Magic To Do H.s.

Magic To Do h.s.

you and Harry get off on the wrong foot and are cast as lovers in a musical (slowburn enemies to lovers perhaps?)

The musical is Pippin, and I highly suggest listening to the musical, as it is really good :)

Bolded is Harry Singing…..Italics is reader singing…..Bolded & Italics is both

Warning : there’s smut 

WORD COUNT : 11.4k

Thundering claps echoing around in euphoria. The brightest lights imaginable. The adrenaline rushing through your veins. The stage had always been your dream. To be able to give people one night of entertainment and leave them gawking at the wonders of what they have just seen. The world of theatre is nothing short of difficult, you know that. The competitiveness is worse than that during a football game. People are usually not afraid to screw others over just to get themselves on top. It’s hard for you to deal with the betrayals and thoughts of possibly messing up someone else’s career. You would never do that to someone, but every time you audition, you fear that someone would do it to you. At auditions, you portrayed your best self and it’s always almost worked out in your favor. 

Your next audition was a particularly important one. The Winter Garden Theatre was holding auditions for the revival of Pippin, an older musical, but a good one. You always loved the music of Stephen Schwartz. You prepared for the audition for two months, watching the musical a handful of times to get a grasp on the best character for yourself. You decided the character of Catherine, the love interest that only appears in the second act, would fit you best. Now, you sit on the cold metal chair in the waiting room outside of where the auditions are taking place. After glancing around at the other nervous actors, you feel your shoulders relax. Everyone is stressed, no doubt. You are not alone. However sitting and watching the audition door open and close made your hands shake. Your heart was beating out of your chest. Your breathing became uneven when a woman walked out of the room crying her eyes out. You sit in the waiting room for another hour, your stomach doing flips as you wait for your name to be called. 

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listen here

bloom - the paper kites, pour another - nick hakim, brothers - penny and sparrow, youth - daughter, tally marks - joseph, autumn leaves - ed sheeran, me and mrs. jones - michael bublé, resolution - matt corby, lost / inside our minds - john vincent III, lakehouse - postcards, ILYSB/stripped - LANY, i see fire - ed sheeran, angel - sean hayes, never be alone - shawn mendes, the a team - ed sheeran, home to mama - cody simpson, roses - mackenzie bourg, say you love me - jessie ware, to build a home - the cinematic orchestra, from afar - vance joy, hedwig’s theme - john williams, woodland - the paper kites, harvest moon - neil young, give me love - ed sheeran, rules - nat & alex wolff, dust to dust - the civil wars. 

magical autumn things 🍂

- the sound of rain knocking in your window

- recently shaved legs touching fresh blankets

- the trees tinted in warm colours

- that good sip of your hot coffee

- staying in cafés in rainy days

- hearing the leaves crunching below your feet

- the preparations for halloween

- the comfort of your bed sheets after a long day

- the air humming in your ear

- getting inversed into a book and unconsciously spend hours reading

- the beauty in the simplicity of the ambience

- hugging a pillow while watching horror movies

feel free to add more ✨

What I have come to understand by suffering from mommy and daddy issues is that, I detest serious, strong-willed older women who are more likely to dominate me, because my mother is a controlling, emotionally/physically abusive, narcissistic, privacy stealing freak, who won't ever let me go from her clutches and that I prefer older men, because I never had a father figure who was constantly around, babied me, spoiled me or gave me a sense of security and safety.

I Want To Write You A Song {h.s.} Chapter 7: Sunflower Vol. 6-Harry// July 20

Sunflower

Sunflower

My eyes

Want you more than a melody

Let me inside

Wish I could get to know you

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The song was finished. Done. Over with. Several days of work and hard effort culminated into six minutes. The studio was empty. The others had left to celebrate the finishing of the track, the first song for the new record. He, however, had a date.

Not a true date. Ruby was meeting him at the studio to hear the song. Harry hadn’t wanted anyone else around. It would be hard enough to bear the pain if she didn’t like it, he didn’t want to add on the extra embarrassment of the band and Jeff hearing her torturing thoughts.

“All right, let’s hear it!” The door into Studio 4 swung open. It was just past six, she’d come straight from the bookshop. Ink was smeared on her hands and arms.

She’d been writing.

“You have to be honest if you hate it. I place a high value on constructive criticism.”

She waved him off. “I know you, H. I’m gonna love it.”

Bloody hell, he thought, I hope so. It’s about you.

Not that he would ever admit that to her. Or anyone.

“You sure? You remember the deal?”

She nodded in assurance. She sat down on the couch and placed her satchel bag on the floor. Per the agreement made the night before (or rather, pinky swear), he would let her hear the finished song only if she let him read what she had written of her book so far. She had been hesitant, but ultimately agreed. She leaned down and produced a blue journal from the bag. It had thin slips of paper slipped between the pages. “I’m ready.” She rested the journal on her thighs and let her hands lay there. “Amaze me, Harry Styles.”

He sat down in the swivel chair. He pressed down on the play button. She closed her eyes. For six minutes, she sat that way as the song played through. The sound of his voice accompanied by a soft strum of Mitch’s guitar in the back. He watched her face for those six minutes. The rhythmed playing of her fingers on her knee. The lodging of her bottom lip under her teeth. Her eyes never opened. Her general expression remained passive, unreadable. When the song ended, her eyes opened.

Neither of them spoke. He tapped his fingers against the panel board. “H…” It was a satin word, shrouded over a knife. The first letter of his name, something only she called him. A build to what would become an easy let down.

“You don’t like it.”

He liked the song. He loved it. It was a phenomenal track. So, what about it threw it for her?

“No.” She sighed, leaning back on the leather couch. “I love it.”

“You do?”

She nodded. “Why are you surprised?”

“Are you sure?”

She laughed breathlessly. Ruby had such a nice laugh. How had he gone so long without hearing it?

“Yes, I’m sure, you dumbass. You’re an amazing artist. You don’t write songs for other people, you write them for yourself. You write from your heart and your soul and it shows. It’s why everyone loves you. You aren’t one to hold back.”

She was so resolute in her assurance, so utterly convincing he gave no more on the topic. Her miniature speech had given way to the perfection of the song. His muse loved it and therefore, it was perfect. He couldn’t argue with that.

“Here.” She handed him the journal. Her prized possession. He doubted anyone’s eyes but hers had even seen inside it. “I just finished the third chapter.” Per the ink smears.

“You gonna watch me read?”

She nodded solemnly. “You watched me listen to your song. I’m gonna watch you read my book.”

He settled into the chair. He peaked at her through the corner of his eye. She was leaned impossibly forward, arms on her thighs, hands clasped together. Mouth drawn together, shoulders tense.

Had he looked like that while playing the song?

He was careful opening the journal. Immediately, there on the first page, he recognized the scrawl of her script. Looped letters curved together. Some of the words were smudged off. Why did she handwrite (and in fountain pen), when it was so much easier to type?

And he set to reading.

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Edward geeking out about bella having a vague knowledge of classical music (which was basically recognizing Clair de lune, which is one of the most popular compositions ever) has the same energy as tom from 500 days of summer nearly losing his marbles over summer listening to the smiths