The Collection- Harry Styles

{baby honey} ii: Medicine

He knows he should be doing anything else. Literally anything else. Sleeping, drinking more (okay, maybe not that), trying to stuff his stomach with bread and water. Running. Puking. Crying in the shower.

But he's not.

No, he's sitting on the edge on his bed at four in the fuckin' morning, dick in one hand and a Polaroid of his ex-girlfriend in the other. He found the photo in his medicine drawer, on the hunt for aspirin and instead of a pill bottle, his fingers grabbed a small photograph.

As many as he'd taken over the years, he remembers when each one was taken. This was one of the first, when they'd just gotten into snapping pictures of the other and leaving them around to find. A secret treasure hunt for when they were alone and the other was gone for something. A memento. A token.

She's only got her panties on in the photo. Sittin' so pretty on the couch, attention bone deep into one of those journals she wrote all her songs in. Oblivious to being seen by him, in the dark to having her picture taken. Face scrunched in focused frustration because her lyrics always have to sound perfect on the first draft. Feet on the edge of the coffee table and toes curled in a way he's less familiar with.

His girl. His honey fuckin' love. Baby. Darling. Sweet cheeks. Owner of his heart. Keeper of his soul. Heart-taker. Heartbreaker. Love of his life. Soulmate. Best friend.

Except, no. She's not his girl anymore. She's someone else's. Probably why he's got his feet dug into the hardwood floor of his bedroom as he wanks off to a picture of her.

And he misses her. Harry didn't know it was possible to miss someone who was still alive so much.

He's never been keen on touching himself. Does it begrudgingly when it becomes too much. He much prefers her. His own hand never did the trick quite like she did. Because she knew what he wanted, what he needed, long before he did. Three steps ahead of the curve with hands like fire and a mouth like heaven. And bleedin' goddamn Christ, what a fuckin' pussy.

He never knew the meaning of 'pussy whipped' until her. But, yeah, he would do anything just to have a taste of her again. If he had to sell his soul to the Devil, so be it. She's worth it.

He has to pretend, always, that it's her takin' care of him when he's touching himself. Not his hands juggling and rubbing and petting. Hers. She could twist her wrist a certain way and have him coming undone in under a minute. Fuckin' sorceress.

Tonight, he imagines it's her mouth. Velvet cheeks hollowing around him, smooth back of her throat bumping against the head of his cock. Eyes staring up at him so pretty, that silent more please flutter of dark lashes. She always asks for more.

"Fuck, Jo." He moans, voice breaking on her name because he knows she's not there. "Baby, honey, fuck. Please."

When he squeezes his eyes shut, he sees her in his mind. Has to really picture she's there with him. Imagines the flick of her tongue into the slit of his cock. Her purposeful gagging noises because she knows he loves them, even if they're fake. Fingernails digging into his ass as he pulls her hair and kneads the soft flesh of her tits.

And when he cums, he pictures the sound she makes when swallowing, her proud smirk. But, that's not real. He releases into a goddamn dish towel and her name is a cry from his lips.

Before he knows what he's doing, he's got his phone, dick still half-hard in his hand, and he's calling her.

It rings. Once, twice, she answers on the fourth ring.

"Harry."

All it takes is his name from her mouth and he's choking out a sob. He'd call himself pathetic, but he doesn't care anymore. It's been a week since they've spoken. He hasn't tried to call after that first time because he's scared to death she won't answer. But she answered tonight so that must mean something. Right?