𝕊ℍ𝔼'𝕊 𝕎𝕀𝕋ℍ 𝕋ℍ𝔼 𝔹𝔸ℕ𝔻 | h.s

9 ❧ t h e r o o m u p s t a i r s , t o t h e r i g h t.. ❧

★🎧♡

Suck and blow? More like suck and fuck.

Everyone in the room was touching, groping, kissing, biting and licking. The only one who wasn't in the mess of sex and excitement was Molly.

Chris had shoved his tongue down some woman's throat about twenty minutes ago, and Molly felt awkward. She wasn't sure if she should get up and make her way back downstairs, or if she should stay and just..watch?

She laid back and picked at the nail polish that was long overdue, she needed to repaint them.

"Come here," a voice startled her out her thoughts. She jumped slightly but relaxed when she looked over her shoulder and saw Harry.

"W-what?"

"Oh," he rolled his eyes, "don't look so fucking shocked. Get the hell up, follow me."

Before she could fight with him on it, he was up and away. She slid out from underneath the sex-filled blanket and followed Harry down a long hallway.

He opened a door at the end of the hall and slipped inside without looking inside or without looking behind him to check and see if Molly was still behind him.

He didn't shut the door either, so it was easy for Molly to walk into the bedroom that had a large bed and a pretty view of the city outside the large window.

"Poets don't just write, no?"

The question had made Mollys eyebrows furrow. Her head turned to look at him instead of the view, but his eyes were locked outside the window, watching the busy street late at night. LA was a busy place, maybe not as busy as Vegas, but close.

His arm was leaned against the window, his stance was slouched when he crossed one foot over the other. His hand held a glass full of.. some type of alcohol, Molly wasn't sure what it was.

"I'm sorry?" she wasn't sure what he meant.

"Poets, Molly."

His voice was deep and raspy, maybe even a little bit slurred, but he didn't show any signs of being tipsy.

"Poets.." she began quietly, "they, uh.. they don't just write, I suppose."

She could only see the side of his face, but she was still able to make out the faint smirk that showed after she spoke.

"What do they do, Molly?"

She looked between him and the window — her mind was on a loop, what was he getting at? Why does he care about poets and what they did?

"They.. I guess they tell stories, they preform art."

"Wrong."

She widened her eyes, a bit shocked that he was so dismissive.

"What do you think they do, Harry?" Molly kept her voice low, matching his quiet tone. Wasn't in a whisper, though, it was still quiet enough that they both had to pay close attention to one another in order to hear.

"They love and then die."

"Di-" she couldn't wrap her head around what was going on, and perhaps she was wrong. Maybe he was a bit tipsy, after all. "Poets write, they write to express their feelings, to tell others what they have lived through — through words of affirmation and heartache."