“Harry, it’s an absolute pleasure to meet you,” a voice came from behind you both, a tone of excitement and shock at the fact that Harry Styles was stood in front of him, in a studio that would be theirs for the next few hours to work on a project both had been so excited about, “I’m Willie Vanderperre. I’ll be photographing you today for the studio shoot. Thank you for coming in so early today. I know it’s a long journey from London to here.”

You’d both slept sweetly the previous night, shutting eyes at 8 and finally snoozing – and wheezing from Harry – by the half past mark, the alarm beeping after what felt like minutes but was really a good 8 hours of sleep. By 5 in the morning, you were well underway on a journey out of London, dressed in hoodies and beanies with the heating inside the car up to the maximum, hot air blasting around the small inside of the car Harry had opted to take for the drive – his car with comfy seats and a much cosier interior. A stop off for a quick service station breakfast at half past 6 before you were back on the road and travelling well into the countryside of Cheshire for a full day of photo taking and styling.
A full day where you got to witness Harry stepping out of his comfort zone, kick-starting his solo journey with you close by his side, watching intently as he tried something new.
A full day of reminiscence and travelling to where he’d grown up, filling people in with stories of his childhood as well as what his proposed job was for being there – modelling and posing for specific outfits, showing a different side to the man you’d grown to love in 4 years.
A full day of getting to know the ins and outs of what it took to be a model and what you had to expect as a girlfriend to an aspiring man who had taken much thought in what path he needed to take; when Harry decided that modelling as a side job would work perfectly alongside his solo career – working with himself and no one else, he was going to be no stranger to a plain white backdrop and flash brollies hanging around him as a shutter on a camera captured his poised and nonchalant stature.
“Willie, hi. It’s so great to meet you,” Harry grinned, his hand pulling from yours and reaching forward to shake at the photographer’s awaiting hand, a smile on Willie’s lips when their skin came into contact and their arms moved in synchronisation, “this is my girlfriend, (Y/N). I was told she could come and hang out behind the scenes and stuff.”
“I can leave if not. Harry’s mum called me up on the journey here and she suggested she’d come and pick me up for the day to go shopping around Manchester,” you reasoned, a smile on your lips as their hands disconnected and dropped to their sides, “I can distract Harry sometimes so I’d hate to be some sort of bother when he needs to be serious in some shots.”
You were no odd one to pop along to a photoshoot with a box of food from a sandwich shop or his favourite restaurant for him to chew upon during his lunch break, catching you up with the importance of what had happened when you were absent from him. You’d keep him for a little longer to yourself in the corner where he’d sprawl out upon the floor and take hearty bites of whatever you’d brought for him, when really he was meant to be out on the floor and sitting on a box or upon steps that had been brought in especially for the shoot.
And, much to the annoyance of everyone in the room, you found it upon yourself to stay behind for the last half to be there when Harry was ready to go home – because deep down, he would call you up to come and collect him from the venue because you had a hunch he wouldn’t want to take the loud car journey back home with boys. But, he’d be distracted; much more distracted than he was when you weren’t around. With his girlfriend standing behind the camera and watching him with a smile on her lips, he found it tough to keep a cheeky grin at bay, as well as stopping his cheeks from tinging a pink colour that was strangely visible upon his skin.
You vowed and promised to him that you wouldn’t accompany him on anymore important photoshoots because you couldn’t risk the telling-off you would endure from the director of said photoshoot.
“(Y/N), it’s so lovely to have you here with us,” Willie cooed, his arms open wide as he brought you to his chest, a strong smell of cologne wafting up through your nose as his body made swift movements, “you’re more than welcomed to stay. It’ll be great to have some natural faces and I reckon you’ll be pulling those out of him.”
“I can try,” you whispered against his cheek as a deep chuckle sounded from his throat, “he’s all smiles and grins anyway so I have no worries about him failing you today, Mr Vanderperre.”
“I’ve seen this young fellow in other photos when he was with One Direction and I’m absolutely honoured to be photographing him for this magazine. I’ve been looking forward to working with this young man for a long while,” Willie admitted truthfully, pulling away from your body and unravelling his arms from your shoulders, dropping his hands to his side as he looked up towards Harry. His fingers pulling at the elastic holding his hair into a bun, letting his locks fall down his cheeks in long and curling tendrils. “Shall we go and meet all the crew that we’ll be working with today?”
“Of course,” Harry grinned, his fingers lacing through yours as he brought your hand to his lips and pressed a soft kiss to your skin, “thank you for bein’ here with me today. I would’a been a nervous wreck walking through those doors if you I was on me’ own.”
“I’m glad to be here with you today, you know that, Peaches.”

“You know, I might have to sneak that nickname in when I’ve got those interviews comin’ up with Sir Paul and Chelsea,” Harry teased, the heels of his boots clicking on the light grey and dusty concrete floor as he followed Willie in suit, a little bit further ahead of you, “then you’d be swamped with questions from the fans on Twitter. Even on Instagram. Can you imagine?”
“But then they might start calling you Peaches,” you frowned, tugging on his hand and stopping his hefty body from stepping further away from you, “and Peaches is just a nickname for me. I don’t wan’a share it with anyone.”
Selfish.
You know.
But you didn’t have a lot of private things with Harry. The nickname you’d given him one night was something that you felt needed to be kept secret between the both of you, hidden away from the fans who would use the name and take it to their advantage. It wouldn’t be long after that they’d be meeting him on the streets and letting the name roll off of their tongues as they hugged him and took photos with him before starting up a conversation. It wouldn’t be long before you’d go to his shows and see banners with the name ‘Peaches’ scribbled across the white paper, with bright and twinkling fairy lights trying to capture his attention. It wouldn’t be long before fan art would be made about the name, some almost spot on to how the nickname came about, and Twitter names would be changed to the sweet something fit for Harry, and Harry only.
You didn’t mind sweet little somethings being expressed to the fans – what happened on birthdays celebrated with just the two of you and what it was like to spend it with one another or what happened at Christmas time and whether walks were taken in the frosty fields. But, a personal and preferred favourite to the fans, were stories about what you both did on a lazy day when you were bound behind the four walls by the rain falling heavily outside.
But this nickname?
It was something you didn’t want to be let out in the open.
“I’m just joking, Gorgeous. I quite like the fact that there is that little bit of privacy between us that the fans don’t quite know yet,” he grinned, his thumb rubbing over your knuckles as your steps synced and you walked comfortably beside him, “I might get you in some of these photos today. What do you think? We could sneak some cheeky photos in and get them privately sent.”
“I don’t think we can do that, Harry.”
“Why not? It’s worth an ask,” he offered, a smile lifting up the corner of his lips and his cheek sporting a sweet dimple that you loved to pepper kisses to, “we can just have one from the studio bit, one from the outside bit and one from the very outside bit when we get to the more countryside area.”
“Harry, this is your solo magazine shoot to talk about your solo career and moving forward in acting. That’s a little bit more important right now,” you warned, your feet coming to a stop as you stood behind Willie, a deep conversation happening between the photographer you’d met just a short ten minutes ago and a man who you could guess was a hair stylist, due to the atmosphere behind him and the accessories in his hands.
A mirror and a chair set up ready to situate Harry in as he got his long locks styled and made presentable for a shoot that would result in shots set for printing in the well-known magazine issue.
“Alistair, meet Harry Styles. Harry, meet Alistair Mackie. He’ll be working with you as your hair stylist and hair dresser through the three shoots today. He’ll be styling your long hair, cutting it to a style fit for the old days in the 60s and then cutting it again to make you ready for your movie,” Willie explained, clapping Alistair on the bed as he thrust a free hand forward and took hold of Harry’s awaiting palm.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Harry,” Alistair stated, his wrist shaking as Harry gave him a smile and a pleasant nod. A gesture he’d found easy to portray across the feeling of happiness about being somewhere he found was a little bit out of his comfort zone. “I have to admit, I’m a bit nervous about cutting this hair, you know? It’s so loved by many and I’m going to take that away, huh?”
“It’s all going to a good cause though,” Harry spoke, a smile on his lips as your arm snaked around his waist and your hand hooked beneath the hem of his tee, “Princess Trust is going to have a wig made of the hair cut first and it’ll be given to a small child suffering hair loss from chemotherapy,” Harry explained, as Alistair nodded with an adoring look upon his face; a look you’d given Harry when he’d spoken fondly about what he wanted to do with the hair once it had been washed and brushed and chopped from his head.
He was sat opposite you at breakfast time one morning, days after he’d been confirmed for the movie and days after being booked for the photoshoots, with the daily Sunday paper in his hands. The kitchen smelling deliciously of bacon and eggs sizzling away in the pan in front of you, the kettle whistling and steam emitting from the spout as the water boiled inside to be turned into cups of tea made perfectly by yourself, his figure slouched over as his eyes lifted from a story printed front page. He’d broken the wordless silence in the kitchen, your body turning on your bare heels as you listened intently to what he had planned to do with the hair growing lusciously down his neck – hair that was pulled back into a bun that morning, letting his fresh face be on full view to your sleep-ridden yet alert eyes – a look of fondness and love and adoration painting over your face as you felt your chest burst with love towards the selfless man at the table.
“That’s wonderful, Harry. Is there any specific length you need it to be or can we just go ahead and snip it off?” Alistair hummed, reaching behind him and grabbing a piece of paper, making a little note beforehand so he was ready when Harry was sat in the chair. “I think, to start off the hair cut, we could plait it and make it look presentable rather just a clump of cut hair and then we can bag it, if that’s what happens, and send it off to wherever you need it to go? How does that sound?”
“That sounds wonderful, Alistair,” Harry professed happily and hummed softly, “we’re not cutting it now, are we? I thought we were doing a shoot with long hair?”
“Don’t you worry, Harry. You’ll have your hair for a few more hours yet,” he chuckled and set down the pen and paper from his hand upon the shelf located and built beneath the mirror, holding a pair of curlers and a straighter as well as a water spray and a comb set to rake through Harry’s knotted hair. “We’ll cut when get to the next shoot, okay? I think we’re set to go to your old pub where you lived for a few years, is that right?”
“That is correct,” Harry confirmed.
“Harry!” He heard from behind him, his head turning to look over his shoulders, as Willie waved a hand in the air to attract his attention. “Harry, are we ready to go and have a look at the outfits, yeah? We’d love some input from your darling girlfriend, as well,” Willie called from the fair end of the studio, a rack of brightly coloured and intricately pattered clothes being wheeled up behind him with squeaks and a clang of the metal rails knocking against each other. “We’ve got some patterns that we’ve seen you sport and a few brands that we know you buy a lot from.”
With an excited expression crossing his features, his booted feet were taking him swiftly across the floor, your figure being left behind with Alistair in the haste and the eagerness coursing through his body as he rushed over and let his eyes scan over the array of blazers and suits and shirts that he was going to don throughout the day. A variety crossing different brands of clothing – Gucci, Alexander McQueen, Edward Sexton and Roberto Cavalli – brushed over his fingertips as he brought his hand over the materials changing from cotton to silk.
“How remarkable are these? It’s a shame I can’t take them all home,” Harry whispered in admiration, “they’re so astonishing, aren’t they?”
In his state of admiration, he was unaware to your presence appearing beside him, a hand ghosting over his back as your fingers scratched at the jumper covering his upper body.
You took in the multiple looking colours in your vision, a smile on your lips as you thought to how much effort and time the stylists had put into gathering clothes that had the Harry vibe effusing from them. They ranged from patterned suits to blazers that had simple geometry shapes upon them to embellished shirts that he’d been keen on wearing but never had the guts to order from online, in case they’d not been what he’d expected when buttoned up his body.
“They’re very you, Harry. I can see you wearing all of these outfits,” you concurred, your finger tracing the embellished star upon a red shirt hanging from a coat hanger, in between a silk shirt and a blazer that was printed with floral patterns. “It’s like looking in your wardrobe at home.”
“You think so? We’ve made a good decision, yeah?” Willie questioned, perching himself on a stool beside a camera set up and ready to go, connected to the flashes and the plain white backdrop was clear of marks and set to take photos in front of. “We’re mainly a fashion magazine, so, we wanted the intricate clothing pieces and when Harry gave us the ultimatum of having him, we couldn’t turn him down. He’s the perfect man to style these specific outfits. Especially after everything we’ve seen and heard about him.”
“We’re just very honoured to have you here with us today, Harry,” a stranger’s voice sounded from behind the clothing racks, a hint of happiness and excitement and elation being audible within the words leaving their lips.
“I’m honoured to be here. I really am.”

- -

“You think I can do this, yeah?”
He sounded nervous from behind the curtains in front of you, his head poking out from the gap where the two pieces of material met in the middle. His green eyes wide and his bottom lip taken between his teeth as he nibbled on his flesh with a feeling of apprehensiveness running through his veins.
There was only one time you’d seen him this nervous.
2 years ago, in a large and rumbling stadium that was filled to the brim with excitable fans cheering and yelling for the best memory of their life, the night that their Where We Are tour kicked off with a bang in Colombia. You’d been conversing with a young Lux as she spoke about how she’d been and what she had been up to since the last time she’d seen you, whilst Harry had been tucked away in a corner, picking at and toying with a loose string hanging off the hem of his jumper, right up until the moment he stepped foot on the stage, the first beat of Midnight Memories echoing around the atmosphere as he sung the first line to the screaming fans. His lips sealed shut from conversation, apart from the soft ‘yes’s and ‘no’s leaving his mouth in replies to questions asked.
After the set had finished, and he was a sweating and heaving mess of adrenaline, all sense of nervousness had left his body and he was pumped to get back on the stage the following to do it all over again.
He was moments away from being well out of his comfort zone. And he couldn’t help but let the nerves bubble up and overflow in his belly.
He wasn’t one to get so nervous – he’d done photoshoots in the past. Yes, said photoshoots had been with the three other boys surrounding him in their natural habitat of backstage, but, he had always been encompassed with people holding a camera, thrusting the object into his vision and pressing buttons to cause a flash to catch him off guard.
“Peaches, I know you can do this,” you cooed, “you’ve been around cameras all of your career so far. It’s exactly the same.”
“S’not though, is it? I have to pose and model clothes and I’ve never done that before in my life,” he murmured, appearing from behind the curtain, stepping bare foot and bare chested onto the concrete. A pair of striped wool trousers adoring his long legs were paired with a battered and worn out pink converse boots that were hanging off of his fingers – a look you couldn’t get your head around after growing all-too familiar with his usual attire of skinny jeans and suede boots. “I know it’s like having a photoshoot with the other boys but they’re not here to take the attention off of me. All eyes are going to be on me today.”
“Harry-”
“I just don’t want to muck this up and make myself look stupid,” he grumbled, perching himself down on a padded chair, your body turning on the box you’d taken comfort upon, your kneecaps pressing against his. “I’ve mucked up before, and, if this happens again, I’ll be taken as a joke. It won’t die down, either. I’ll be known as the man who fucked up before he even started.”
He already had to be weary and cautious in the media – one wrong move, or one wrong statement, or even one wrong word being used, and he would be spoken about for the rest of time. He wasn’t a man of such status to just disappear from what was being said and have stories dropped. You’d grown to see that once he’d done something great and positive, the negativity from before stuck with him like gum to hair; no matter what he did to remove himself from that image, it was hard to shake it away completely and get rid of it with ease.
One wrong photoshoot and the photos would be used for the mere entertainment of those who found pleasure in laughing at someone’s failing success.
“Don’t be silly, Harry. You’re going to do so well, okay? I’m going to be here every step of the way, watching you do this,” you cooed softly, your palm pressing against his shoulder and squeezing it lovingly, “I know you can do this. You’re a man of many talents, and, I love how amazing you are with everything you do.”
“I just worry about stuff like this. I’ve never really done something like this on my own, y’ know?” He hummed, tugging on the tight and dark-pink converse you’d seen in his wardrobe many times – questions running through your mind, from time to time, whether he’d mind if you took them for a day and wore them as you took runs to the shops or when you needed to step out into the garden to tend to weeds or drooping flowers in need of water, or, even when you needed to run down the driveway and gather the mail from the mailbox – leaving the laces untied and hanging down, the shoes staying loose around his feet. “I’m way out of my comfort zone, Gorgeous.”
“Oh, Harry,” you whispered, dropping your forehead to his shoulder and pressing your lips to his naked skin, “if you don’t like it after the first photoshoot, you don’t have to keep going. If you’re not comfortable, you can stop, alright? They can’t force you to keep going.”
“I just feel like I’m going to let them down if I don’t do it, you know? I offered to do this. My management set this up and I was so thrilled with the idea, at the time thinking that this was going to be the best thing for me,” he started, his hand flat against your thigh, silver rings on his fingers and his signature crucifix necklace hanging from his neck, “but now that I’m here in the middle of it? I’m starting to regret being so pro the idea of a solo photoshoot for a popular magazine.”
“Hey, don’t be silly. Harry, you’re a pure talent,” your lips brushing over his bare skin with each word, “you’ll ace this. I know you will. The moment you get in front of that camera, you’ll love it, and all these worries and nerves with wash out of you.”
“You’ll have a few photos with me, won’t you? We’ll have a little photo taken with each outfit, right?”
He sounded hopeful.
And part of you got the idea that he’d only asked you to be his attractive side piece in a photo to keep for his eyes only. A photo that would be digital and sent over email and stored in a keep sake place for him to go back too when he needed it – whether it be when he was missing you and he needed a pick-me-up to happen, or, whether it be when he was feeling a little bit frisky and in need of a sudden yet built-up release after a day of being deprived as well as not being able to have a hand down his pants, or, whether it be when he felt reminiscent and in need of a memory boost.
He wanted you in a photo and he wasn’t going to give up until you agreed to just one.
“I suppose so, Harry. As long as Willie is okay with it,” you smiled.
“Harry? I’m sorry to interrupt but it’s time to start your shoot,” a woman, you’d been introduced too as the assistant for Willie, reminded you both, “are you ready? You look wonderful.”
“I- Yeah, I’m ready,” Harry grinned, your head retracting from his shoulder and tilting up to look up at his eager yet nervous features, “I love you. Thank you, Gorgeous.”
“Hey, I’m your girlfriend. It’s my job to scare your nerves away,” you cooed, watching as he stood to his converse covered feet and reached for the woollen military coat from the hook and sliding it over his bare upper body, the coat tail hanging down to the backs of his knees and catching in the breeze made by his movements. “Go knock ‘em dead, Peaches.”
- -
Missus. Anne.
How is he doing? Is he okay? We had some nervous messages through this morning. x
He’s doing incredibly, Anne. I’m so proud of him. x
What’s he up to now? x
He’s doing his first outfit shoot right now. He looks good. You’ll adore the photos of him, I’m sure of it. He’s stunning. x
So stunning. x
He hasn’t been sick from nerves, has he? x
No, no. Hahahaha. We nearly had some sickness on the way here, along the motorway. He went a bit funny on the road and we had to pull over a few times just in case he needed to be sick, but, we got here safe and sick-free and he’s standing there as if he was never nervous in the first place, bless him. x
That’s Harry for you, eh? x
That is Harry, hahaha. I thought we’d have to postpone the photoshoot because he was getting ill. He never gets carsick or travel sick or anything, so, I was clueless on what to do. I had no tablets for him to take or anything. x
He usually has those moments before big events. x
Oh, I think he’s finishing now. I’ll keep you updated later, okay? He’s doing so well, so far. I’ll let you know further throughout the day what’s happening. x
Thank you, sweetheart. Have a good day. Send my love to Harry, and give him a kiss from me. I’ll see you later tonight. I’ll make the bed nice and cosy for you both to come in and fall asleep right away. x
* *
Passing the time whilst Harry stood before the camera, the slight orders leaving Willie’s mouth every so often being heard in the quiet studio as well as the camera shutters and the flash being heard as it echoed around the space, you gave Anne small texts updates with small snapshots of the day and keeping her attentive and knowledgeable in how well her son was doing and how proud he was making you.
You heard the soft and faint ‘take a break’ leaving Willie’s mouth, which gave you some indication that they had finished that first outfit and they were taking a short respite session to give him time to inform you of how he was feeling and to let him change into the next outfit hung up and ready for him to change into, after stripping the wool trousers from his legs and discarded the military jacket from his bare upper body.
“Well, hello, Mr Model,” you grinned widely, looking up from your phone and sliding it in your pocket as your ears perked up to the sounds of his scuffing shoes making their loud audibility appearance, louder and louder the closer and closer his footsteps got to you. “How was that? You looked pretty great over there. How did you find it, hm?”
“It wasn’t as nerve-wracking as I thought. I don’t know why I was so nervous,” he clarified with a deep chuckle, “it felt great to be up there, posing and stuff in front of a camera. Willie was helpful and he guided me in how I should stand and how I should make my lips sort of pouted and stuff. Were you watching though? Did I do okay? How do you think I did?”
“I was watching midst texting your mum, of course,” you stated, standing to your feet and reaching for his hand, “you made me feel very lucky, Peaches. I’ve got a pretty stunning boyfriend, haven’t I? A very stunning and very talented man who I get to call mine,” you grinned devilishly, your wrists hooking beneath the lapels of the military jacket and pushing the material from his shoulders, the sleeves falling down to his elbows as the shoulders of the jacket discarded his upper body completely. “It was pretty great to see you with no shirt on too. Showing these four little beauties I love.”
You gave his two nipples a soft pinch before dragging your fingertips down his ribs and over the slightly raised lumps known as his other two nipples.
“Stop it,” he snorted softly, swaying on his heels and chuckling as a frown formed on your face, your hands dropping from his body as he shrugged off the jacket and hung it over his forearm, “spoke to Willie, by the way. ‘bout you being in a few photos and he said it would be a good idea for when we go out into the homelier bit. After this studio bit, and when we get to the Holmes Chapel bit when we go back to my childhood places.”
“That’s okay,” you smiled, “I don’t want to cramp your style when you look sexy as hell and could put any model out of business.”
“Oh, shush your lip, you bugger.”
He pressed his forefinger to your lips, shushing you of speech as he gave you a raised eyebrow grin, his teeth showing and his tongue from between the pearly white structures.
“Seriously. You have a much better body than some of them, too,” you whispered softly against his finger, more seductively than you’d entailed it to sound, the words rolling off of your tongue before you could even process how you wanted them to sound.
“I knew getting me shirtless was going to have you feelin’ things,” Harry chuckled softly, an assistant stylist working alongside Alistair shuffling up behind you both and removing the jacket from Harry’s forearm, saving the coat tail from becoming dusty as it became dangerously close to the floor of the studio. “C’mon. You can come behind the curtain wi’ me this time. It’s a challenge making sure all these clothes don’t get dirty, y’ know?”
“Any excuse to get me in the private area, hm?” You grumbled, his body snaking around yours as he pushed open the curtains with his hands, “we’re not going to do anything, Harry. We need this done and dusted before lunch time. It’s already nearing 10 this morning.”
“Just a few sneaky kisses, c’mon. No one can see us,” he mumbled, his lips toying with the idea of a smirk, his self control finding it difficult to keep his lips in a straight line, “if they need me, they call me from the other side of the curtain. Don’t wan’a do anything cheeky.”
“Promise me you won’t get a boner or anything?”
“I can’t really promise anything because you look pretty damn hot in my shirt,” he whispered into your ear, his lips brushing over your jawline and his nose nudging against your skin, “gi’ me a kiss, will you? I’ve been deprived for most of the morning.”
With a press up onto your toes, you strained your neck and cupped the back of his head, bringing his face to a better level and inches from your own, access being easier to his lips as you puckered your flesh and peppered kisses to the lower half of his face – his cheeks, his upper lip, his dimple that popped with a smile created by your loving touch, and the dimple at the curve of his chin – almost giving in to the desires he needed satisfying.
Keeping him wanting more was fun for you.
When he begged and pleaded to feel your lips against his own, in a gesture so sweet and loving with a large amount of passion behind it. With either one of you – or both, depending on the mood – anticipating a deeper smooch, tongues battling for dominance and teeth almost consistently knocking together in a movement so rushed but elegant.
You knew that if you began to feel his lips on your own, you’d be against the wall of the make-shift dressing room in a matter of second, a knee between your legs to pry them apart and the feeling of his hardened muscle forming in at his pelvis.
“Jus’ kiss me. Please.”
“If I kiss you, you have to promise me that you won’t want anything more afterwards. And that you’ll get changed into the new outfit and head out there and get some new shots taken so we can move swiftly on,” you warned, sternly and with austerity behind your words, “I mean it, Peaches.”
“I promise. Just a small kiss to my lips,” he whispered, minted breath fanning across your face.
A smile lifting his cheeks and a sparkle formed in his green eyes when your face came close to his, delicate flesh so close to his plump skin, tongue poking out from between your lips to wet and moisten them before you pressed them to his in a soft yet love-filled kiss. He could taste coffee and a specific and significant taste of mint after you’d complained in the car that the coffee from breakfast, that still lingered on your tongue, was giving you a nauseated feeling in the pit of your belly.
“I love you, Peaches. Now go and get dressed. Your next outfit is stunning,” you cooed, “I couldn’t help myself and I came over and had a chat with the assistant who was laying out your clothes. It’s very you. No shirt again, either.”
“I think we’ll be giving the fans some heart attacks,” he murmured, toeing off the converse boots covering his feet and leaving hem haphazardly on the floor, ready for him to step back into them once he’d pulled the new pair of trousers up his legs, “I’m sure they’d have me do a nude photoshoot if I was already working in this business.”
“Well, I’m not complaining about that,” you whispered, more to yourself than to Harry, but when his neck whipped around and his eyes widened, his bottom lip taken between his teeth as he smirked, you’d had a feeling he’d heard what you said. “What?”
“You’re so cheeky,” he laughed, his fingers popping open the button of the red striped trousers already adorning his legs, “we should do a nude photoshoot together. I think that would be great. We could have a book made and kept locked away, for our eyes only.”
“Oh, no. I’m way too shy for that, you know. I’m good with having naked photos of you but not of me, Harry. I don’t exactly want a photographer catching me like that,” you admitted, huffing softly as you sat down on a chair and leant forward, picking up his pink shoes and setting them on your knees, “wouldn’t complain if you wanted to do that though. If that’s the route you wan’a go down for modelling. Just, no females with you, okay?”
“Ahh,” he hummed, pulling down the wool trousers and tugging them from around his ankles, leaving him in nothing but the black boxers from his drawer back home, “there it is. What if I needed a female hanging off my arm or lying beside me in the shoots? Beneath a cover and touching me? You won’t do it, so, I’d have to have somebody to do it with me,” he drew out teasingly, knowing full well how riled up he was making you feel, “you wouldn’t consider it?”
“Nope. I’d just have to break up wi’ you.”
“Ouch, that’s harsh to hear,” he teased, his fingers brushing over the soft feel of the trousers from the Edward Sexton suit customised for the shoot, “I wouldn’t go down with naked modelling anyway. I’m finding this perfectly fine right now.”
A wash of relief stocked up within your body. A serene and tranquil sigh leaving your lips.
“I’m glad,” you grinned, content and happy with the answer he gave as you watched him slide his feet into the legs of the white and flowing flared trousers, the hems cutting off above his ankles and flaring out gently, a difference for the both of you when the material didn’t bunch up and stay tight around his ankle.
“Although, we could do our own photoshoot at home,” he recommended, buttoning up the waistband and retrieving his hands away, ironing out the thighs with his palms, “you know we’ve got that empty space in the room beneath the entrance level? We could turn that into a little photoshoot room, couldn’t we? We could hang a back drop and stuff and all we’d have to do is find props around the house, or go shopping, and we could have our own private studio for our own private shoots. I have cameras, don’t I? I could even set up a darkroom in the garage or in the basement and I could print and produce some film shots for an album.”
“You’re thinking of us doing a nude photoshoot? Together? In our house?”
The idea was titillating.
You wouldn’t have the wandering eyes of a male photographer ogling over your naked body, snapping shots of you in anyway he could think necessary, in any position he found thrilling to capture and with props that he felt fit your nature.
All you would have is a timed camera ticking away and stood on a tripod, a naked Harry standing beside you in a room that felt comfortable and homely and as private as could be – no windows or doors to be opened unexpectedly to catch you in positions that left nothing to the imagination – and sweet yet deep serenities leaving Harry’s mouth when he’d see your visibly shaking limbs in the corner of his eyes, and when he’d look across to you, your nervous features upon your face, too.
He made you feel safe.
Like anything was possible when he was by your side.
“O’ course. It doesn’t just have to be nude either. We can do funny shots and mess about, and, when we have kids or when we get married, we could have photoshoots to make keepsake photo albums for us to look back on in the future,” he suggested, a pang in your heart at the slight mention of your future.
You couldn’t help but let one question flutter around in your mind; he thought of that?
“Kids and marriage, hm? You see that with me?” You questioned, watching as he tugged the blazer upon his body and letting it hang from his shoulders. The sleeves baggy and loose around his arms, and sitting comfortably on his body, the colours complimenting his toned skin in a way that had you internally drooling over his appearance.
His eyes were wide – you didn’t want children with him? You didn’t want to marry him? – with shock and worry and distress was beginning to course through his body.
“Hey, no. I do see that with you, Peaches. I just didn’t think it was a thought you felt strongly about,” you confirmed, your heart dropping at the look over worry crossing his face. “I do want that with you. I mean, we’ve been through a lot together, so, it would be wrong to go nowhere in this relati-”
“Harry, are you ready?”
A head poked into the curtain, the familiar happy and smiling male face of Alistair coming into your view, as you passed Harry his shoes, smiling as his fingers hooked into the back of the converse boots as he shuffled out from behind the curtains.
“You’re forgetting something with the outfit, Harry.”
“Am I?”
“We put a leather collar in there with your clothes, I’m sure of it? It was hanging on the hook above the bench,” Alistair stated, a quirky smile forming on his lips, his back to Harry as he made his way across the floor, leaving a stunned yet highly-amused man behind as his eyes widened. “Hurry up and get it on, yeah? We’re on a tight schedule.”
“Le- Leather collar?” Harry mumbled, his cheeks pinking up as your hand stuck out from between the curtains, “there it is.”
“Want some help sticking it on?”
Seductive bugger you were.
* *

“Just give us a simple and natural look, Harry. We’ll take a couple like that and see how they turn out,” Willie ordered, the camera held to his face, eye level with the tiny window as he , his fingers toying with the lens poking from the front of the camera as Harry gathered his composure and sat on the stool, his head tilted slightly and his lips pouted, hair hanging limply down his cheeks and loose in soft tendrils that tickled at his skin.
A flash filled the room, catching you off guard as you watched your boyfriend out of his comfort zone, a sense of pride coursing through your body as he ignored the wandering eyes and the soft chatter happening behind the scenes and stayed in position, trying his hardest to keep his eyes from squinting against the flashes happening when Willie snapped a shot.
“That’s fantastic, Harry. Wonderful,” Willie praised, “you’ve got a nab for modelling. This is great. I know it’s nerve wracking and you’re doing great. Let’s go for another costume change, okay? Gucci suit, I think. I think you’ll like this one.”
- -

The leather collar tight around his neck paired with the red and floral printed suit adorning his body gave him a look that you’d never seen before – submissive with the slightest hint of dominance behind it.
Yes, you’d seen him in a submissive state before – there had been many times that you’d have him wrapped around your finger, submitting his body to your orders and letting you do whatever you wanted. There had been many times he’d been bound to the bed with cuffs around his wrists or ties around his legs and he was never a stranger to the blindfold tied tightly around his head, hair loose from elastic and ready to be fisted in your hand as you played with his body like a toy.
And yes, you’d seen him in a dominant state before – there had been many times you’d been edged to an orgasm with a combination of his fingers as well as his tongue and a specific vibrator you’d brought for yourself. When you’d done something that was deemed ‘naughty’ and ‘bad-girl material’ in his dominant state, you were no newbie to the feeling of his palm coming into contact with your skin, harsh and rough and anticipated as you waited for the feeling of his hand coming into contact with you, but rather gratifying when you’d feel the slap against your already raw skin. You’d been a victim to cuff burns on your wrists and scars on your ankles when he’d get a bit too dominant and tighten the constraints to stop you from squirming in your place – but he’d always look after you, rubbing antiseptic upon your torn and damaged skin and pressing soft as feather kisses to your skin.
But it was a rare occasion that you’d see both states together.
And now that it had happened, in a studio where you couldn’t suffice to the aching fire in your loins by tearing his clothes off his body and riding him with every vein of your body overflowing with pleasure created by the one man capable of that.
The Gucci suit adorning his body, no shirt beneath the blazer and boldly showing his bare chest with a pair with his pink converse on his feet, gave him a very ‘daddy’ look.
Now, Harry had had many suits – as well as brightly coloured Hawaiian print shirts and white jeans and that stuck out like a sore thumb between his black jeans – in his wardrobe and he was the proud owner of a few too many designer branded suits hung in packaging, unworn and unopened, upon a separate rail.
They ranged from simple black suits with crisp white shirts and matching trousers, to blue and navy coloured suits with ironed and black shirts, to floral printed two piece suits to be paired with silk shirts and almost see-through button-ups, to intricately patterned blazers or button-ups to be paired with any t-shirt he felt would fit comfortably and would compliment and work well with the colours of the material.
And within these suits, it broke down into sub-categories – they ranged from beloved designer brands that you knew cost him a fortune and went unworn, used more as trophy suits for him to stare at and ogle over when it came to choosing a two piece to wear, to simple shop brought suits that were used for dates or family gatherings and even reunions when either his family or your family threw a party; Gucci, Yves Saint Laurent, Calvin Klein, Prada, Armani and Ted Baker.
You’d come to realise that his more intricately patterned suits were used as award show attire or fashion week outfits – when he’d been invited, of course – that gave the public an insight to him having a much more colourful and protuberant side to him; he wasn’t all dull hoodies, band tees and skinny jeans like the media seemed to capture as candids.
It settled in your mind that he wore the boring and plain coloured suits on dates with you because he wanted to blend in with those also on dates with their significant others. He knew, and you knew to some extent, that if he wore a suit that was bright and patterned with flowers or geometric shapes then he’d be stared at and spoken about in a restaurant and there would be no doubt that a herd of paparazzi would find them and snap photos and post them within the same hour.
It differed.
He loved his privacy when he was out with you in public yet when he went out to a public event filled to the brim with people showing off their fashion choices, he dressed boldly and intrepid and didn’t mind if the attention was on him.
You couldn’t lie when you said you didn’t have a favourite because you didn’t have a specific favourite suit that he owned.
Right now, it would be the suit prettifying his figure in that specific moment where he was sat down on the white covered floor, his legs crossed and an amused yet natural smile on his lips as he gave his emotion to something that a member of the crew had expressed. A smile you adored and had seen more than enough in your almost 5 years of cohabitating together, whether it be from a silly joke you’d told him or whether it be from a TV show that had him chuckling in a ball on the sofa or whether it be from a tweet or a video he’d found that he was easily amused by.
He rocked back on his bum, his arms snaking around his knees and his ankles crossed and the heels of his shoes pressed against the floor.
“That was fantastic, Harry. We’ll just take some shirtless shots now. For a couple of candids to use in the issue. Without the blazer on, of course,” Willie suggested, a grunt leaving Harry’s mouth as pushed up on his palms and stood to his feet, shrugging off the floral blazer from his shoulders and handing it to an awaiting set of hands belonging to the clothing stylist, “then once that’s over, you can get changed into your initial outfit and go off to the next location where the photographer will be meeting you at the pub.”
- -
Part of you didn’t want the morning shoot to come to an end.
Harry had looked so interesting as he modelled suits and blazers and stood shirtless for the odd majority of the morning hours, and, it gave you a sense of shock that he had a nab for something he’d only ever dabbled softly upon; photoshoots for albums being the closest thing he could compare a magazine issue photoshoot too.
Part of you wasn’t ready for what was to come next; and, quite frankly, Harry wasn’t either.
In a short hour’s time, he’d be styled with hair that was completely different to what he’d had in the past. Yes, he’d experimented with different lengths and he’d gone from curls to straight hair at the swift use of his sister’s straighteners, but he’d never really tested with lengths. He never went into a hairdressers and told them straight up how short he wanted to go – he had a look and he was determined to keep it that way; short hair that sat upon his head in soft and swirly curls, curling round his ears and growing curlier by the femtosecond.
He’d let it grow once he’d realised he didn’t need to listen to people’s gender definitions of what was fit for a man or not, and, if he really wanted to grow it to a length of his choice then he could do so on his own accord. He was the one sporting it, after all.
You weren’t ready to see his hair get snipped to a length you were unsure of – a 60s spin on his modern and sharp features.
But, part of you couldn’t wait to see what else was left in store for Harry to partake in.
Was he going to be continuously challenged in his next shoot? Was he going to be more natural in his stances or was he going to be controlled more by the photographer? You were strangely excited to see what was next for Harry, and deep down, he was looking forward to continuing out of his comfort bubble.
“Harry, you’ve been a treasure to work with this morning,” Willie smiled, turning on his heels to the sounds of Harry’s boots clicking along the concrete floor, the camera that was in his hand throughout the last few hours was now a chicken sandwich coloured with lettuce and tomato peeking from between the crusts, “thank you for making the early morning trip down to Cheshire. You’re a star.”
“I wouldn’t ever turn up an opportunity to come back home. Nor would I turn down the opportunity to model some designer brands,” Harry grinned, reaching his hand forward and grinning as Willie took it in appreciation, shaking it heartily before dropping it, “it’s been great to work with you and I’m excited to see the final outcomes of what you’ve taken today.”
“They’ll be sent to your management email and they’ll forward them on from there. By the looks of it, the photos are looking absolutely perfect and we’ll have a difficult decision in choosing the best ones to take forward and edit before putting aside to be used in the issue,” he explained, clapping Harry’s jumper-clad shoulder and squeezing it softly. “Now, I believe you have a drive to your old pub, am I right?”
“You are indeed right,” Harry grinned, his attention turning from the elderly man in front of him to the young face now looking up with adoration lacing facial features he loved entirely, “not too long of a drive though. We’re going to stop off for a bit of lunch before we meet them. I can tell my girlfriend is getting a bit hungry.”
“I’m okay. Alistair gave me a muffin from his snacks,” you grinned, licking over your lips and wallowing in the last taste of blueberry lingering upon your flesh, crumbs building up at the corners and sticking to your cheeks, “blueberry muffin. He said he made them, but, I swear I’ve tasted them before.”
A chuckle left Harry’s lips as he cupped your face in his hands, and brushed his thumbs over your cheeks, removing the sticky crumbs from your skin, ridding you of embarrassment as you walked with cake pieces almost glued to you with icing.
“He says he makes them but we think we stops off and buys them in a shop before meeting with us,” Willie laughed, lifting the sandwich to his lips and taking a bite from the bread, “I won’t keep you for much longer. You go and fill up. You’ve got some more busy shoots coming up today.”
“Well, thank you so much for today,” Harry concluded, his arm snaking around your waist as he pulled you closer to his body, letting your head tuck into his rib and slot nicely beneath his underarm. “You’ve been a pleasure to model for. I hope to work together again in the future.”
“That would be wonderful, indeed.”
He definitely wanted to pursue part of his solo career in having photoshoots for fashion magazines as well as photoshoots to promote himself as a solo artist – one who was now working fully on his own for a while to get his own marketing out.
“We’ll see you soon. Have fun for the rest of the shoot. Alistair will be also travelling with you with our stylists,” Willie clarified, smiling over Harry’s shoulder as he watched the last of his assistants leave the studio, “have fun, won’t you?”
“Of course. Bye for now,” Harry smiled, his head ducking down and looking towards you, your head tilting up, “let’s go for lunch, yeah?”
You gave him a soft nod.
“Lunch sounds great,” you whispered, nudging your nose against his jawline, “can we stop of for fish and chips? I was looking through Willie’s archive and his portfolio and he has some of a beach and I really fancy fish and chips now that I’m reminded of the beach.”
“Of course we can,” he agreed, his lips pressing against your forehead, “let’s go. Sounds like you have a monster in your belly.”
* *
“Let’s have another chip, Gorgeous,” Harry mumbled, quickly looking across to you and dropping his vision down to your lap, taking in the way the unwrapped fish and chips looked upon your lap, steaming and smelling delicious and filling the car with the strong aroma of vinegar and fish, “I’m actually pretty hungry now.”
“You had a bloody chip sandwich because you insisted you needed to drive and couldn’t stay long to eat,” you mocked, rolling your eyes teasingly as you picked up a chip and leant across the console, popping the piece of food between his lips. “Better?”
“I could do with a bit o’ fish as well,” he smirked through small chews of the hot potato in his mouth, “and some o’ your coke.”
“May as well eat my whole lunch,” you grumbled, reaching for the can between your knees and passing it over to his awaiting and stretched out hand. An inaudible mutter leaving your lips as he took the can, his rings clinking against the can as he took it into his grasp, pressing the rim to his lips and taking a gulp to cure his thirst before handing it back to you with a cheeky and sweet-looking grin, “how much longer till we get to the next place?”
“From what I can recognise along these roads, we should have about 10 more minutes till we arrive into the town of Northwich and then another 2 or 3 minutes until we arrive at the Antrobus Arms pub,” Harry elucidated, his eyes focused on the road, the car falling into a soft silence as the wheels rumbled across the tarmac, bumping over potholes dipped into the road.
For what felt like a good, comfortable 5 minutes and a change of scenery outside of the windows, you perked up, swallowing a bite of fish and wrapping the rubbish up into a ball.
“Are you excited to go back to your roots? I’ve never been to this side of your hometown before,” you wondered, reaching for his free hand and squeezing it softly, lacing your fingers between his and pulling his limb across to you. “You’ve always spoken about this place and the pub you lived in and I’ve always wondered what it looks like.”
“It’s a sweet little pub, yeah. It makes me wonder what I’d be doing if mum stayed here with all of us. Like, I’d probably be some bartender, working in the same pub and pulling pints,” he chuckled momentarily, before his face dropped and a sense of seriousness filled the car, “I’m actually surprised that John doesn’t work or live there anymore,” Harry admitted, flicking on the indicator and letting the constant click and flash sounds fill the car, “this was the first place that felt like home after mum and dad split. John took me in like a son and we did so much together. I mean, it’s not like I can control who my mum dates, as long as she’s happen then I’m happy, you know?”
“Of course,” you smiled, toying with the rings upon his fingers, “she’s the happiest ever right now, isn’t she? Robin makes her smile whenever he shows any affection towards her.”
“Robin is great. Always has been,” Harry divulged, “but John was always the first guy to make me feel like I was loved by a father figure, by someone who was there when I woke up and was there when I fell asleep, you know? Dad was always there and supported me and Gemma in our decisions but he wasn’t there to read me a story at night or watch Gemma in her school productions. He only came to a few school opening evenings for me and John went to the rest.”
“What happened?”
“They broke it off mutually, of course,” Harry whispered softly, smiling when your lips came into contact with the back of his hand, “like, one moment we were singing Frank Sinatra after closing hours on the karaoke machine and then the next, we were in a car on the way to house in Chapel. I couldn’t help but feel guilty about leaving John in a state like that. He was all alone when we had a house and family and stuff.”
“It couldn’t be helped, Harry. You were young,” you mumbled, “you’ve got a great life now. I couldn’t be happier for you; you know that?”
“I love you so much,” he smiled, his head turning to face you as he pulled his hand from your grappling fingers and squeezed your knee.
With one final turned of the car, you noticed a pub coming into view. A hanging sign with the name ‘Antrobus Arms’ printed bolded across it, a tingle in your belly as he switched the car into reverse and parked in a spot just outside a barbers shop that looked empty from customers at the lunch time hour.
“Ready?” You questioned, earning a nod in response.
“Ready as I’ll ever be.”
* *
“Harry! Oh wow, I can’t believe I’m actually standing here in front of you,” Alasdair McLellan laughed, reaching forward and grabbing Harry’s hand in a tight yet excitable shake, his fingers warm from the cup of tea he was sporting in his palms moments ago, “how have you been? Are you okay? How was your first shoot this morning? I heard wonderful things from Alistair when he arrived.”
“You did?”
He gave you both a quickened nod.
“He did, indeed. He said you were a born talent and a born man to be in front of the camera,” he chuckled, dropping his hand from Harry’s hold and reaching for the plastic cup of tea he’d set upon the table. “But first of all, before we get you dressed and ready in some olden day fashion, we need to chop these locks off.”
From the corner of your eye, you watched as his face dropped and his head dipped down to his chest.
“You know the man cutting and styling your hair. It’ll be Alistair. He’s had lots of ideas in how to style you today and we’re trusting him completely. He’ll style it perfectly and he’ll keep you safe. He won’t cut your ears off or anything,” Alasdair smirked, nudging Harry softly against his upper arm, as your own arm snaked around his waist and cupped his love handle in your palm. A soft chuckle leaving Harry’s lips to force the idea into minds that he was happy to be going ahead with the haircut – it was going towards charity and it was going to give a child something sweet and loving – but deep down, he wasn’t ready to lose that signature side of him.
Losing the man bun until it grew back. A look that many fans had grown to love and a look that many fans would grow to miss.
Losing the long strands that he enjoyed washing with fancy shampoos and taking care of in the mornings after a night of much needed sleep, knotted ends and matted hair at the back of his scalp from a night of fidgeting and rolling around, his head rubbing against the pillow and causing friction between the two. His brown locks strewn across the pillow behind him when he’d fallen asleep on his back, and sometimes covering his cheek and face and blowing softly with each breath escaping from between his lips when he’d taken comfort to slouching on his stomach through the night,
Losing the hair that he knew you loved; and would miss entirely. There were times when he’d fallen asleep to the feeling of your fingers raking through his hair, massaging at his scalp and tugging softly on the ends as he purred happily and in content as his head pressed against your thighs and his eyes closed softly. There were many times when you’d pull at his hair during sex when his head was between your legs and you needed him as close as he could go, his tongue lapping over your skin and sending shivers through your spine, and, he was no stranger to the odd pull when you were on the edge of an orgasm and close to releasing, finding anything and everything to pull in your euphoric state.
But he would be losing his hair to a child in need. A child who would be given the hope in their life with hair belonging to a beloved man in their life.
With his free hand raking through from the back of his head and to the nape of his neck, he bid a wordless goodbye the hair growing from his head and smiled across to Alistair, stood by a chair with scissors in his hands.
“Come on, Harry. Now’s the time,” he teased mockingly, opening the scissors and causing a snip-snip sound to come from the silver object, “if it helps, (Y/N) can put it in a nice ponytail or a braid and we’ll snip it off in one go.”
- -
“I’m gon’a miss these locks,” you sounded, your fingers raking through his wet hair as droplets dripped from the ends and dribbled down his bare bare, sending shivers through his spine as the cold contact leaving trails down his skin, “how short are you going to go?”
“Dunkirk-style hair,” Harry mumbled, tilting his head back and looking away from his phone, his eyes locking with your own as he sent you a warming grin, “soldier-style, you know? Short on top and sort of shaved at the sides by my ears.”
“Oh, so, a completely different style to what you have now then?”
“Yeah. Completely different to anything I’ve ever had before,” he admitted nervously, and, you had a feeling that if he had free hands and his fingers were unoccupied, he’d be biting the nails nervously and trying to keep his mind away from the though of waking up tomorrow morning with hair that was shorter than he’d ever gone before. “But, I think we’re doing the 80s look right now,” Harry explained, retracting his movements and looking ahead, watching as Alasdair skimmed through clothing that looked disparate against the clothes that had already been modelled upon his body beforehand.
Jumpers of black and blue and navy, coats made from wool and tweed and patterned with checks or stripes hanging low and almost dragging along the floor, and scarfs hanging on the end of the rails were coming into view and completely different from the suits and the pants he’d worn that morning, as well as the leather collar that his neck had adorned.
“I think you’ll rock this look,” you smiled, pinching his earlobes before dropping your hands to his bare shoulders and slide them down his biceps, “could I borrow a hair-tie, please? I’m gon’a plait your hair one more time before we lose the length forever.”
“S’not gon’a be forever, you donut,” he snorted softly, a laugh leaving his mouth as his chest rumbled and his shoulders vibrated, “they’ll be back before you know it and you’ll be able to braid it again whenever you’d like too.”
Since you’d known about his haircut and his sudden change of style to fit in with a movie – appreciating the fact that he needed to create a style with his current look that made him slot perfectly into a role of a World War soldier – you’d tried to picture how he would look with a shorter length upon his head and shaved sides around his petite little ears that were screaming to make an appearance.
However, you couldn’t help but remind yourself of the times when you’d find yourself absentmindedly running your fingers through his hair, or, the times when you’d had to tie his hair up for him, or even the time when you’d braided his hair before a show on the Where We Are tour.
Whether it was during the times he fell into a sleeping and wheezing and snoring circumstance against your shoulder, figure slumped into your side and his arms folded across his chest as your fingers gave his scalp a constant yet soothing and relaxing massage. His snores turning into purrs that escaped from between his lips and his body nestled closer to your body, his body heat radiating from his exposed skin, enough to keep you warm and cosy without a needed cover over your bodies.
“And you’ll let me?”
“Of course I will,” he smiled, dropping his phone to his thighs and capturing your ankles in his hands, “you gon’a braid it now or not?”
“Yes, goodness me, give me time,” you grumbled, fluffing out the wet locks and feeling the softness against your fingertips, “when you think about it, the ends will be so much healthier and cleaner. I caught you picking your split ends the other day,” you confessed softly. “At least with short hair, you’ll have softer hair for longer periods and they won’t be breaking away or splitting.”
“Had that handled though. Brought fancy shampoos and conditioners and coated the ends with lemon to lighten it,” he winced as you tugged on the locks to free it of knots and frizz forming, “don’t be so rough on me. S’already a tough time. I’m saying goodbye to something great.”
“Sorry.”
“I made sure I looked after my hair. Not sure why it got so dead,” he grunted, settling comfily between your thighs as his forefingers drew soft patterns on your ankles, “even you praised me for how soft it felt in the mornings and when it dried properly.”
“Ah, yes. When you used my hairdryer and left it plugged in for me to trip over,” you mumbled, amusement in your voice.
You’d stumbled over your own possessions in the past – whether it be a boot belonging to a fancy pair of shoes worn on dates or to parties when you needed comfy wearing boots on your feet, a trainer from a pair of Nike’s left after in a heap at the front door or at the foot of the bathroom door after a trip to the gym with an adrenaline filled Harry, or, a pair of knickers left on the bedroom floor after a night of passion shared in the bedroom or when you’d forgotten to pick them up to stick in the wash – but you were frequently and constantly tripping over the coiled lead belonging to your hairdryer, hanging freely and being classified as a trip hazard to anybody who had the chance to walk past it.
You’d be attentive to the sound filtering from the bedroom after he’d showered. A grumble leaving your mouth – something incoherent like ‘again?’ or ‘needs to buy his own hairdryer’ rolling off of your tongue – as you set down the dry plates in the cupboard and straightened your back, your feet carrying you across the tiles and towards the stairs starting in the hallway of the lower level of the house. The sound of the hot air blowing upon his wet hair getting louder with each step you took up the stairs.
When you’d round the corner, he’d be there in front of your make-up table, his feet planted on the floor and facing the mirror head-on as his naked body hunched over, a towel covering his toes after the tuck he’d done at his hip came loose. He was always oblivious to your presence when he was tucked up and drying his hair, ridding the water trickling down the strands and running his fingers through, giving them a ruffle.
It was when you disappeared into the bathroom the clear the mess from his shower – cleaning the floor of water, and wiping down the tiles of the shower from his shower gel and shampoo, as well as pulling the matted hair from the plughole that had built up mid shower – that he straightened up and switched off the object in his hand, the room engulfing into silence with the only noise being a distinct squeak from the tiles or running water to wash away suds building round the plug. He’d leave the hairdryer on the carpet, leaning against the wall just outside the bathroom, the wire connecting it to electricity tucked away slightly but still classed as a hazard, and it would be unbeknownst to you when you’d ball up his clothes sitting on the tiled floor and make your way from the doorway.
A grunt leaving your lips as you stumbled over the hairdryer – it wasn’t a shock to neither you nor Harry; you did it many times and Harry swore to himself that each time he used something, that he’d put it back in it’s original place ready and waiting for the next use – his eyes widening at your action, dropping the can of deodorant from his hands and immediately rushing to pull gather the clothes that had fallen from your hold in the haste of the trip.
A scold leaving your mouth everytime, followed by a promise leaving his mouth, the conversation ending with a huff from your throat and a sullen Harry putting away the hairdryer with a grunt.
“Didn’t mean too,” Harry grumbled, purring softly at the feel of your finger twirling his hair and forming a sweet and neat plait at the back of his head, “s’it nearly done?”
“Very nearly. Just gon’a put the hair tie round the end,” you warned him, holding the end of his hair tightly between your fingers, your free wrist being brought to your teeth as you pulled the cotton covered elastic from around your skin, “you’re sure you want this to be how you send it off to the guys collecting the donations?”
He gave you a soft nod.
With a press to his head and a tickle to his ears, you stood up and hunched over.
“Let’s go and get it cut, Peaches.”
- -

harrystyles: Whoops.
- -

With freshly snipped hair styled perfectly to how Alistair felt appropriate for the proposal of this second photoshoot, Harry was well underway in an outfit fit for the style of the specific time period. A tweed coat covering a striped polo shirt with wool trousers, and a pair of black yet shiny Doc Marten shoes upon his feet, sat nicely upon his figure and gave him a sense of a slicked back and natural look – he wasn’t posing and he wasn;t following orders and he wasn’t standing in a way someone had told him too; he was just being Harry.

Your Harry.
Your crazy, loving, fun-filled Harry who stayed in his naturalist state and let the camera work it’s magic.
“Let’s have a shot taken with a beer, shall we?” Alasdair called out, turning on his heel and letting the camera hang around his neck, the large object knocking against his chest with each movement he made as the bar lady – who you’d learnt was named Sandra – poured a pint into a clear glass. “If we just get some natural shots before we take a tea and biscuit break. I know Sandra and her husband have brought and made some delicious cakes for us to eat.”
From your position on a bar stool behind the commotion of Harry’s second shoot taking place, you crossed your legs and sent a smile towards your boyfriend. His hands tugging on the lapels of the tweed coat and adjusting the shoulders upon his body as he sat forward and took the beer Sandra’s husband had brought forward, a muffled thank you leaving his mouth and hitting your ears soundly over the hectic noises.
“Let’s get some shots done,” Alasdair called out, bringing the crew to the attention of Harry to make sure everything was set and ready to capture shots of him sitting down in a natural position, “I promise after this, you can have an hour to sit back, munch one some cakes and drink some tea or beer, whatever you prefer.”
Harry gave a nod as he took a sip from the pint glass, flashes instantly filling the pub room as Alasdair gathered shots of him sipping on the fresh beer.
Harry wasn’t one for beer; he never had been.
He preferred to crack open a bottle of wine or pop a cork from champagne and pour you both a glass over a roast chicken dinner or a contradictory take-away that had no sense of high-class familiarity to it – something the expensive bottle of alcohol had. He preferred to sip on the chosen bottle of red wine (or white wine which was a decision dependant on the mood he was in) when he was snuggled in front of the fire with the lights dimmed and a blanket strewn across you both, bodies nestled against one another as you tried to escape the cold.
He wasn’t one to drink beer upon occasion; not when he went out his friends to a pub, not when he went out to a club on tour and felt the need to stay away from social pressure, and he wasn’t on to have it alongside his dinner on a nightly basis; he was usually found downing a glass of water, or, if he was feeling naughty, then he would have a glass of coke ready to be sipped and slipped down his throat.
Beer was one drink that wasn’t ever stocked up in your fridge, and nor were crates or boxes of different brands found in the pantry or in the garage, waiting to be opened on an occasion varying from a party to a reunion to a peak of his fancy when coke and water got boring.
“That is perfect, Harry,” Alasdair smiled, “if we get a couple of you just holding the pint glass on the table, that would be great. We can see some distaste happening on your face and, as funny as they are, we want some natural shots of smiles not disgust.”
A soft snort left your mouth as you chewed on the straw sticking out from your glass, orange juice sloshing around as you set it down on the bar top.
“Don’t laugh at me, Gorgeous!”
Your head swung round, a blush on your cheeks as you caught his smirk coming your way.
“Sorry, Peaches,” you apologised sweetly, “your disgust face is actually the cutest. I couldn’t help myself,” you admitted to him, smiling widely as Alasdair brought the camera to his eye, Harry’s attention still upon you as camera shutters were heard and flashes filled the room, quiet chatter was heard amongst the crew members. “Focus on the camera now, c’mon. I’ll be over to kiss you in a bit.”
“Lookin’ forward to tha’.”
* *
“I remember sitting in this very booth when I was around the age of 8, and Gemma had just started secondary school that year, and we’d came back from school and sit here amid the afternoon pint drinkers,” Harry chuckled, crumbs falling from the piece of cake held between his fingers, “and we just ate chips from the kitchen and watched as John and mum pulled pints for the customers. And I always imagined myself doing that with them when I was older.”
“You wanted to be a baker though,” you smiled.
“That was when we moved further into Chapel and met Robin. I got a job at the bakery when I was sixteen and my whole train of thought just changed and I no longer wanted to be a bartender and I wanted to be a baker,” he conveyed softly, his lips wrapping around his fingers as he took in the lemon cake settled between his pads, “being a baker was the better option, to be honest. I tried pulling a pint one time and it went horrifically.”
“When did you pull a pint?”
“It was back when Louis’ family brought that pub. We all went back and had a couple of drinks and we all had a go at pulling pints and stuff. Let’s just say Louis could pull a perfect pint, Niall was alright, Liam was pretty decent and I just gave too much froth upon the top level and it just overflowed,” Harry chuckled, “pint pulling and bartending it not my speciality.”
“Well, singing and baking is your speciality so don’t give them up,” you grinned cheekily, using the fork in your hand to cut a piece off of the lemon cake set upon the table; half had already been eaten with a wash down of tea following behind, almond-coated lips partaking in kisses being exchanged.
“I wouldn’t dream of giving baking up,” he mumbled, reaching for the paper cup of tea, the styrofoam squeaking beneath his pads as he brought the rim to his lips, the steam wafting up his nose and giving him a warm feeling through his body, settling in his belly. He took a hearty sip, swallowing softly and letting the warm liquid trail down his throat, to the pit in his belly that as desiring the warmth. “I’m going to bake for you when we get married. When we have babies and we have a little family of our own, I’m going to make cakes for their school cake sales and make sweet treats for us to have during movie nights. And, if you’re ever craving bakery treats or cakes when you’re pregnant, I’ll make anything for you. Even if it’s 4 in the morning and I’m tired and grumbly.”
“Still talking about our future, huh?”
“Of course,” he smiled nervously, “I see us together in 5 years. Married, with a baby, maybe.”
“A baby, hm? You really want a baby soon, don’t you, hm?”
He gave you a simple yet short and to the point nod; he was ready to settle down.
He was ready, at 22, to go through the process of planning a proposal and sliding a ring onto his significant others finger and claiming her as his own with one gesture. A diamond engagement ring to show the world you were his and he was yours through a gruelling process of planning the best day of your lives – a wedding day spent with love and celebration between families who had been brought together by two individuals deeply in love with one another, in a room decorated perfectly with a consistently running scheme throughout.
He was ready, at 22, to start thinking about families and having a life behind closed doors that had him excited to leave work. A family that would be running around his feet the moment he stepped through the threshold, sweet sounding ‘daddy’s leaving their mouths as they hugged at his thighs and pleaded to be lifted up into his arms and peppered with kisses. Tucking them into bed and reading them a story – whether it be a bedtime book story, a made-up on the spot story, or a true story about your life together before children and marriage had been on the table – before giving them soft snuggles beneath their duvet and coaxing them into a sleeping state to give yourself and Harry a few hours of silence and intimacy after a hectic afternoon. Making breakfast in the morning and feeding their children with healthy yet deliciously cooked food he’d grown up eating, sipping on coffee
He loved and adored babies, as well as loving and adoring the idea of having his own baby – one to spoil and love excessively and show off to the world.
Everybody knew he loved babies and children – of any age, of any gender, of any race.
From the moment he’d held new-born baby Lux, he didn’t think there was anything more precious in the world. Being able to look down into the crook of his arm and see a snuffling and tiny looking baby with vibrant eyes and a crinkled face looking up to him, scrunched features with a mouth that was gaped open and letting out soft and milk-smelling breaths. The fresh smell of baby lingering on their tiny limbs and the babygrow, scrumptiously sweet and captivating, and it made Harry want to nestle his head into their plump belly and take as much of the smell in as he could.
“I do,” Harry whispered softly, “I do want that. I’m just ready to settle down with you now, just being able to come home after a long day and spend it with you and not have to worry about going out and finding a girl to go home with.”
“You never did that before me anyway,” you muttered, “you told me you never went out to pick up girls and have one night stands.”
“I did it once when Grimmy took me out for my 19th,” he admitted softly, looking down to his lap, “that’s why I wasn’t a virgin when I slept with you, but, I regretted it immediately and I felt disgusting and I just wished I waited for someone whom I knew I wanted to spend my life with. Like you, who came around a year later.”
“Well, we can always consider our first time as us loosing our virginities,” you smiled, lifting your fork to his mouth and smiling as his lips wrapped around the metal and he took off the fluffy lemon flavoured cake, chewing softly, “you took mine, so, we can always say I took yours.”
“I like that idea,” he murmured softly, chewing and swallowing the bitter tasting cake.
A comfortable silence fell upon you both; your favourite and preferred silence, as you watched the crew members flit around the pub room and shuffled around one another to set up for the next location for where the next shoot was going to be taking place. A red checked jacket and wool flares being passed around and hung on a separate hook to the rest of the clothes, a sweet indication that that was the next outfit to adorn your boyfriends body.
“I could use a small nap right now,” Harry mumbled softly, his head dropping to your shoulder as his eyes closed momentarily. “I’m exhausted. You think it’s easy to stand in front of the camera and model clothes but it’s not.”
“You can have a little sleep when we drive off to the next location, yeah? I’ll drive us both there and you can sleep for a little bit,” you suggested, his head nodding slowly, the softer strands of his short and styled hair brushing against your cheek, tickling your jawline and forming a smile on your lips. “I’m going to pop to the shop opposite in a little bit. Get us some bottles of water and some chocolate to perk you up. Do you want anything else?”
He gave you a shake of his head, lifting his neck up and turning his head to face you.
“I love you,” he whispered, his nose brushing against the apple curve of your cheek, “I love you a whole lot.”
“I love you too, Peaches.”

- -

“We could get (Y/N) in on these photos, if you’d like us too, Harry? They’d be perfect shots to have together,” Alasdair grinned, standing beside Harry as he tugged on the tweed coat, the sleeves of his diamond jumper catching under the sleeves of the tweed, the tail coat hanging down to the backs of his knees. “We can separate the shots of you on your own and you with (Y/N), so you can get them emailed to you privately.”
“That’d be really nice,” Harry said, reaching up his sleeves to adjust the arms of his diamond jumper, his Doc Martens scuffing along the concrete as he neared the grass below the sign of his school’s name.
Holmes Chapel Comprehensive School and Sixth Form College.
He’d walked past the sign on a daily basis through his 5 years of secondary school; even one and off visits to the school building a few years prior, when he’d gone to the school with his mother during Parents Evening for Gemma. Untrustworthy of staying home on his own for an hour whilst they spoke fondly about Gemma and her school work. He was always told that it was a good opportunity to get a behind the scenes look without a tour, getting prepared for when it was his time to arrive and become a loved member of the student group.
When it was his time to start a new school – a new beginning for 10-year old Harry, if you will – it was a sign he had to walk past to enter the school gates. A sign that had the year 11’s standing beneath it, cigarettes in their mouths and huddling around in groups or cliques that Harry could never find himself fitting in with.
He’d gone through different stages in his life – he went from funky clothing to an emo phase to a phase of normality to compose himself properly for an image fit for a 16-year old boy auditioning for a career that would compel him to something he desired.
He never once thought he’d be back, standing beneath the sign, at the peak of his own career. Imagining his younger self scuff past with trousers that were too long for him, shoes that were worn out and wearing away at the heels, a jumper that had holes forming in the sleeves and covered in paint splatters from a messy art lesson, with a tie that hung loose down his chest and would no doubtedly have one teacher stop him in the corridor and warn him to tighten it.
“It’s crazy being back, isn’t it?” He heard you coo warmly up to him, your fingers sliding between his as you took his hand tightly and tugged him upon the grassy hill the sign was stinking out from, “you zoned out a bit there.”
“I did?”
“You did. S’the matter? Are you okay?” You hummed in curiosity.
“I’m good, just, thinking back to when I last walked past this sign,” he smiled, reaching a palm out and pressing it against the peeling pole, the metal cold beneath his warm hands, “d’you know, I always walked past this sign and looked to the older boys who were stood smoking cigarettes and huddling in groups and they were the more superior group in the school. I’m back here, standing in that same spot they were in, in a much more superior position than they will ever have.”
“You succeeded better than they did,” you acknowledged, wrapping your arms around his waist and placing your feet between his Doc Marten covered feet, head tilted up to look at him, “but, look at you. Modelling for a popular fashion magazine, a solo career on the horizon and earning more money then they could in a year.”
“Saw a couple of lads I went to school with working in the train station McDonalds up in London,” Harry snickered, his forearms resting upon your shoulders, his fingers locking at the nape of your neck, hidden beneath your hair as his thumbs rubbed up and down the skin from your jaw to your collarbone. A shiver ran up his spine when he felt your hands snake into his back jeans pocket, the feeling of your fingers so close to his bare skin making his lips curve up into a smirk, a squeeze to his flesh earning a cheeky grin and a soft snicker leave his mouth. “Makes me feel a bit better to know those who criticised me are working in junk food places and I’m travelling and living my life to the best.”
“You’re so much better than they were, Harry,” you whispered, pressing up on your toes and puckering your lips, pressing them against the corners of his mouth, “you’re wonderful.”
“Y’know, they’re takin’ photos of us right now,” Harry whispered, earning a nod of confirmation as a response, “don’t mind, do you?”
“Alasdair pulled me aside whilst you were getting dressed and said something about us having a few shots taken together,” you grinned, removing your arms from his waist and pulling your hands from his pockets, “I’m saving my face and my posing for when we have some nature shots at the next location.”

“You’re really going to have some proper ones taken with me, yeah?”
“Of course,” you grinned.
As the flashes of the camera continued to shine, mixed with a few natural lighting shots, the conversation between you and Harry had blossomed into something that had your hands cupping his cheeks and a smile painted permanently on his lips. Shining green eyes that were only ever seen when you were the source of his happiness, crinkling in the corner and forming a dimple at the top of his nose between his eyebrows. A cheek dimple popping prominently upon the space made between your thumb and forefinger, deep and sweet-looking upon his soft features.
“Remember comin’ to school one day, and it snowed heavily the night before, so the field at the back of the school and the grass over here leading to the building was covered with untouched virgin snow,” he chuckled, “and we saved it for lunch time where we all got dressed up in our coats and snow boots and gloves and we just had this massive snow fight. Needless to say, I got sick the next day and mum made me homemade tomato soup and she set croutons in the thick liquid and she let me have loads of chocolate.”
“In our almost 5 years of dating, you never let me look after you like that,” you sighed heavily, “what’s the deal with that, Peaches?”
“I’m meant to be the strong one in this relationship. You shouldn’t have to see me with a red and snotting nose, and, you most definitely do not want to see me with my head in a toilet bowl,” he snickered, “s’not a pretty sight, I’m telling you.”
“Oh, please. You were sick in the footwell of my car when you got piss-drunk and couldn’t walk properly,” you murmured.
He’d gone out with Grimmy back when he was 21, celebrating a birthday for someone you couldn’t remember but you were sure you’d met once or twice in the past. He’d promised to come home early that night, with only a couple of beers in his system, but that had all gone out the window when James and Jeff had insisted they buy shots after shots after shots until they were tipsy and stumbling messes, with a similar vision to looking through beer goggles as well as a kaleidoscope.
You’d managed to work out where he was, and at 1 in the morning, you’d gotten yourself dressed warmly and in the driver seat of your car, engine started as you made your way to the pub he was sat in front of, a bottle of water in his hand and a drunken look upon his face. With a short 2 minutes sitting in the front of your car and groaning about an ache in his tummy, he’d brought up the contents mixing within his stomach, an execrable smell filling the small space and giving your belly an unpleasant churning feeling.
“That was not my fault,” he laughed, his head rolled back against the ball of his neck as a bellowing cackle left his throat, “James and Jeff weren’t going to let me go until I’d had shot after shot after shot. Besides, I cleaned up your footwell and brought you a new air freshener to stick on the ceiling.”
With his head coming level to yours, he cupped your cheeks in his hands and ran his thumbs over your reddening cheeks; the weather cold and the wind brushing over your exposed skin, sending tingles through your body with each touch pressed to your skin, his body warmth radiating from his pads.
“Even so, those times where the only times I’d ever seen you sick. Hangover sick. You always hide away when you have an illness like a cold or the stomach bug or something,” you grumbled, “like, you sleep in the spare room when you’re sick and only call me when you’re hungry or need another blanket. I’m not allowed to sit with you, cuddle you or nurse you to health and I can’t undress you to get you in cleaner clothes and to warm up your socks or anything.”
Anne had always explained how he loved to have warm clothes and cosy and woollen socks on his feet, fresh from the dryer and smelling sweet and sheltered.
He was no stranger to thick socks in the winter – heck, he’d have thousands brought for him at Christmas time, being sent from is grandparents in Cheshire as a little something special to let him know they were thinking of him; having grandchildren that were much older had forced a challenge into the family because it was never easy to find a present that was fit for the older man. Their safe bet being socks and boxers that they knew he would treasure, even if he got the same present every year, every Christmas, and every birthday he celebrated.
“Because, I don’t want to get you sick by having you run ragged around the house for me,” he admitted moderately, “I always feel guilty when you get sick after I’ve had it.”
“Harry, it’s part of living together, you donut. You can’t just hide your germs from me because, one way or anything, I’ll end up sick.”
“It’s really not,” he murmured.
“Just let me look after you when you’re sick, okay? If you want to get married and have a future with me, you’re going to need to do this and show some weakness when you’re sick and you need to let me in when you need me to look after you,” you disclosed.
“I will, I promise,” he smiled, “I promise you, Gorgeous.”
A soft kiss was pressed to your lips, passion and love hidden behind it, his arms snaking around your waist as your fingers raked through the soft yet shorter strands of his newly cut and styled hair, the both of you deepening the kiss beneath the school sign above you. The sweet gesture acting out as a wordless confirmation to the promise he’d only just expressed.
You knew he wasn’t going to let you down.
- -

The bakery smelt sweet, and it felt homely; and with Barbara behind the counter, it felt just like the old times.
You been in the familiar building only 4 or 5 times in the last 4 and a bit years, managing to pop in when you and Harry took spontaneous trips to Holmes Chapel to surprise his family when they were least expecting to see him. The same women behind the counter, the same man managing the whole company, the same familiar feeling each time you walked through the doors. The same cakes lining the glass counter, the same muffins set up on plates behind the glass, the same coffee machine still spurting out coffee and hot water, surrounded by pots of hot chocolate powder and ceramic tea-bag holders.
You sat in the same place, the same table, upon the same sofa, tucked in the corner where the most privacy could be given.
Harry sat opposite you, fresh locks upon his head that had only just been cut, his ears on show and a smile on his lips. Fingers laced within your own, rings shining beneath the light and cool against your skin, a hold that was filled with love. His own little way of showing public affection, even though the only people surrounding you both were ones who had worked with Harry throughout the mid-afternoon. He didn’t want to bring attention to you both; but you weren’t bothered by that entirely.
Just being able to hold his hand gave you a sense of comfort; he wasn’t holding anyone elses hand. He was holding yours, out of love and not by choice, and not to show off to those around who were in shot of seeing him. His large hand engulfing your tiny digits as his thumb ran over your knuckles in a loving gesture.
Anticipation in your bodies as you waited for your purchased cups of tea and slices of lemon cake to be brought to your table, the bubbling sounds of coffee being made being heard behind the counter and slightly drowned out by the chatter of those in the small bakery room.
“Remember when we came here for the first time?” Harry wondered, a smile on his lips, “it was the first time I’d brought you home. I think it was the second time I’d brought you back to see my family.”
“We found out, that day, that we loved the lemon cake and we had to order a whole lemon cake to eat on the way home,” you giggled, “we sat in your car, service station cups of tea in our hands as we watched the sun set from a hill. It was like, the midway point of our journey home from here to London.”
“I spilt my tea all over my white jeans. God, that was so embarrassing,” he chuckled, his attention turning to the elderly lady standing at the side of the table, the tray of lemon cake and cups of tea in her hands being set between you both upon the table top, as well as a piece of the new chocolate and coffee cake that she claimed was on the house for you both, “Betty, thank you so much.”
“It’s my pleasure, Harry. It’s honestly nothing for our two favourite customers,” she cooed, pinching his cheek and watching as they blushed bright pink beneath her touch, “you look very handsome with short hair, sweetheart. Is this for something special or are you just wanting a change up?”
“Well, I had quite a big photoshoot today. I’ve got an issue for Another Man that comes out later this year, but, we incorporated a hair cut into it,” he explained, “I’ve been offered a role in a Christopher Nolan film that starts shooting in a couple of months and I’ve had to try and change my style to fit in with what the soldiers looked like back then.”
“Oh, wow. Who ever knew our sweet like bakery boy was going to be a big shot in Hollywood, hm?” Betty laughed softly, a cackle most likely, as it sounded around the room, “I still can’t believe the boy who used to eat the crumbling bread from the bread trolley is now a big boy and working in his dream career. Taking the world by storm,” she added, setting forks down on the tray.
“I’m still considering taking a job back here,” he teased, earning a soft laugh from Betty, his fingers curling around the metal and picking up a fork, setting it upon a ceramic plate holding a slice of lemon cake, lifting it up and setting it in front of you with a smile, “you can have the one with the most lemon.”
“Spoiling me when I should be spoiling you,” you warned, picking up the saucer beneath your cup of tea and setting it down upon the table top, “thank you, Betty. This all looks incredible.”
“That’s our new coffee and chocolate cake we made today. I’ve given you a piece on the house, so, don’t worry about it being added to your bill. You’re one of the first people to try it out and give us some feedback upon it,” she grinned, “Barbara will love to know if you two like it. She did have you in mind when we set it out.”
“Did she make it?” Harry hummed, lifting up his own piece of lemon cake and setting it down in front of him, reaching for a fork as well as his cup of tea, leaving the plate of coffee and chocolate cake to be the only piece set upon the tray, “it definitely looks like something Barbara would make.”
“She did make it, indeed, Harry. She suggested the recipe last week and we discussed adding a new piece to the mix of cakes we have behind the counter, and we’re just hoping it’ll go down a treat,” Betty stated, a hint of hopefulness and optimism in her desire. “I’ll let you have some time to yourself for now. Let me know if you enjoyed the cake and we might send you home with a box of your favourites,” she concluded with a wink, lifting up the plate left on the tray and taking the tray away, setting the cake back upon the table top.
Her feet scuffed back up the aisle, her body shuffling behind the counter as she went back to her job, a smile on her lips as you watched her speak softly to the customer waiting patiently at the counter. Silence engulfed the two of you as the only sounds that could be heard was Harry’s fork scraping against the ceramic as he pulled a piece of cake from the slab, his lips wrapping around the moist and tasteful morsel, something that had his mouth watering from the moment it was set in front of him.
There was something about the way he was sitting in the seat opposite you, his jawline much more prominent as he chewed heartily and touched upon the delicious savour lingering on his taste buds. He relished in the taste, taking longer to swallow the tiny piece in his mouth, his teeth gently tearing apart the fluffiness and destroying the texture.
And if he could, he probably would have moaned at the sweet piece filling that spot in his hungered belly.
“Tastes good,” he grunted through a mouthful, his eyes looking down towards the lemony goodness set in front of him, “might have to take a few pieces home for us to have back in London. Or, we could get the recipe and I can put my baking skills to the test.”
“I doubt you could make a cake as great as this,” you articulated as clearly as you could through your own mouthful of cake, crumbs falling from the corner of your lips and onto the table, “you took a few tries to ace that Victoria sponge your grandmother has passed down through the generations. I remember seeing about 6 different sponge cakes sitting on the counter with a slice taken from them.”
“That, my lovely, was the toughest cake I’ve ever made in my life,” he admitted truthfully.
A sarcastic scoff left your mouth.
“You, the man who worked in a bakery and doesn’t drop that specific fact, found a simple Victoria sponge cake to be the toughest cake to make?” You snickered, swallowing the moistened texture in your mouth before dropping your fork to the plate, pulling apart the wedge left behind on the ceramic and setting a new segment upon the metal prongs.
He gave you a fake smile and a feigned laugh before pushing the empty plate away from him.
“You’re not even remotely funny,” he teased, “now hurry up. I want to taste some of this chocolate and coffee cake and I want to feed you like a good boyfriend would.”
- -
“Just one more shoot and then we can get home and have a nice cuddle in front of the fire,” you promised, reaching across the console and squeezing his knee in reassurance, “I’ve got no doubts that your mum had made her famous roast dinner so we can eat some of that and get to sleep.”
“I’m m’not too tired and it’s not late, can we take a bath together and relax?” He hummed curiously, reaching across and setting his palm at the nape of your neck, his fingers resting upon your skin just below your ear lobe, his thumb rubbing softly up your bone. “I could use a massage in the bath, with some sweet smelling soaps and candles around us.”
“I’m sure we can do that,” you grinned cheekily, “we can sneak in a little loving too, if you’re up for it. Seeing you go through some different stages together has really got my motors running for you,” you admitted in addition.
“It has, hm? Might have to purchase some of these clothes then, eh? What were your favourites?”
A blush covered your cheeks.
“I’m going to have to say the leather collar has been my favourite thing you’ve put on your body today,” you whispered softly, a hint of seduction behind your words, “I mean, it was a complete new look for you and I enjoyed watching you model something so sexual.”
“I’ll think about buying one, yeah?” He grinned, guiding your head to the side, leaning across the middle console of the car, his nose inches away from the tip of your own, “how do you like that? Shall I look into buying one? We can both use it when we feel some rough fucking coming on.”
“Harry!”
“Wha’? Oh, come on. Let’s introduce some bondage,” he whispered, his breath fanning across the lower half of your face, “imagine that. We’ve always spoken about being different in the bedroom. I let you do anal on me, so, we’re heading somewhere, right?”
Indeed, you both were heading into a different direction when it comes to being beneath the sheets.
Sex talk had been the hot topic of your pillow talk for a few weeks, when neither of you could sleep after being fresh from a shower with your nightly routines done and dusted, your bodies engulfed and succumbing to the quiet pleads of your bed, nestling together upon the mattress and speaking freely about what had found its way to your brain.
Whether it be talking about things Harry had researched when he had a free moment from work; his browser history being something that he felt nobody should see whether it was you – whom would be partaking in trying out those pieces of research – or whether it was a lad – who knew what he was thinking and had no placement to judge Harry upon the search bar phrases. He’d go from website to website to see better ways in pleasing you or scanning paragraph after paragraph about the best way in using parts of his body to bring you to the euphoric state that only he could get you too. He’d look from review after review about sex toys to what the best ones would be to purchase and use; butt plugs, dildos, vibrators and the best kind of cuffs to use to prevent the most scathes to your skin – or his, depending on who felt more dominant to the submissive in the moment.
Whether it be about something you had discussed with Gemma prior to the conversation. A discussion topic that you felt wasn’t appropriate to the virgin and intrusive ears of the wandering passers by. A conversation that had you blushing in the middle of a coffee house, your face hidden behind the coffee cup in your hand, your eyes darting around to avoid the staring eyes of those who had caught distinct words leaving Gemma’s mouth. Discussion topics varying from lingerie shops that would sell the better garments for you, to positions that Gemma had found most pleasing, to ways in which you could have Harry’s eyes rolling back with curling toes and his fists tightly holding and tugging upon the sheets beneath his sweating and squirming yet toned and tanned body.
Whether it be a korero between the both of you with whatever conjured up in your mind and what you felt appropriate and fitting to the already on the boards topics already brought up. Additions to what had previously been brought up, in a state of sleep without an ounce f thinking before it escaped either of your lips. Ranging from what you could introduce into your sex life to make it that tiny bit better, to what you could do to spice up and add a bit of fire beneath the sheets, to the best times to have sex and the preferred hours of the day when it felt intense and needed – with Harry’s being morning sex after waking up from a dream that had him pining for a release with a bit of morning wood forming between his thighs, taking you anywhere he felt necessary, and, with yours being night sex when you’d both needed time to come down from the hectic events that had played out through the day, your attention tearing from one thing to set upon another as a continuous yet slightly vicious cycle.
“God, that was ages ago,” you mumbled, your cheeks flushing as you brought your hands up to his face, cupping his cheeks in your hold, “glad it’s still imprinted on your mind though. It was definitely something great, hm?”
“So great. So, so, so great,” he whispered, his lips brushing over yours as the words rolled off his tongue, “I wan’a try it again sometime. We should just have an anal evening; don’t you think?”
“Well, I mean, there is something quite captivating about the idea of giving you anal when you’re sporting that collar,” you smirked breathily, your teeth showing before your lips pressed against his in a heated and steaming kiss.
A kiss that seemed to that longer than the most of your exchanged kisses throughout the day, as the hours passed and the sceneries changed.
A kiss that he was a fan of being on the receiving end of, his tongue battling with yours pressured with dominance behind it, teeth knocking together gently but hard enough to have your heads tilting in opposite directions. His hand, moving from the back of your neck to cup the back of your head, fingers curling around the strands of short hair growing beneath your long locks and tugging gently.
“Harry! Come on!”
A bang to the window had you both pulling apart from one another almost instantly, widened and angered eyes staring at you both from behind the glass, contrasting against your boyfriends humoured eyes and your embarrassed and widened eyes of being caught by someone you’d never met before.
“We don’t have time for you to make out and have an almost porn show on my shoot,” a man, you could only presume and guess (from his chosen words) was the photographer for the next few hours, exclaimed, his finger tapping harshly against the glass. His warm breath steaming up the cold glass, his face disappearing behind the condensation being created. “Come on! It’s not a porn show. It’s a professional shoot. We don’t have time for this tomfoolery.”
“Better get goin’,” you whispered, sighing softly, “he seems angered. Just, don’t let him get to you today. I’m not afraid to kick him where it hurts if you feel uncomfortable.”
* *

“Arm up to your face, Harry! Maybe put your fingers on your lips or something. And, bend a knee. Set your foot on the grass,” Ryan ordered softly, camera shutters soon sounding as he mumbled beneath his breath. Something incoherent to Harry’s ears as he rolled his head back and closed his eyes, blocking away the sight of the clouds transporting the sky slowly in the gust of the wind blowing in the atmosphere.
A heavy sigh left his gaping but slightly pouted mouth, something that he had learnt from his close friends in that specific industry.
When he’d first found out about the photoshoot and becoming knowledgeable that he’d been approved of being included in an issue for a magazine read by many, he’d turned to those who’s profession was standing in front of a camera and modelling clothes and designer brands. He made multiple calls around, trying to become as knowledgable in his sudden career change – a career change that would lead him nicely into his occupational choice -
His first phone call being to his mother to let her know the ins and outs of what he had planned for the next few months when it came to building up his solo career, events planned and a photoshoot in the books. Keeping her up to date as well as seeing if she could give him motivation and pointers and a direction in what he could do to not screw up himself before his solo run had even started.
Kendall, his best person to turn too when he needed advice on what to do and how to be as natural as possible in front of someone capturing his poised figure beneath a spotlight, was the second person he’d been told to call. Your voice calling from the bathroom as you relaxed in the bath; a bath he was joining moments later after informing and gathering information on something he had a vague understanding in. Her advice being noted down mentally, adapted in a way to fit his character and his comfortability level.
He curled his toes against the grass, the tufts tickling at the sole of his foot, following the strict orders leaving the photographers mouth. He couldn’t help but feel a sense of disconnect towards Ryan, and he couldn’t find a bond to bring them somewhat closer as two people working together on a job. He felt much more stiff during this shoot, like he couldn’t relax in case he’d made a wrong placement of his arm, or his foot being sited in the wrong place, or his head being turned in the wrong direction.
Harry didn’t feel comfortable; he couldn’t lie when he said it was a a feeling that had been stripped from his body during the last two shoots but had slightly rekindled it’s position back into his body as he stood forth in front of this man.
He chose to follow the orders leaving the stern-lipped mouth belonging to the man hovering above him as captured shots were taken on the camera.
“Drop your limbs down now,” Ryan ordered, “arms across your stomach. Legs flat, slightly opened up. Invite us in to you, Harry. You need to relax a bit more.”
But he couldn’t find it in him to relax the feeling of rigidity ratifying his limbs.
And he felt a breath of relief wash his body free of tension when he was given the all-clear to have a break. A break to relax and unwind, to sit back and spend at least 20 minutes with his love, exchanging kisses and cuddles in the wind, acting as each others blockades to the bitter chill lingering in the air. A smile lifted up his lips when he stood to his bare feet, no time to slip on his socks when he heard your figure shuffling up behind him, a giggle leaving your lips as you drew near to his figure.
“Mr Model, I’ve brought you a cheeky slice of cake to munch on,” you cooed, pressing your free palm to his back as you approached him from behind with a napkin covering a tiny slice of the chocolate and coffee cake from the bakery. The green grass poking beneath your jeans and brushing past your ankles as you shuffled across the long tufts and stood beside him in the nipping wind forming from the sea the horizon, “how is it going? You looked like you were enjoying your time in the grass.”
“It’s alright,” Harry admitted, “he wasn’t as bad as he was when he caught his snoggin’.”
A snicker-like giggle left your mouth as he took the napkin from your hand and took a bite from the piece of food in his hand.
“This would be a pretty sweet place to relax when no one is here,” you smiled, snaking an arm around his waist and pulling his body to yours, the jumper soft against your cheek, “we should pop by here when we have time too, don’t you think? When we come back to Cheshire and Manchester to see your family and get away from the hectic lifestyle of London, we should spend some time right here and bring a picnic or some cake and just lounge around.”
“It’d be the perfect place to bring our kids, wouldn’t it? Let them run around with a bat and a ball, playing a makeshift game of rounders or cricket as we sit back and watch them play together,” he expressed lovingly, fondness thick in his accent, “can you imagine us with kids?”
You gave him a soft nod, nudging your face into his side, the sweet smell of his cologne wafting through the holes of the knitted sweater finding it’s way through your nose.
“Kids with you sounds like a dream. We can bring them here and tell them all about how daddy came and had a photoshoot right here, sporting his beloved short hair to kick-start off his career,” you grinned cheekily, “they’ll be always wanting to hear about what daddy was like as a young man. And I wouldn’t hold back to tell them just how sweet and caring and very charming you were.”
“Well, you’re a darling, Gorgeous,” he professed affectionately through the final bite of cake in his hand, his fingers smelling like lemon as he hunched over and threw the empty and balled up napkin into a plastic bag used for the rubbish, paper cups and stirrers already filling it to it maximum content and overflowing, “I feel like we should go sit back in the car and warm up a bit. And get me some socks because my toes feel like ice and I’ve got a hunch they may fall off in a bit.”
“Don’t be so dramatic, Peaches,” you laughed softly, “but we can’t afford your sweet little feeties to get cold and numb, can we?”
- -


He hadn’t meant for it to happen midway through an anticipated photoshoot, and if he was to be truthful as could be, he didn’t even come to terms that his hayfever would bother in making its sudden appearance.
Filling his body with a sense of drowsiness and all he was feeling was a sudden craving for sleep, beneath a blanket with a box of tissues by his side. A hayfever tablet working it’s way through his veins as he laid warmly beneath a blanket, with cuddles being given to his sniffling and weak and dizzy body. Sneezes erupting from his mouth as the camera continued to stay thrusted into his vision, the succession of getting close ups being thrown into the distance. Into his closed fist, sniffles soon sounding as he cleared his nose the best he could from the build-up within his nasal passages.
“I don’t think this will work as well as we wanted it, too. Which is highly infuriating. Has he got no hayfever tablets in his car or in your bag or in a medical kit anywhere?” Ryan questioned, frustration lacing his words and his hands tugged at the strands of hair on his head, an angered expression on his face as Harry continued to wipe at his eyes, the crisp and cold and breezy wind catching and brushing over his cheeks, his skin cooling over from the tears drying upon his face, “we need to get this sorted. This is an important shoot.”
“He can’t help it, Ryan,” Alistair sighed, a box of tissues in his hand as he shuffled between Ryan and another crew member, passing the box over, “we didn’t know his hayfever was going to flare up this bad. Can’t we move to some other place and take some close up shots?”
“Not really, no,” Ryan hissed, his camera bashing against his chest as he swung around on his heel and gave his eyes a rub. A frustrated groan leaving his mouth. “Everything is set up here, we can’t up and leave just because his hayfever is acting up.”
“Ryan, this really isn’t Harry’s fault,” you argued, “his hayfever is never this bad.”
“Well, we needed to have know before we booked a shoot in a field, then,” he muttered aggressively, his feet taking him towards the van parked with the back doors open, his figure dropping down harshly as he removed the camera from around his neck. “I suggest someone goes and gets some hayfever tablets for him, before we start taking photos in the dark.”
Over the commotion leaving Ryan’s mouth and the hustle and bustle of those searching for car keys to head off to the closest pharmacy to buy however many boxes of hayfever tablets, a sigh left Harry’s mouth as he pulled his figure away from you and wiped at his eyes with the sleeves of the given coat he was told to model for this particular part of the shoot. A sniffle leaving his nose, a dribble running below his nostrils as he reached for a tissue poking from the box in your hand, beginning to wipe at the liquid exiting his body – whether it was tears dribbling from his eyes or snot leaving his nose.
In the 4 and a bit years of being his girlfriend, the only time you’d ever seen his hayfever flare up as bad as it was in this moment, was during a date night back when you were 2 years into a relationship. When he’d taken you home to Cheshire for his birthday week; a week spent with celebrations with his father and his step-mother as well as his mother and his step-father, afternoon walks in the biting cold weather, and trips to see his grandparents to have afternoon tea together and share a bite of cake and muffins.
He’d taken you into the back garden of his mother’s home, to watch the sun setting in the horizon on a clear evening with a blanket beneath you both and hoodies adorning your bodies, a cup of hot chocolates sported in your hands to block away the cold and crisp air of the February wind catching around your exposed skin. It was when it got a little darker – dark enough to have silhouettes form in the horizon yet not as dark to stop shadows from forming on your faces – that you heard his sniffles becoming more consistent and you’d feel his arm leave from it’s location around your waist to wipe at his leaking eyes.
You’d cut that evening short.
It was tough to sit there and watch as your boyfriend sat there in a little ounce of pain, his eyes stinging and sneezes sounding from his nose, sniffles becoming more consistent and the sleeves of his hoodie becoming dampened with the tears dribbling fro the corner of his eyes. With a kiss to his red nose and a swipe of your thumb beneath his eyes to remove the build-up of moisture, you helped him stand before you made your way back inside, your voice immediately asking Anne what needed to be done to prevent his sneezes from continuing and to stop his nose from running as much as it was.
“Give him water, wipe his nose and pop some hayfever tablets upon his tongue,” was Anne’s answer, and it’s what you needed to do in that moment to prevent his hayfever from flaring up to it’s maximum.
“Alistair, could we have a bottle of water, please? That should help it to stop for a little bit,” you wondered, as Alistair gave Harry’s shoulder a squeeze before he disappeared into the chaos and made his way to the the stopgap tent with a table full of tea and coffee necessities as well as water bottles set up neatly and freely for anyone to grab to quench their thirst.
“I don’t mean for this to happen,” Harry whispered, apologetically. His voice sullen and ridden with guilt the more he thought about this being his fault; his nose, his allergies, his hayfever.
It all lead to him.
It is my fault, he thought
“Harry, hey. It’s not your fault, Peaches,” you whispered assuredly, soft and silky smooth to his ears, “you can’t help your hayfever. He’s just an easily frustrated man.”
“He’s not very nice, is he?” Harry questioned, truthfully and almost admittedly.
And he wasn’t wrong; from the moment you’d stepped foot on the field where the third and final photoshoot was taking place, Ryan had battered you both for being ten minutes late, regardless of the fact that you’d got stuck in traffic and lost Alistair for a while until you’d phoned him up to ask him to stop and guide you to were he was. He took no time in asking what happened or if anything had come in the way of your lateness, and, he didn’t disregard the tardiness of your arrival. He immediately scolded you both for having to delay the photoshoot of 10 minutes, claiming that Harry was acting ‘unprofessional’ and ‘negligent’ towards his newfound career path.
As soon as the both of you had exited the car, Harry was immediately torn from your attention, pushed behind a blockade and passed a bunch of clothes that he was told he was going to wear throughout the next few hours. You couldn’t wish him luck and you weren’t allowed to speak in between takes, and you’d found yourself sitting in the warmth of your car as you watched Harry stay poised yet stiff in front of the flashing and zooming lens.
“Just another hour and we can go back to your mum’s house and have some warmth and some dinner and then we can have a cuddle when we get to bed,” you proposed softly, pressing up on your toes and planting a soft kiss to his cold and rosy-red painted cheek, “shall we go and have a sit down in the car? The wind isn’t going to help you.”
“I’m okay,” he asserted, tilting his head to your kiss, “I think my hayfever is beginning to clear a little bit. Maybe, we could go and tell Ryan and we can get some photos taken before it flares up again. I don’t exactly want to have red and rosy cheeks and a snotting nose in this magazine.”
“Don’t be silly. You’ll still look cute,” you grinned, as you unscrewed the cap of the water given to you by Alistair, and passing it over to his open hand, his fingers wrapping around the plastic as he brought the rim to his lips and took a hearty sip, sufficing his thirst, “in fact, let’s get a cheeky photo of us to use as a keepsake in the future.”
You slid your fingers into the pocket of the patchwork parka – given to Harry for the photoshoot but unused before that moment – you’d taken to using in order to keep yourself warm, blocking away the wind from sneaking under your clothes and flushing your body with cold air. You retrieved your phone from inside the pocket, sliding over the camera application and flicking the camera towards the selfie-mode within the app. Your faces coming into view on the screen, his back hunching over to stand level with your height, a forced smile on his lips with a copious amount of love behind it, your finger pressing the button as it captured your smiling faces; a memory to be used in the future.
“Did we really have to take a selfie when I’ve got snot coming from my nose?” Harry mumbled, amusement lacing the sentence leaving his mouth, “not really the most attractive, is it?”
“Nonsense. You could be covered in chicken pox and vomiting your guts up and you’d still be the cutest button,” you smirked, pinching his cheek and watching as his facial features scrunched with feigned glower. A look that made your heart swell and your chest tighten. “I mean it. You’re a cute little button and I love you.”
“I love you too,” he purred happily.
“Harry! Let’s try and get some shots taken,” came the sudden strict order, “at least before your hayfever flares up even worse,” Ryan edicted, his hands gripping tightly to the camera that hung around his neck as Harry brought a tissue to his nose, wiping at the moisture building up and forming red patches against his skin. Patches that had been created by the bitter wind catching at his moistened skin as well as the constant wipes of the dry tissue catching his dermis. “We may as well try and get some taken, yeah? I’m sorry I’ve been a bit frustrated. I want this to be a great photoshoot. For you and for me.”
“No, I understand,” Harry admitted, passing over the balled up tissue to your awaiting hand, “I think it’s beginning to die down a little bit. Those hayfever tablets will do me some good in getting rid of it, but, I’ve had some water and that’s done some work.”
“We’re going to do some close-ups which is why I didn’t want your face to flare up completely,” the photographer explained, his attention turning down to the different components upon his camera, his fingers twisting a dial to change the type of photo ready to be taken, “are you okay with close-ups, yeah?”
Harry gave a soft nod, a sniffle following soon after.
“Great,” Ryan smiled, bringing up his camera to his face and peeking through the window, capturing a close-up shot of the man in front of him.
Tears were building up in Harry’s eyes from both the wind catching around his body and blowing at his newly shortened strands of hair upon his head as well as from the hayfever that had struck him, causing his nose to stuff up and his eyes to water upon instinct. What Harry was unclear upon was how well these photos were coming out – they looked interesting and the water that was soon about to overflow from his eyes was giving him a riveting edge.
He wasn’t hiding anything from himself.
It was his time to show himself as who Harry Styles really was; showing his true self to those who still believed he was some womaniser who had girls falling at his feet left, right and centre, worshipping the ground he walked on. A Harry Styles image that he wasn’t comfortable pursuing.
And he was finally able to release the hidden person shadowed by the imagery created by the media.
He wasn’t an avid talker of his personal life – he kept his public life separate from his private life – and therefore pieces had to made up in order to continue and image and his hayfever was something that he didn’t feel needed to be expressed in interviews or on stage or when authors needed information upon the boys for an autobiography or biography being made on their behalf.
People outside of his little bubble of close friends and family weren’t given easy access to aspects of his life, and there were certain things he felt that deserved to be kept to himself and between his close family and friends.
He’d grown up with strong hayfever and his mother was always carrying a packet of tissues to wipe at his nose, as well as a tiny box of hayfever tablets tucked into the pocket of her handbag companied with a bottle of water to wash it down, sufficing the stinging eyes and the stuffy nose. His family – including his aunts and his uncles – were prone to seeing his flare ups and they were always on hand to gather the necessities he needed to get his sniffles to die down.
Since the moment he’d met you and continued to go on dates and sustained to get to know one another, he’d kept the little ordeal quiet. He wasn’t one to push facts upon you in hopes that you remembered, and he wasn’t going to inform you of something so small because it wouldn’t change anything between you – it was such a small matter that it wouldn’t have had an impact upon whether you liked him or not.
It was when he’d taken you back to Cheshire that it flared up the most, when you’d got the sudden information upon you for you to handle, and it did panic you and you weren’t sure on what you needed to do; the best thing was to get him inside, with a cup of tea and some hayfever tablets that died the sniffling and the weeping eyes. With plenty of cuddles and wipes to his eyes through the evening, he’d fallen asleep happily and you were given a sudden yet memorable actuality.
Neither of you felt the need to make it public, and, it was unknown to the fans supporting him that he suffered strong hayfever in the months when the grass was set to be cut and the weather had it’s changes.
“Harry, these are working perfectly, mate. Just a couple more and we’ll get you back in the car and ready for the final shoots,” Ryan promise, his voice sounding softer and more inviting than before, a sweet covenant being passed between the two of them as the camera shutters continued to sound between them both. “You feeling good?”
“I’m fine, yeah,” he sniffled, his voice coming out much more nasally and stuffed-up than before.
He couldn’t help but feel guilty with the lie leaving his mouth.
He was feeling tired, but, he didn’t want to frustrate the photographer more than he had been before.
He felt a bit drowsier than he did before hand and all that was running through his mind, as his eyes focused on the camera in front of him, was thought of when he could finally get into a comfortable state of sleep. Beneath a warm blanket, in his cosy pyjamas, with you nestled behind him, his body portraying as the little spoon for the night as he slept soundly upon a mattress he’d grown up with. Your fingers rubbing across the skin of his belly in soft yet soothing and invisible patterns, a wrist hooked beneath the hem of the t-shirt adorning his upper body, tingles upon his skin as he felt the warmth radiate from the pads of your fingertips.
That was all he wanted when he felt tired.
But, he found modelling for a popular magazine was enthralling and he didn’t want to stop because of some silly ‘sickness’ that flared up when the weather and the atmosphere decided to change around them.
“The hayfever tablets are coming right?”
“They are. Our crew member has gone to the nearest pharmacy to get the best ones,” Ryan entanted, “we’ll get them soon, and, then we’ll get you a warm cup of tea and let you have some time with your girlfriend before we set up for the next shoot. And then, you can head home. I promise you.”
- -
The wheels of Harry’s car rumbled beneath you as you drove over the gravel and the loose stones upon the driveway of Anne’s house, the lights flicked on in the living room and you couldn’t help but feel guilty that the photoshoot had taken longer to finish than you’d both informed her of. Your eyes switched to the clock sitting upon the dashboard, dead set in the middle and ticking softly in the silent car, the red hand moving gently with each 60 second passing – the bright white numbers shining 10:30 at you.
Harry had given her a call before his final photoshoot took place, warmer clothes upon his body, and he’d informed her that by 8 that evening, he’d be back in the comforts of his childhood home with a cup of tea and a plate of a delicious roast dinner sitting on his lap, his mouth watering as he devoured the food in minimal bites.
You hadn’t expected them both to be waiting up for you, the key to her home burning a hole in your pocket as you shut the engine off and pulled Harry’s key from the ignition, hooking the ring around your finger and being as quiet as you could as you climbed from the car and stepped foot on the gravel, closing the door as quietly as you could to not wake a tired and sleeping Harry in the front seat.
Your feet walking you towards the front door that was being unlocked from the inside, a familiar and warm face coming into your view from the slight gap as Anne poked her head from the inside out.
“Sweetheart, hello,” Anne cooed as she pulled the front door of the home open further to let your body engulf into, a gust of wind catching around her legs as well as a gust of warmth and cinnamon wafted in your direction, “how is he?”
“He’s asleep in the car at the minute,” you explained, looking over your shoulder and seeing his figure slouched down in the front passenger seat, hood pulled up over his head and his chin ducked down to his chest, lips agape and you could only imagine the soft wheezes leaving his throat.
You’d taken it upon yourself to give him the drive off, and you’d pulled the keys from his hands after he’d insisted he drove the forty minutes home, and from the moment he’d sat down in the passenger seat of the car, dressed in the hoodie (that was balled up in the boot of his car for emergency situations like his cold figure being in deep need for it) and jeans and boots with woollen socks pulled over his cold feet, he’d zonked out and fallen asleep before the car had even started up and backed out of it’s parked spot.
“He shows no sign in waking up, bless him. He’s had such a busy day. I was wondering if Robin would help get him?”
“Of course, sweetheart,” Anne confirmed, stepping aside and letting you into the warm hallway of the house, the smell of cinnamon getting stronger and the warm smell of a roast dinner kept the house feeling fed and homely, “we’ve got some leftover chicken in the oven. We didn’t think Harry would be so tired though, so, feel free to help yourself for a bit if you’d like too.”
“We know you want too,” Robin teased as he appeared round the doorway of living room, slippers on his feet and a dressing gown hugging his stature, “I’ll bring him in, take him upstairs for you. You have a sit down with Anne. Fill her in on what happened today,” he added with a smile, shuffling past you both with a kiss to Anne’s cheek and a squeeze to your shoulder before he disappeared into the cold air.
“How was it? Was he okay?” Anne questioned, curiosity lacing her tone as she left the door ajar and summoned you to follow her into the kitchen, “I got some nervous texts from him this morning. Must have been before you left London. He was a bit weary about this whole thing and I had a feeling he was going to drop out and not do it.”
“I think he got a bit more nervous thinking about it,” you admitted, sitting down upon a chair at the dining table as Anne flicked on the kettle, “when we arrived at the first shoot, he was surprisingly alright. We had a few worries and nerves bubble to the surface but once he was in front of that camera, he was like a natural. He was so good.”
“He’s such a talented young man,” Anne stated softly, reaching for another mug from the cupboard above her, “we never knew, back when he was younger, just how talented he was. Then he got whisked away at 16 and he was a whole new person. A better person. It was like his outer shell was cracked and this new form had taken over, and, it was such a sweet sight to see.”
Up until the age of 16-years old, his talents were understated.
He may have taken lead in school productions and he may have been caught singing karaoke tunes into a little microphone on the machine plugged into his TV and he may have been heard and witnessed singing or humming below his breath as he wandered the house in search for something. Yet, no one believed or ever considered him excelling into a career of singing.
He was always caught posing in family photos – or any photos for that matter – sporting a large and toothy grin that had his adorable little dimples popping on his cheeks, his green eyes sparkling in felicity of being in a shot used for memories to look upon in the future. He loved being in front of the camera, whether it was taking a photo of him or not, yet still no one ever considered him being in front of the camera in the later life.
No one understood how much passion he had for it to become a reality. He wanted it to happen and he was determined to have that happen.
And, from 16-years old, he was thrown into what he desired and he was placed into a spotlight of fame and fortune and girls – and some men – and he took it upon himself to adapt his original self to a person that could handle the atmosphere head-on. His mother was left behind, his stepfather was left behind, and his father was left behind, and neither could watch as their Harry grew into a young man and blossomed out to become someone who could succeed in whatever challenge and task he was given.
He was never short on calling home and keeping his family up to date with what was happening; especially during the time that One Direction had left The X Factor but had kicked off into their own world of success, excelling just as well as any other artist in the music industry had done. He made sure to phone home and keep his mother updated on what the next plans were for the band, and, he made sure to pop back as many times as he could before the possibility of travelling took over his life.
And it did.
He was never at home as often as Anne had liked him to be – yes, he took time off and popped back for a week, but it was never enough for her to see the true him and to see how he was finding his life now that he wasn’t a Cheshire lad – but she couldn’t ever complain about the circumstances they were all in. Harry was doing what he loved best, showing his talents as a well-paid job and a journey of his own life, living a dream he’d had from such a young age.
Confidence leaking from him with passion overflowing.
“He’s become much more confident in what he does, as well. We never once had doubts that he would let criticisms ruin him,” she added, “he’s taking the world by storm and we couldn’t be any prouder.”
“He’s extremely focused on what he wants, too,” you explained, “he knows where he wants to go and he knows what he needs to do. He knew that this photoshoot today was going to take him somewhere in his career and he stuck to it because he wants the best. He’s not giving up on his dream because of his nerves. He just goes at it, head-first, and conquers it within a minute.”
“He’s a determined man,” Anne smiled, turning on her heel and looking to you, “you’ve brought a side of him out that makes him determined. He wants to excel in life for you, to make sure you’re supported and provided for. I’ve never seen him work so hard for anything before.”
A twang in your heart made your eyes widen and your cheeks flush, your bottom lip being taken between your teeth as you looked down at your fingers and toyed with your nails, picking at the hangnails sticking out.
“He’s upstairs,” Robin called out softly, poking his head around the doorframe and smiling, “and I think I’m going to head up now. I’ll see you in the morning, (Y/N).”
“Thank you for that Robin. You’re a treasure,” you grinned, looking over to him and standing to your feet, “I’ll see you in the morning. I’ll take my tea up and give you a quiet night. I speak on behalf of myself and Harry when I say thank you for letting us stay for the night.”
“Nonsense,” Anne cooed, holding the cup of tea out towards you and leaning forward to press her lips to your cheek, “see you in the morning. I’ll make a nice breakfast before we take a nice walk or something.”
“Of course. I’m looking forward to it.”
* *
“Harry, you need to work with me right now. I’m just as tired as you are,” you grumbled, his tired and drowsy looking figure sitting upon the edge of the bed, hunched over with eyes heavy and wanting nothing but to close. Boots kicked off and socks hanging over the end of his feet, jeans pulled down to his knees and ready to be yanked over his feet and thrown to the floor in a heap. “I need to take your hoodie off. C’mon now.”
“M’so tired,” he whispered, eyes closing and his head tilting to the side, “jus’ wan’a sleep till the mornin’ and wake up fresh.”
“I know you do, Peaches. And if you lift your arms up, we can get this hoodie off and then we can cuddle up in bed and fall asleep,” you promised, your fingers tugging at the hem of the jumper settled at the top of his belly; left there after you’d given up for a second after his body had chosen to not cooperate with your movements. “The quicker this comes off, the quicker you can go to bed.”
“Hmm,” he hummed almost inaudibly to your ears, lifting his arms and waiting patiently as you tugged the jumper up and over his arms, his tired face disappearing beneath the material as you pulled it from his figure, “gon’a cuddle me, right?”
“Of course, Harry. You deserve all the cuddles tonight. You did so well today, you know that?” You cooed, dropping the hoodie to the carpet beside his feet. “I’m very proud of you.”
“Thank you f’ bein’ there,” he mumbled through a loud yawn, his eyes crinkling and his mouth widening, teeth showing as he brought his fists to his eyes and rubbed at the sleep building up at the corners, “couldn’t ‘ave done it without you.”
“Oh, stop it,” you cooed, dropping to your knees and pulling off his socks and balling them up into his boots before you removed his jeans from the rest of his legs, “you did it all yourself, Peaches. I’m proud of you. And I love you a lot.”
“Love you too,” he whispered, “I love you loads.”

Notes