Me After Seeing Zendaya, Tim And Oscar In The Trailer:

me after seeing zendaya, tim and oscar in the trailer:

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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Dark Academics

The vampire who has greasy hair and breath that never ceases to smell like coffee. They are failing all their classes, but spend whole nights fixated on their true passions, which are so niche that they can hardly find classes that touch on them. The garbage is overflowing with instant ramen packaging and coffee filters. They are often too tired to interact with anyone, but as soon as their interests are brought up, something seems to awaken within this academic, propelling them into heated and animated discussions. They never seem to sleep.

The punk. They despise how inaccessible academia is. The paywalls, the overly complicated language, and the eurocentrism all piss them off. They will not hesitate to call you out and shred you in the process. Their laptop is (metaphorically) heavy with pirated books and papers. They scan and upload textbooks to the internet for anyone to use, and they routinely sneak people into dining halls and sneak food out. Their notes app is filled with chaotic poetry they write while crossfaded. Their relatives call them a commie jokingly, but, little do they know, they might be spot on.

The daydreamer dressed in tweed. They have messy hair, a sharp gaze dulled by sleeplessness and reading for many long hours, and a fascination with the cursed. They read Donna Tartt. They can recite Shakespeare. But at what cost? They speak in iambic pentameter and spend every inch of their academic life wishing their university wasn’t some 20th century brutalist hunk of cement but an ancient stone building weathered by the centuries. Their view of academia can be eurocentric, but the more they’re exposed to different perspectives, the more they seek them out. They romanticize their caffeine addiction and terrible sleep schedule even though it’s very bad for them.

The decadent. They are a wild one with a Dionysian character. They drink and indulge more often than not. They write drunk poetry and perform it to their friends. Their fashion sense is eccentric: it’s sheer shirts that look like something a vampire would wear, faux fur with a tiger print, loud makeup. They read ravenously, devouring their books. Paperbacks beware: this academic will shred you with the sheer voracity of their note taking. They will destroy the most sentimental pages with copious tears. There is a shrine to Oscar Wilde in their bookshelf, which is entirely composed of different editions of his works. This academic reads essays from the 19th century, the more horrendously decorative the prose, the better. They are always yearning on main, whether it’s for a person or for an experience.

The romantic, a classic manifestation of the dark academic. They’re a lover of Sappho, Byron, Keats. They cry at the Romantics’ depictions of nature. They seek out the Sublime in every aspect of their life. The sunset, the moon peeking through the clouds, the cacophony of birds, and the rustling of leaves in a summer breeze. Every step they take is a symphony of organic strings singing through motion. They collect pretty notebooks, filling them with flowers. They feel every emotion deeply, allowing each one to boil and simmer within them. They love the world so deeply even when it hurts them. They’re a bit of a masochist in that aspect, as they believe that bit of pain amplifies the pleasure.

The artist, the academic who reads The Picture of Dorian Gray and sees themself in Basil; the academic who reads The Worshipper of the Image and knows that they, too, would fall in a tormented and passionate love with Silencieux. The art they make displays their adoration for the subjects they portray. There is a facet of them in every stroke of their creation, and to be viewed by the eyes of this academic is to be made art by their perception. Their characters and motifs have familiar faces and voices. There is a speck of someone you know mixed in with a speck of someone else, all filtered through the lens of the artist-academic.

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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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.

Back Off! H.S. AU! Coach Harry

Background: In this Harry (25)  is living with fame as a coach and he hides his money as best he can, but his generosity toward everyone, ruins it.

Summary: Coach!Harry brought a few students home to work on extra curriculars, it didn’t go as plan when they start hitting on his wife.

Warnings: none

MASTERLIST

3rd POV

Harry finished packing his bag, walking out of his head coaches office. He crossed the hall over to the boy’s locker room. He knocked on the door calling for Dylan. Illiana and Dylan Stevenson, the “Stevenson Twins” as they were called, had asked him for extra help to make their teams this year. He waited in the hall texting his wife y/n that he was about to leave the school and that he was gonna bring 2 of his students over to practice for a bit and they would stay for dinner. He gave her specific instructions NOT to cook dinner. He felt very obligated to make her dinner every night. It was only fair since she was home and cleaned the house and did the laundry all day, while he was at work.

Finally, the two of them were ready and they all walked to his car. He opened the trunk of his Audi and helped them put their equipment in. They chatted lightly and he gave them some info about his life outside of the high school he worked at. He told them about his wife and his home, 5-acre property with a basketball and tennis court, a guest house, and pool.

They drove through the woods and up to his secluded “oasis in the middle of the woods” as he called it. He parked the car and the children got out. They pretended not to be amazed at all by the fact that Harry could afford this on a teacher’s salary. Deep down both of these disgusting rich snobs were thoroughly impressed. Not even their CEO parents could afford this.

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