might be a little too soft for all of it.â
âI love your softness and vulnerability,â you say, âAnd getting upset when people are dragging your name through the mud is perfectly normal. I canât even begin to imagine how overwhelming it is for you. But youâll always have me right here beside you. And trust me, Iâd be going to war for you over Twitter right now if I knew Jeff wouldnât kill me for doing so.â
Harry laughs at that, loud and open in the way that you love. âMy Princess Charming,â he says, wrapping his arms around you in a crushing hug. âForever prepared to defend my honor.â
True to his word, Jeff and Columbiaâs legal team get the article taken down in record time. They say Harryâs allowed to post a response to it, if he wants, but heâs never been one to start fights over the internet so he settles on this instead.
A single picture, posted to his Instagram of your hands, your fingers intertwined like the two of you were built to be extensions of each other. The caption is simple. It reads:
I find myself running home to your sweet nothings
Outside, theyâre push and shoving; youâre in the kitchen humming
All that you ever wanted from me was sweet nothing.
He turns the comments off, not wanting to entertain any further commentary. Itâs a picture meant for just the two of you, a reminder that all the noise coming from the outside means nothing when you have each other. Itâs sweet. Itâs nothing. And yet somehow, itâs everything youâll ever need.
âââ
reblogs & feedback are highly welcomed and appreciated <3
oh I am in love with this. this was so beautiful top to bottom, your writing is impeccable man. my heart ached the whole damn time, i need more of these two (and ur work, please add me to ur taglist)
hi friend, i love your writing so much, iâm just curious if you are taking requests?
thank you so much! means a lot to me that you like what i write!!
as for requests, sure! go ahead and send me something. i originally closed them to catch up on previous requests, but iâve slowly come to accept that i probably never will catch up, so iâll just let them build up for now haha đ
preview: The rest of the world is so eager to view him like an object, assume that just because he spends his life in the public view, heâs somehow devoid of insecurities. But to you, heâs still the same Harry who cried backstage at Wembley after his voice cracked during a solo. The same shy, innocent boy who vomited backstage after his first show, terrified that heâd messed it all up.
An article criticizing Harry blows up on the internet, and it hits him harder than expected. Luckily, youâre there to help pick up the pieces.
MASTERLIST | READ MY LATEST SERIES
Industry disruptors and soul deconstructers, and smooth-talking hucksters out glad-handing each other
And the voices that implore, "You should be doing more," to you I can admit that I'm just too soft for all of it.
âSweet Nothing, Taylor Swift
âââ
The article is released on a Friday afternoon. It's absolutely brutalârips single every creative project Harry's ever done to shreds and leaves no endeavor unscathed. Every sentence is a biting remark, each paragraph swirled with vile accusations. It starts by criticizing his film roles, the creative direction he took in his third album, then accuses him of extorting his own fans. The author questions not only his artistry but his personhood, digs up unverified claims of rudeness and twists them into a narrative of Harry being an egotistical, ungrateful pop star. Within the hour, almost every major news station has picked the story up. It doesnât matter how far-fetched it is. The internet takes to the authorâs vitriol like wildfire, sharing it across social media platforms and online forums. Everyone wants to be the first to say they always knew something wasnât quite right about him, that itâs about time someone knocked him off his pedestal.
Itâs disgusting in every sense of the word. And it hurts even more because Harry is blissfully unaware. Heâs asleep beside you now, the two of you having settled into bed to take a quick nap together three hours earlier, when the internet had yet to point their pitchforks towards him. You know heâs been overextending himself lately, still sleeping off the jet lag from tour but unwilling to slow down his life on account of tiredness. Heâs always been like that, so dedicated to his music, because to him, putting less than two-hundred percent into the thing he loves most would be a waste. You can hardly remember the last time heâd slept earlier than two after coming homeâeven without touring commitments, heâs still found a way to keep himself busyâstaying late in the studio and meeting with executives from his record label to review the marketing plan for his next album. Heâs always thinking about the future, how he can reinvent himself and make sure he can stay doing what he loves for as long as possible.
Itâs why heâd deserved this chance to unwind and relax in the quiet of your home. But now, heâs going to wake up to a rogue journalist completely assassinating his character, when all heâs ever wanted to do is sing and make others happy. The way you see it, itâs not the least bit fair.
You look at Harry and brush his curls away from his face gently so as to not wake him. Your phone is still turned on, the article glaring angrily against your palm as you watch him sleep. He looks so peaceful, his arm curled around your waist and his legs tangled with yours as if he canât bear to be far away from you even in slumber. You wish everyone else could see him like this: soft and vulnerable, his lips upturned ever-so-slightly like heâs dreaming about something particularly pleasant.
The rest of the world is so eager to view him like an object, assume that just because he spends his life in the public view, heâs somehow devoid of insecurities. But to you, heâs still the same Harry who cried backstage at Wembley after his voice cracked during a solo. The same shy, innocent boy who vomited backstage after his first show, terrified that heâd messed it all up. Ten years down the road and heâs gained confidence, for sure. But when heâs not busy being this glittering, hip-wiggling rockstar who moves like heâs got the whole world in the palm of his hand, heâs just Harry. He still wrings his hands nervously before every performance, burns his tongue on hot tea thatâs meant to preserve his voice. You remember what he said to you back in June before his first stadium show: I donât think Iâll ever be able to be someone who doesnât care about what others think of them. He cares more than the articleâs author and the legions of people criticizing his every move online will ever know.
You shuffle forward, closing the gap between your bodies and press a soft kiss into Harryâs forehead. You donât expect him to stir from it, but it seems he was just about to wake up naturally before you disturbed him, so his eyes slowly open and he smiles when his vision focuses on you. You try to school your expression into something relatively normal. Unfortunately, Harry knows you too well and can immediately tell that somethingâs off. In any other situation, youâd be impressed by how well he can read you. Even with his mind suspended between alertness and sleep, he knows youâre upset and reaches for your hand in concern.
âHey, whatâs wrong?â Harry asks, rubbing circles into the back of your hand. He knows the repetitive motion grounds you when youâre anxious, so he continues to graze your skin with his thumb, willing you to relax.
âHââ you start to say, but youâre cut off by the sound of Harryâs ringtone. He reaches over you to grab his phone from the nightstand, his other hand still clasped with yours. When he falls back into the mattress, you manage to get a glance at his phone screen. Itâs displaying an incoming call from Jeff. Fuck.
Harry accepts the call, still ignorant to the situation. His gaze flickers over your face as the line connectsâhe's clearly still worried about you.
"Hey, H," Jeff says. You can hear him sigh through the phone, "have you been online recently?"
"Been asleep for the past," Harry pauses to check the time, "three hours, so that would be a no."
"Shit," Jeff says, sounding significantly less collected than he usually does. "Okay. Um, do me a favor and stay off of social media for now. I'll call you when it's all been resolved."
"What?" Harry sits up slightly at the sound of Jeff's voice, running a hand through his hair. "I'm confused. Is everything alright?"
"Listen, it's fine. I've got it all under control, just... don't go on Instagram, or Twitter, or anything."
"Jeff," Harry groans, "don't be cryptic. You're obviously dealing with something that's got to do with me, don't you think I have a right to know what's going on?"
There's silence over line for a bit, Jeff clearly ruminating over whether or not to tell Harry the truth. You chew on your lip worriedly, waiting for his voice to come through again.
"There's an article thatâs been published online," Jeff starts, "and it's highly critical of you. It's circulating through social media right now, and we're trying to put a stop to it. I've got a meeting with your label's attorneys in a few minutes, but seriously H, for your own good please do not read it. We'll have it taken down by the end of the day."
"Oh," Harry blinks, clearly caught off-guard. You can't blame him for it. People don't normally wake up from naps and find out half the internet has turned against them. "Alright. That's fine. Um, call me if you need anything. Good luck."
"H, I'm serious, don'tâ" Jeff begins, but Harry hangs up before he can finish his sentence. He's already sat up fully in bed, back leaning against the headboard as he types away furiously on his phone. You don't try to stop him from Googling the article; he deserves to see what's been written. You just sit up next to him and silently run a hand down his arm, tracing where the fabric of his t-shirt ends and the familiar ink on his skin begins. You reach for him and let him know that he has you to lean on.
"You know what they've written isn't true," you whisper, "you know that." Itâs all you can say for now.
Harry doesn't respond to that, his eyes too busy scanning through the article. He spends the next seven minutes reading every word silently, taking each criticism and judgement in. When heâs finished, Harry shuts his phone off with a click and sets it down silently on the bedside table. You avert your eyes from him, afraid that if you look up you might be able to see every morsel of hurt on his face.
In the end, Harryâs the first to break the silence.
âWho approved that?â Is what he says, his voice faltering almost imperceptibly at the end. Itâs quiet enough that only someone who knows him as well as you do would be able to notice.
âH,â you respond, splaying your hand across his chest and letting his head fall gently onto your shoulder.
âNone of that is real. Itâs not a reflection of who you are.â You say that with conviction. Heâs got the most beautiful soul, does everything with so much heart. Heâs so full of love that at times you worry he might burst from it. Itâs completely unfair what heâs been reduced to.
âYou can only read shitty things about yourself for so long before you start to believe them,â Harry says brokenly, and his composure gives away then. He takes a trembling breath in and you feel a wetness start to form on the sleeve of your shirt. You donât have to look at him to know heâs crying.
Itâs in moments like these where his façade starts to crumble, and you see him transform back into the boy you once knew, before the whole world knew his name. Spending every day terrified that at any given moment, people wouldnât want to listen to his voice anymore and the rug would be pulled from under his feet. Fearing that he might wake up one day and have to return to Holmes Chapel, even though heâs always been too big for the small town he grew up in.
âLove,â you say, pressing a hand to his cheek. His skin is flushed and you can see the ghost of a tear falling down the side of his face. âHow is anyone meant to believe anything theyâve said is valid, when they donât know you? I know exactly who you are, and the person theyâre talking about in that article is not it.â
Harry sniffles at that, pulling himself closer to you. You see him glance at his phone, so you turn it over facedown and revert your full attention back to him.
âYouâre so incredibly special,â you continue, carding your hands soothingly through his hair, âyouâve achieved an immense amount of success in the last ten years. Youâve impacted so many people, used your platform to do so much good. Thereâs always going to be people who want more from you, who criticize and tell you youâre not doing enough. But you are doing enough, H. Seriously. Youâre only human, and itâs not your fault that others expect you to be more than that. And even so, I think you make a pretty exceptional human already. You know how many people walk up to me when Iâm alone and ask me to tell you that youâve changed their lives? Thereâs so many that Iâd lost track of the number about seven years ago.â
Harry opens his mouth to say something in response, but you pat his face gently and give him a smile as if to say, Iâm not finished yet.
âAnd beyond that, who cares about the industry, about what faceless people online have to say about you? At the end of the day, youâre enough. Iâm not here for the Harry Styles who fills stadiums or commands attention at movie premieres. Iâm here for the Harry who accidentally leaves the coffee pot on for too long because heâs too busy trying to get me to dance with him in the kitchen. For the Harry who keeps movie stubs and pebbles deep inside his pockets because he wants to keep a souvenir to remind him of every little thing weâve done together. The Harry whoâs a huge sentimental sap, whoâs got the biggest heart in the world.â
You finish with a sigh, gazing at Harry earnestly and hoping that he can feel the gravity of your words.
âYouâre right,â Harry smiles softly, clasping a hand around your wrist, voice slightly raspy still. âI shouldnât let it get to my head. Itâs just hard sometimes, you know? I feel like I might be a little too soft for all of it.â
âI love your softness and vulnerability,â you say, âAnd getting upset when people are dragging your name through the mud is perfectly normal. I canât even begin to imagine how overwhelming it is for you. But youâll always have me right here beside you. And trust me, Iâd be going to war for you over Twitter right now if I knew Jeff wouldnât kill me for doing so.â
Harry laughs at that, loud and open in the way that you love. âMy Princess Charming,â he says, wrapping his arms around you in a crushing hug. âForever prepared to defend my honor.â
True to his word, Jeff and Columbiaâs legal team get the article taken down in record time. They say Harryâs allowed to post a response to it, if he wants, but heâs never been one to start fights over the internet so he settles on this instead.
A single picture, posted to his Instagram of your hands, your fingers intertwined like the two of you were built to be extensions of each other. The caption is simple. It reads:
I find myself running home to your sweet nothings
Outside, theyâre push and shoving; youâre in the kitchen humming
All that you ever wanted from me was sweet nothing.
He turns the comments off, not wanting to entertain any further commentary. Itâs a picture meant for just the two of you, a reminder that all the noise coming from the outside means nothing when you have each other. Itâs sweet. Itâs nothing. And yet somehow, itâs everything youâll ever need.
âââ
reblogs & feedback are highly welcomed and appreciated <3
preview: The rest of the world is so eager to view him like an object, assume that just because he spends his life in the public view, heâs somehow devoid of insecurities. But to you, heâs still the same Harry who cried backstage at Wembley after his voice cracked during a solo. The same shy, innocent boy who vomited backstage after his first show, terrified that heâd messed it all up.
An article criticizing Harry blows up on the internet, and it hits him harder than expected. Luckily, youâre there to help pick up the pieces.
MASTERLIST | READ MY LATEST SERIES
Industry disruptors and soul deconstructers, and smooth-talking hucksters out glad-handing each other
And the voices that implore, "You should be doing more," to you I can admit that I'm just too soft for all of it.
âSweet Nothing, Taylor Swift
âââ
The article is released on a Friday afternoon. It's absolutely brutalârips single every creative project Harry's ever done to shreds and leaves no endeavor unscathed. Every sentence is a biting remark, each paragraph swirled with vile accusations. It starts by criticizing his film roles, the creative direction he took in his third album, then accuses him of extorting his own fans. The author questions not only his artistry but his personhood, digs up unverified claims of rudeness and twists them into a narrative of Harry being an egotistical, ungrateful pop star. Within the hour, almost every major news station has picked the story up. It doesnât matter how far-fetched it is. The internet takes to the authorâs vitriol like wildfire, sharing it across social media platforms and online forums. Everyone wants to be the first to say they always knew something wasnât quite right about him, that itâs about time someone knocked him off his pedestal.
Itâs disgusting in every sense of the word. And it hurts even more because Harry is blissfully unaware. Heâs asleep beside you now, the two of you having settled into bed to take a quick nap together three hours earlier, when the internet had yet to point their pitchforks towards him. You know heâs been overextending himself lately, still sleeping off the jet lag from tour but unwilling to slow down his life on account of tiredness. Heâs always been like that, so dedicated to his music, because to him, putting less than two-hundred percent into the thing he loves most would be a waste. You can hardly remember the last time heâd slept earlier than two after coming homeâeven without touring commitments, heâs still found a way to keep himself busyâstaying late in the studio and meeting with executives from his record label to review the marketing plan for his next album. Heâs always thinking about the future, how he can reinvent himself and make sure he can stay doing what he loves for as long as possible.
Itâs why heâd deserved this chance to unwind and relax in the quiet of your home. But now, heâs going to wake up to a rogue journalist completely assassinating his character, when all heâs ever wanted to do is sing and make others happy. The way you see it, itâs not the least bit fair.
You look at Harry and brush his curls away from his face gently so as to not wake him. Your phone is still turned on, the article glaring angrily against your palm as you watch him sleep. He looks so peaceful, his arm curled around your waist and his legs tangled with yours as if he canât bear to be far away from you even in slumber. You wish everyone else could see him like this: soft and vulnerable, his lips upturned ever-so-slightly like heâs dreaming about something particularly pleasant.
The rest of the world is so eager to view him like an object, assume that just because he spends his life in the public view, heâs somehow devoid of insecurities. But to you, heâs still the same Harry who cried backstage at Wembley after his voice cracked during a solo. The same shy, innocent boy who vomited backstage after his first show, terrified that heâd messed it all up. Ten years down the road and heâs gained confidence, for sure. But when heâs not busy being this glittering, hip-wiggling rockstar who moves like heâs got the whole world in the palm of his hand, heâs just Harry. He still wrings his hands nervously before every performance, burns his tongue on hot tea thatâs meant to preserve his voice. You remember what he said to you back in June before his first stadium show: I donât think Iâll ever be able to be someone who doesnât care about what others think of them. He cares more than the articleâs author and the legions of people criticizing his every move online will ever know.
You shuffle forward, closing the gap between your bodies and press a soft kiss into Harryâs forehead. You donât expect him to stir from it, but it seems he was just about to wake up naturally before you disturbed him, so his eyes slowly open and he smiles when his vision focuses on you. You try to school your expression into something relatively normal. Unfortunately, Harry knows you too well and can immediately tell that somethingâs off. In any other situation, youâd be impressed by how well he can read you. Even with his mind suspended between alertness and sleep, he knows youâre upset and reaches for your hand in concern.
âHey, whatâs wrong?â Harry asks, rubbing circles into the back of your hand. He knows the repetitive motion grounds you when youâre anxious, so he continues to graze your skin with his thumb, willing you to relax.
âHââ you start to say, but youâre cut off by the sound of Harryâs ringtone. He reaches over you to grab his phone from the nightstand, his other hand still clasped with yours. When he falls back into the mattress, you manage to get a glance at his phone screen. Itâs displaying an incoming call from Jeff. Fuck.
Harry accepts the call, still ignorant to the situation. His gaze flickers over your face as the line connectsâhe's clearly still worried about you.
"Hey, H," Jeff says. You can hear him sigh through the phone, "have you been online recently?"
"Been asleep for the past," Harry pauses to check the time, "three hours, so that would be a no."
"Shit," Jeff says, sounding significantly less collected than he usually does. "Okay. Um, do me a favor and stay off of social media for now. I'll call you when it's all been resolved."
"What?" Harry sits up slightly at the sound of Jeff's voice, running a hand through his hair. "I'm confused. Is everything alright?"
"Listen, it's fine. I've got it all under control, just... don't go on Instagram, or Twitter, or anything."
"Jeff," Harry groans, "don't be cryptic. You're obviously dealing with something that's got to do with me, don't you think I have a right to know what's going on?"
There's silence over line for a bit, Jeff clearly ruminating over whether or not to tell Harry the truth. You chew on your lip worriedly, waiting for his voice to come through again.
"There's an article thatâs been published online," Jeff starts, "and it's highly critical of you. It's circulating through social media right now, and we're trying to put a stop to it. I've got a meeting with your label's attorneys in a few minutes, but seriously H, for your own good please do not read it. We'll have it taken down by the end of the day."
"Oh," Harry blinks, clearly caught off-guard. You can't blame him for it. People don't normally wake up from naps and find out half the internet has turned against them. "Alright. That's fine. Um, call me if you need anything. Good luck."
"H, I'm serious, don'tâ" Jeff begins, but Harry hangs up before he can finish his sentence. He's already sat up fully in bed, back leaning against the headboard as he types away furiously on his phone. You don't try to stop him from Googling the article; he deserves to see what's been written. You just sit up next to him and silently run a hand down his arm, tracing where the fabric of his t-shirt ends and the familiar ink on his skin begins. You reach for him and let him know that he has you to lean on.
"You know what they've written isn't true," you whisper, "you know that." Itâs all you can say for now.
Harry doesn't respond to that, his eyes too busy scanning through the article. He spends the next seven minutes reading every word silently, taking each criticism and judgement in. When heâs finished, Harry shuts his phone off with a click and sets it down silently on the bedside table. You avert your eyes from him, afraid that if you look up you might be able to see every morsel of hurt on his face.
In the end, Harryâs the first to break the silence.
âWho approved that?â Is what he says, his voice faltering almost imperceptibly at the end. Itâs quiet enough that only someone who knows him as well as you do would be able to notice.
âH,â you respond, splaying your hand across his chest and letting his head fall gently onto your shoulder.
âNone of that is real. Itâs not a reflection of who you are.â You say that with conviction. Heâs got the most beautiful soul, does everything with so much heart. Heâs so full of love that at times you worry he might burst from it. Itâs completely unfair what heâs been reduced to.
âYou can only read shitty things about yourself for so long before you start to believe them,â Harry says brokenly, and his composure gives away then. He takes a trembling breath in and you feel a wetness start to form on the sleeve of your shirt. You donât have to look at him to know heâs crying.
Itâs in moments like these where his façade starts to crumble, and you see him transform back into the boy you once knew, before the whole world knew his name. Spending every day terrified that at any given moment, people wouldnât want to listen to his voice anymore and the rug would be pulled from under his feet. Fearing that he might wake up one day and have to return to Holmes Chapel, even though heâs always been too big for the small town he grew up in.
âLove,â you say, pressing a hand to his cheek. His skin is flushed and you can see the ghost of a tear falling down the side of his face. âHow is anyone meant to believe anything theyâve said is valid, when they donât know you? I know exactly who you are, and the person theyâre talking about in that article is not it.â
Harry sniffles at that, pulling himself closer to you. You see him glance at his phone, so you turn it over facedown and revert your full attention back to him.
âYouâre so incredibly special,â you continue, carding your hands soothingly through his hair, âyouâve achieved an immense amount of success in the last ten years. Youâve impacted so many people, used your platform to do so much good. Thereâs always going to be people who want more from you, who criticize and tell you youâre not doing enough. But you are doing enough, H. Seriously. Youâre only human, and itâs not your fault that others expect you to be more than that. And even so, I think you make a pretty exceptional human already. You know how many people walk up to me when Iâm alone and ask me to tell you that youâve changed their lives? Thereâs so many that Iâd lost track of the number about seven years ago.â
Harry opens his mouth to say something in response, but you pat his face gently and give him a smile as if to say, Iâm not finished yet.
âAnd beyond that, who cares about the industry, about what faceless people online have to say about you? At the end of the day, youâre enough. Iâm not here for the Harry Styles who fills stadiums or commands attention at movie premieres. Iâm here for the Harry who accidentally leaves the coffee pot on for too long because heâs too busy trying to get me to dance with him in the kitchen. For the Harry who keeps movie stubs and pebbles deep inside his pockets because he wants to keep a souvenir to remind him of every little thing weâve done together. The Harry whoâs a huge sentimental sap, whoâs got the biggest heart in the world.â
You finish with a sigh, gazing at Harry earnestly and hoping that he can feel the gravity of your words.
âYouâre right,â Harry smiles softly, clasping a hand around your wrist, voice slightly raspy still. âI shouldnât let it get to my head. Itâs just hard sometimes, you know? I feel like I might be a little too soft for all of it.â
âI love your softness and vulnerability,â you say, âAnd getting upset when people are dragging your name through the mud is perfectly normal. I canât even begin to imagine how overwhelming it is for you. But youâll always have me right here beside you. And trust me, Iâd be going to war for you over Twitter right now if I knew Jeff wouldnât kill me for doing so.â
Harry laughs at that, loud and open in the way that you love. âMy Princess Charming,â he says, wrapping his arms around you in a crushing hug. âForever prepared to defend my honor.â
True to his word, Jeff and Columbiaâs legal team get the article taken down in record time. They say Harryâs allowed to post a response to it, if he wants, but heâs never been one to start fights over the internet so he settles on this instead.
A single picture, posted to his Instagram of your hands, your fingers intertwined like the two of you were built to be extensions of each other. The caption is simple. It reads:
I find myself running home to your sweet nothings
Outside, theyâre push and shoving; youâre in the kitchen humming
All that you ever wanted from me was sweet nothing.
He turns the comments off, not wanting to entertain any further commentary. Itâs a picture meant for just the two of you, a reminder that all the noise coming from the outside means nothing when you have each other. Itâs sweet. Itâs nothing. And yet somehow, itâs everything youâll ever need.
âââ
reblogs & feedback are highly welcomed and appreciated <3
(I just found this in my drafts?!?!? Idk why I didnât post this but happy Monday, have this !!!! This is the closest Iâve gotten to writing smut)
youâre convinced someoneâs taking pictures of you and Harry goes outside to investigateâŠ
word count: like 600 words?
warnings: hints of sexual acts, swearing, harry being an annoying tease
.
âJesus.â Harry breathes into your neck, pressing your hips tighter against the sink from behind. Your fingers grip the sides of the basin as he caresses your body sultrily, hands griping at any curve and bump he can find.
âThatâs nice.â You sigh, lifting your arm around the back of his neck as his mouth travels to your shoulders. The thin strap of your blouse falls softly down and he holds you tighter when he sees it, fingers rising to pull it down further and reveal your thin bralette.
âMissed this. Missed your body.â He groans when he sees the bralette, his hand moving cheekily over your chest to feel you up, something heâd yearned to do on his nights alone in random hotel rooms. You gasp at the contrast of his warm hand in the cold room as it slides under the flimsy fabric and kneads your flesh.
âPlease, Harry.â You can barely speak when youâre like this, he just completely takes your breath away with his calculated touches. Your head lolls to the side against his collar bones as one hand continues to move down your body where you really need him, whilst the other continues to fondle your chest.
Heâs seemingly focused on watching your body, whilst your eyes glance out at the tall bushes surrounding his London abode, shielding you from the public eye. It almost felt scandalous, knowing that he could take you right here in front of the window andâ
âFuck!â You start, shoving Harry backwards with your body and scrambling to pull up your tank top, moving far away from the window, leaving a very alarmed yet very flustered looking expression on his face.
âWhat? Wh- are you okay? Did I do something?â He panics, looking you over and taking a nervous step forwards with his arms up in surrender. Your hands are trembling as you grasp at his, trying your best to calm down and level your head. Youâre almost sure you saw some kind of flash coming from between the branches in the trees, and it has completely shaken you up.
âNo, no! Of course not. Oh my God, Harry. I think someone just took a pictureâ in the bush! I saw a flashâ I-â
Harryâs face pales and he moves your body behind his defensively, leaning over to glance out the window and seeing nothing. âAre you sure?â
You gape and shrug, wrapping your arms around your frame protectively. He plants his warm hands against your shoulders and rubs at them.
âHey, itâs okay. Iâll go and check, alright?â He seems very level headed considering heâs the one out of the two of you whose image is on the line of someone did take a photo of the two of you in such a compromising position. You nod and look at him bashfully when he grabs his hoodie he discarded moments before and hands it to you, pulling the blind down rapidly before sliding on his shoes.
âTheyâre gonna sell that picture, Harry. My bra was outâ I donât want that onlineââ
âThey wonât, okay. Iâll make sure of it. Wait here, Iâm gonna call Jeff.â He says breathlessly, planting a kiss on your lips and sliding out of the front door.
You watch from a crack in the blinds near the front door as he marches out on the gravel, phone pressed to his ear as he inspects the surroundings of his property. You hug his hoodie tighter until you see him moving back towards the front door again, mouth moving inaudibly as he presumably describes the situation to Jeff, the music crooning through his speakers made it hard for you to tell what heâs saying. You decide to move away from the window, hanging back near the bottom of the stairs and biting your nails. You donât know if youâre going mad, but youâre sure you see another flash come from behind the blinds.
After locking the front door, he seemingly closes off the conversation, and you stand anxiously, rolling on the balls of your feet as you wait to cling back on to him again for a feeling of safety.
âHey, was that Jeff?â You mumble, wrapping your arms around his limp one. He gazes down at you and nods, planting a kiss on your head and moving to shut the rest of the blinds that hang over the plethora of windows in his house. Youâre shocked that someone of his celebrity status would want many windows for this reason alone.
âWell? Youâre scaring me. Iâm sure I just saw another oneâH? What is it?â Your hands ring together when he doesnât seem to give you an answer and just rubs his eyes, completely unbothered and unfazed by the fact that someone could have just taken a picture of the two of you moments before having sex against the kitchen sink. You most definitely did not want that plastered over every British newspaper in the morning.
He looks at you with a straight face before his demeanour cracks and he begins laughing hysterically, making you stand there and gaze at him incredulously. Heâs going the full mile, slapping a hand against his legs and clutching his knees in a doubled over position, and your face begins to heat uncomfortably. âWhat, Harry?â
âUhm. That flash? Yeah, I think weâre experiencing some bad weather outside, baby. Iâm not sure if youâve ever heard of a thunderstorm, but that might be what you mistook for a camera flash before.â He snorts, moving over to rub his hand against your arm.
You pull away, scowl on your face to try and mask the intense embarrassment thatâs beginning to creep its way through your body. Of course it would be lightning, yet your constant paranoia dating a someone in the public eye made you believe you were being stalked.
âAre you fucking joking?â You move towards the speaker and lower the volume, feeling your skin prickle even more so when you hear the grumble of thunder follow what looked like another flash. Harry is a few steps behind you covering his mouth when you turn back to him.
âI donât even wanna hear itââ you sigh, moving away from Harry and going to sulkily climb up the stairs, he follows you, trying to contain his laughter as he shouts your name. You pull his jumper off your body and chuck it into the washing basket in the corner of his bedroom. You were being dramatic, but you feel stupid for thinking that someone would even have access to Harryâs property, especially after he told you just earlier that he installed a high-end security system just recently.
âBaby.â He drawls, moving to stand behind you and grasp your hips.
âI feel stupid, Harry. Donât.â You sigh, shaking your head and turning around in his hold. Your frown is short lived, however, when you see Harryâs beaming face looking down at you, a laugh fighting its way up his throat once again.
âHey, itâs okay. Iâm not bothered. Iâm glad you care so much about our privacy.â He teases, grasping your jaw for a kiss. You stay stiff as he kisses you and fold your arms petulantly.
âMaybe your eyes were playing tricks on you. I was touching you pretty good, so Iâm not surprised if your recollection is a bit shit.â He says cockily, removing his hands from your body and starting to walk away. You feel your cheeks heat for another reason at his crass words.
You huff and grab his arm at the loss of contact, looking at him expectantly. He raises his eyes brows, moving closer to you and planting his arms back around your waist, letting them travel down to your behind.
âAre you okay though?â His tone is quiet and actually genuine, and you feel your resolve slipping.
âYeah. It just made me nervous.â You lift your head to meet his and brush your noses together.
âMm. And you want me to calm you down, again?â His voice his gruffer and more teasing as he says this, grin on his face as grips your backside tighter. You hesitate, before nodding slowly and leaning to kiss him. He pulls away before your lips can meet.
âOoh! Hold that thoughtââ he presses his thumb to your lips and you squint. His gaze travels over to his bedroom window and he slinks over, pulling on the blind until itâs completely down and giving you a wink.
âDonât need anymore unwanted eyes.â He winks.
You swat his bicep, âthatâs it. Youâve lost all touching privileges until tomorrow.â
preview: The rest of the world is so eager to view him like an object, assume that just because he spends his life in the public view, heâs somehow devoid of insecurities. But to you, heâs still the same Harry who cried backstage at Wembley after his voice cracked during a solo. The same shy, innocent boy who vomited backstage after his first show, terrified that heâd messed it all up.
An article criticizing Harry blows up on the internet, and it hits him harder than expected. Luckily, youâre there to help pick up the pieces.
MASTERLIST | READ MY LATEST SERIES
Industry disruptors and soul deconstructers, and smooth-talking hucksters out glad-handing each other
And the voices that implore, "You should be doing more," to you I can admit that I'm just too soft for all of it.
âSweet Nothing, Taylor Swift
âââ
The article is released on a Friday afternoon. It's absolutely brutalârips single every creative project Harry's ever done to shreds and leaves no endeavor unscathed. Every sentence is a biting remark, each paragraph swirled with vile accusations. It starts by criticizing his film roles, the creative direction he took in his third album, then accuses him of extorting his own fans. The author questions not only his artistry but his personhood, digs up unverified claims of rudeness and twists them into a narrative of Harry being an egotistical, ungrateful pop star. Within the hour, almost every major news station has picked the story up. It doesnât matter how far-fetched it is. The internet takes to the authorâs vitriol like wildfire, sharing it across social media platforms and online forums. Everyone wants to be the first to say they always knew something wasnât quite right about him, that itâs about time someone knocked him off his pedestal.
Itâs disgusting in every sense of the word. And it hurts even more because Harry is blissfully unaware. Heâs asleep beside you now, the two of you having settled into bed to take a quick nap together three hours earlier, when the internet had yet to point their pitchforks towards him. You know heâs been overextending himself lately, still sleeping off the jet lag from tour but unwilling to slow down his life on account of tiredness. Heâs always been like that, so dedicated to his music, because to him, putting less than two-hundred percent into the thing he loves most would be a waste. You can hardly remember the last time heâd slept earlier than two after coming homeâeven without touring commitments, heâs still found a way to keep himself busyâstaying late in the studio and meeting with executives from his record label to review the marketing plan for his next album. Heâs always thinking about the future, how he can reinvent himself and make sure he can stay doing what he loves for as long as possible.
Itâs why heâd deserved this chance to unwind and relax in the quiet of your home. But now, heâs going to wake up to a rogue journalist completely assassinating his character, when all heâs ever wanted to do is sing and make others happy. The way you see it, itâs not the least bit fair.
You look at Harry and brush his curls away from his face gently so as to not wake him. Your phone is still turned on, the article glaring angrily against your palm as you watch him sleep. He looks so peaceful, his arm curled around your waist and his legs tangled with yours as if he canât bear to be far away from you even in slumber. You wish everyone else could see him like this: soft and vulnerable, his lips upturned ever-so-slightly like heâs dreaming about something particularly pleasant.
The rest of the world is so eager to view him like an object, assume that just because he spends his life in the public view, heâs somehow devoid of insecurities. But to you, heâs still the same Harry who cried backstage at Wembley after his voice cracked during a solo. The same shy, innocent boy who vomited backstage after his first show, terrified that heâd messed it all up. Ten years down the road and heâs gained confidence, for sure. But when heâs not busy being this glittering, hip-wiggling rockstar who moves like heâs got the whole world in the palm of his hand, heâs just Harry. He still wrings his hands nervously before every performance, burns his tongue on hot tea thatâs meant to preserve his voice. You remember what he said to you back in June before his first stadium show: I donât think Iâll ever be able to be someone who doesnât care about what others think of them. He cares more than the articleâs author and the legions of people criticizing his every move online will ever know.
You shuffle forward, closing the gap between your bodies and press a soft kiss into Harryâs forehead. You donât expect him to stir from it, but it seems he was just about to wake up naturally before you disturbed him, so his eyes slowly open and he smiles when his vision focuses on you. You try to school your expression into something relatively normal. Unfortunately, Harry knows you too well and can immediately tell that somethingâs off. In any other situation, youâd be impressed by how well he can read you. Even with his mind suspended between alertness and sleep, he knows youâre upset and reaches for your hand in concern.
âHey, whatâs wrong?â Harry asks, rubbing circles into the back of your hand. He knows the repetitive motion grounds you when youâre anxious, so he continues to graze your skin with his thumb, willing you to relax.
âHââ you start to say, but youâre cut off by the sound of Harryâs ringtone. He reaches over you to grab his phone from the nightstand, his other hand still clasped with yours. When he falls back into the mattress, you manage to get a glance at his phone screen. Itâs displaying an incoming call from Jeff. Fuck.
Harry accepts the call, still ignorant to the situation. His gaze flickers over your face as the line connectsâhe's clearly still worried about you.
"Hey, H," Jeff says. You can hear him sigh through the phone, "have you been online recently?"
"Been asleep for the past," Harry pauses to check the time, "three hours, so that would be a no."
"Shit," Jeff says, sounding significantly less collected than he usually does. "Okay. Um, do me a favor and stay off of social media for now. I'll call you when it's all been resolved."
"What?" Harry sits up slightly at the sound of Jeff's voice, running a hand through his hair. "I'm confused. Is everything alright?"
"Listen, it's fine. I've got it all under control, just... don't go on Instagram, or Twitter, or anything."
"Jeff," Harry groans, "don't be cryptic. You're obviously dealing with something that's got to do with me, don't you think I have a right to know what's going on?"
There's silence over line for a bit, Jeff clearly ruminating over whether or not to tell Harry the truth. You chew on your lip worriedly, waiting for his voice to come through again.
"There's an article thatâs been published online," Jeff starts, "and it's highly critical of you. It's circulating through social media right now, and we're trying to put a stop to it. I've got a meeting with your label's attorneys in a few minutes, but seriously H, for your own good please do not read it. We'll have it taken down by the end of the day."
"Oh," Harry blinks, clearly caught off-guard. You can't blame him for it. People don't normally wake up from naps and find out half the internet has turned against them. "Alright. That's fine. Um, call me if you need anything. Good luck."
"H, I'm serious, don'tâ" Jeff begins, but Harry hangs up before he can finish his sentence. He's already sat up fully in bed, back leaning against the headboard as he types away furiously on his phone. You don't try to stop him from Googling the article; he deserves to see what's been written. You just sit up next to him and silently run a hand down his arm, tracing where the fabric of his t-shirt ends and the familiar ink on his skin begins. You reach for him and let him know that he has you to lean on.
"You know what they've written isn't true," you whisper, "you know that." Itâs all you can say for now.
Harry doesn't respond to that, his eyes too busy scanning through the article. He spends the next seven minutes reading every word silently, taking each criticism and judgement in. When heâs finished, Harry shuts his phone off with a click and sets it down silently on the bedside table. You avert your eyes from him, afraid that if you look up you might be able to see every morsel of hurt on his face.
In the end, Harryâs the first to break the silence.
âWho approved that?â Is what he says, his voice faltering almost imperceptibly at the end. Itâs quiet enough that only someone who knows him as well as you do would be able to notice.
âH,â you respond, splaying your hand across his chest and letting his head fall gently onto your shoulder.
âNone of that is real. Itâs not a reflection of who you are.â You say that with conviction. Heâs got the most beautiful soul, does everything with so much heart. Heâs so full of love that at times you worry he might burst from it. Itâs completely unfair what heâs been reduced to.
âYou can only read shitty things about yourself for so long before you start to believe them,â Harry says brokenly, and his composure gives away then. He takes a trembling breath in and you feel a wetness start to form on the sleeve of your shirt. You donât have to look at him to know heâs crying.
Itâs in moments like these where his façade starts to crumble, and you see him transform back into the boy you once knew, before the whole world knew his name. Spending every day terrified that at any given moment, people wouldnât want to listen to his voice anymore and the rug would be pulled from under his feet. Fearing that he might wake up one day and have to return to Holmes Chapel, even though heâs always been too big for the small town he grew up in.
âLove,â you say, pressing a hand to his cheek. His skin is flushed and you can see the ghost of a tear falling down the side of his face. âHow is anyone meant to believe anything theyâve said is valid, when they donât know you? I know exactly who you are, and the person theyâre talking about in that article is not it.â
Harry sniffles at that, pulling himself closer to you. You see him glance at his phone, so you turn it over facedown and revert your full attention back to him.
âYouâre so incredibly special,â you continue, carding your hands soothingly through his hair, âyouâve achieved an immense amount of success in the last ten years. Youâve impacted so many people, used your platform to do so much good. Thereâs always going to be people who want more from you, who criticize and tell you youâre not doing enough. But you are doing enough, H. Seriously. Youâre only human, and itâs not your fault that others expect you to be more than that. And even so, I think you make a pretty exceptional human already. You know how many people walk up to me when Iâm alone and ask me to tell you that youâve changed their lives? Thereâs so many that Iâd lost track of the number about seven years ago.â
Harry opens his mouth to say something in response, but you pat his face gently and give him a smile as if to say, Iâm not finished yet.
âAnd beyond that, who cares about the industry, about what faceless people online have to say about you? At the end of the day, youâre enough. Iâm not here for the Harry Styles who fills stadiums or commands attention at movie premieres. Iâm here for the Harry who accidentally leaves the coffee pot on for too long because heâs too busy trying to get me to dance with him in the kitchen. For the Harry who keeps movie stubs and pebbles deep inside his pockets because he wants to keep a souvenir to remind him of every little thing weâve done together. The Harry whoâs a huge sentimental sap, whoâs got the biggest heart in the world.â
You finish with a sigh, gazing at Harry earnestly and hoping that he can feel the gravity of your words.
âYouâre right,â Harry smiles softly, clasping a hand around your wrist, voice slightly raspy still. âI shouldnât let it get to my head. Itâs just hard sometimes, you know? I feel like I might be a little too soft for all of it.â
âI love your softness and vulnerability,â you say, âAnd getting upset when people are dragging your name through the mud is perfectly normal. I canât even begin to imagine how overwhelming it is for you. But youâll always have me right here beside you. And trust me, Iâd be going to war for you over Twitter right now if I knew Jeff wouldnât kill me for doing so.â
Harry laughs at that, loud and open in the way that you love. âMy Princess Charming,â he says, wrapping his arms around you in a crushing hug. âForever prepared to defend my honor.â
True to his word, Jeff and Columbiaâs legal team get the article taken down in record time. They say Harryâs allowed to post a response to it, if he wants, but heâs never been one to start fights over the internet so he settles on this instead.
A single picture, posted to his Instagram of your hands, your fingers intertwined like the two of you were built to be extensions of each other. The caption is simple. It reads:
I find myself running home to your sweet nothings
Outside, theyâre push and shoving; youâre in the kitchen humming
All that you ever wanted from me was sweet nothing.
He turns the comments off, not wanting to entertain any further commentary. Itâs a picture meant for just the two of you, a reminder that all the noise coming from the outside means nothing when you have each other. Itâs sweet. Itâs nothing. And yet somehow, itâs everything youâll ever need.
âââ
reblogs & feedback are highly welcomed and appreciated <3
