Short and long Imagines

Harry styles

I DIDNT WRITE THIS I FOUND IT ON TUMBLR Rated R

You knew it as soon as Harry walked through the door and saw his face. Eyebrows pinched together and tight jaw, not even casting a broody glance your way while stuffing the keys in his pocket. Your chest constricts while watching him.
He got like this sometimes. As much as people wanted to believe that he had a permanent dimple etched into his cheek, you knew better than even those closest to him—those who have known him for years and years—you knew better than all of them. And though you hadn't been with him as such, you had been with him through the worst days of his life. The best ones too, granted...
On the best days, he would credit you for making them better.
On the worst days, he would credit you for keeping his sanity.
And today looked to be the latter.
Neither of you say anything because, truth is, you had a bad day too. You watch him shrug off his jacket atop the black, long-sleeve shirt that hung loosely down his broad shoulders. One sleeve was bunched at the crook of his elbow, while the other had fallen down his arm—the neck at the end being too stretched and loose to hold its place. He more than gruffly shoves it back up as you observe his back muscles shift with each jerky movement. You have the intense desire to go over and kiss between his shoulder blades. Snake your arms up under his and hook into his body. In a loopy kinda way, you want to be his leech—like a black parasite to suck out all the bad, tainted blood that courses through his veins and makes him feel anything less than remarkable in this world. Take all the sludge into yourself so he'd never hurt again. You want to rest your ear in the middle of his back and listen to the heartbeat slow, feeling his sanity seep back into his bones because of you. Smelling him. Rocking back and forth. Eyes fluttering closed...
Only you don't do any of that.
You know from experience that he has to come to you, first. So you don't say anything and just walk up the stairs.
It's only 8 pm, but you figure now is as good a time as any to go to bed. Perhaps Harry will watch TV for a bit, grab a snack, play about on his phone...Maybe he'll read some Charles Bukowski with an unsweetened cup of tea under some dim lighting. Who knows, maybe that will make him feel better? You just want to give him distance if that's what he wants.
Up the stairs and into your shared bedroom, with each step towards the bed, your legs start to feel like lead and in your mind, you can almost imagine a 'thunk' when your heavy brain settles in the pillow. But maybe you're just being dramatic. You don't even bother putting on proper pajamas, because what you're wearing is all-the-same comfy—quickly changing when you got home a few hours ago to look like a semi-presentable homeless person. You quickly came to find out that just removing your bra alleviated half of the squeeze on your body and mind and you felt better.
A few minutes of your eyes drifting shut, you start to think that Harry must want to be alone and that's fine with you. You just want him to be happy, even if you are craving his warm presence, but you know that soon enough, you'll wake with him on a new morning of a hopefully good day: A best day.
However, just before this thought carries you into sleep, the door opens and your eyes crack back open to see Harry standing in the doorway. His body looks as heavy as yours was minutes ago crawling into bed. He has slumped shoulders and that pesky sleeve has fallen down again. This made him look lopsided, uneven...just off-kilter from an off day. Everything is off.
So you don't say anything as you just lift an arm, beckoning him over to join the Buggy Days Club with you.
Now, he doesn't speak a word as he walks, somewhat tripping over his lanky body and on other occasions, you may snigger at his expense but instead you reach for his hand and pull his stumbling form down onto the bed. His soft breath of gratitude leaves him at the sudden leveling of his body next to yours. But once all legs and arms are in, that short breath turns into a long-winded sigh as the bed sinks next to you and he nuzzles down into the sheets.
Harry has pulled your hand up and holds it at his chest with a squeeze. Your arm is draped around him and nose about skimming a brown curl. Little spoon, big spoon; it's insane that there are gender restrictions in people's eyes of who gets to be who. Harry is not too big of a man to be held, even when he is, in fact, a big man. You're so tiny next to his frame and your arm that cradles his body is like a twig to a log... and he is probably not kept warm at all and he can't hear you as well from behind and you have to deal with dead arm... however, it doesn't matter when you notch your body to his—the unjust gender roles, the mumbled words never to be heard around his large mass, the cold air that is easily fixed with a blanket. All forgotten. It feels right to hold Harry and it's right for Harry to be held. Two spoons of indiscriminate size dipping into one another every night in what way feels comfortable to them. And on bad days like this, the role of the little spoon was usually reserved for the one who had it worst...and you can guess that Harry probably owned this title today.
After many seconds of not moving and no words uttered into the darkening room, you press your lips into his back like you wanted before. Taking a deep breath through your nose, he smelt like fading sandalwood and... 'boy'. You can't describe it as anything else but 'boy'... Maybe 'Harry' is a better descriptor because the smell is him—not just any boy, but yours. Just Harry. He smells like Harry. You keep your chin pressed for a long time and in the open mouth kiss on his back, his rigidity thaws out, puddling around him and sinking further down into the blankets with the allegorical dampness. He practically loses about two inches to his mass looming next to you and you take the opportunity to scoot closer and burrow into his neck. Harry always said that his favorite thing in the world was waking up with your hair in his face... and maybe, just maybe, your favorite thing in the world is falling asleep with his curls tickling your nose.
All you breathe, smell, and see is him and you realize that his heavy breaths begin to peter out and steady. After a long time, you're almost sure that the breathing should seep into snores but you don't hear the familiar sound. Just as you are about to budge, he pipes up next to you.
"You awake, muppet?" his gravelly voice rumbles and you can feel it on your chest. In order for him to better hear you, you move closer to below his ear.
"Yep," you say and though you are as near as one can possibly imagine, he responds by pulling your arm higher up his chest, willing you to squeeze him tighter. You react by, indeed, inching closer and you can just see 'round to his face. His eyes are open.
"'M not tired," he mumbles as you see his lips barely move a millimeter with the words.
"Do you wanna talk about it?" you ask, knowing that sometimes Harry liked to talk about his bad days, equally as many times as he didn't like to talk about them. You didn't know which Harry you held in your arms tonight, so you wait.
"No," he finally answers and he can surely feel your sage nod by his side. You expected as much and didn't want to pry. He will tell you when he is ready so you descend back down, expecting to sit in silence until Harry finally feels the weight of sleep pull him under. However, he tenses the slightest bit at your moving away and you stop and tense as well.
"I—I wanna see sumfin," Harry mutters and before you can respond, he removes your arm from his waist. Your dull mind moves slow, trying to figure out his end game as he shifts around, agitating the bed around you. You sit perfectly still, waiting for him to fulfill whatever mission he has set his mind to. Harry slips down the bed and you roll onto your back to get a better view of his actions. Your legs are pulled up to give him some space, half thinking that he has plans to sleep at the end of the bed, tonight, like a household pet or something. That's when he grabs your ankle to stop you.
"Wait," he says and grips your ankle tighter. Then, both hands are brought up to skim the length of your legs, all the way to the top of your knees. Your slow-as-molasses mind finally clicks and you understand his wish of prying your legs open. A single word pops out of your mouth, "Oh."
Shaking the shock away, you keep your legs clamped shut, despite his finger pressing into the knobby heads.
"Oh, Harry. We don't have to do this tonight. Just come up here, baby. Let me—"
"No" he interrupts, shaking his head. "No, I want to do this." His eyes clinch yours head-on for the first time tonight. Even in this darkened room, they shine green with a touch of sadness, like moss on a dead tree. He softens his exterior at your surprise and speaks again with calmer tones. "Well, I mean. If you'll allow me to... But I really want to do this. I just—will you—let me do this, yeah?" He says, biting his puffy lip and there is a tick of his finger at your leg. He seems almost desperate and it is not unlike him to be needy like this. But usually on bad days, you both agreed to surpass the nightly romp in search of a rejuvenating sleep— and then, perhaps, some slow, impassioned morning sex the next day. This is a rare request. However, seeing Harry peer at you with mossy and muddy, but altogether hopeful eyes melts your stiff legs beneath his fingertips. Feeling the consent electrocute his hands, he hastily opens your legs and nudges his way in between.
Scooting up to just below your navel, he noses the panties for a brief second before placing a soft kiss at the elastic. It made your chest physically hurt at how gentle he could be sometimes. This tall, bumbling, pigeon-footed, whooping-laughed boy had all the tenderness and ardor of a wise, old lover—rich in technique from many years of love-making. For his age, Harry always acted older and you sometimes felt like you paled in comparison in the bedroom, despite his strong pleas that you were the best among them. Regardless, most nights were spent with you slowly deteriorating in his capable hands.
He continues to pepper kisses at your thighs, and though you were not the one to initiate these acts, you sure as hell were becoming the 'needy one' rather quickly. His hand wraps at your leg, sponging the kisses lower and lower, until finally he makes it home again to nuzzle at the pink fabric veiling your rapidly dampening folds. Harry presses a low, deep kiss to where he believes your clit is and the pressure feels lovelier than you can imagine. Holding his lips there for a second, his hand snakes out of nowhere and pushes the material to the side so that he may make direct contact. You hiccup a breath—expecting this contact, but somehow not expecting it, as stupid as that sounds. His lips open more to turn the chaste kiss into a wet, lippy affair on the little button. However, there is still no sign of his tongue being used... he was a teaser and a pleaser, after all.
You peak down at him and his eyes are to his work. Lips pressed, almost as if trying to map out every bit of slick skin surrounding your clit. You are positively engorging under his velvety mouth and his eyes flutter and close a couple of times before a twitch ticks in his cheek. His gaze slides back up to you just as the tip of his tongue pokes out and flicks the nub. Your reaction is immediate and gratifying—chest heaving off the mattress and squirming a bit. At this, his tongue does it again. And again. And again. Quick, flicking, teasing movements.
You search for his eyes once more and now there is something different to them. The muddiness is gone and replaced with bright eagerness. Practically twinkling as his lips enclose and sucks your clit into his mouth. He's so wonderful... beautiful... enchanting... in between your legs like this, with his nose resting at the skin above your center. The bottom half of his face is obscured, however, curiously, you can tell that his cheeks are fully upturned. He is actually grinning—the first he has done so tonight—while going down on you. He enjoys it. Relishes having his muscle work you so creatively. You watch as he swipes down a bit lower, feeling rather than seeing him lap at your entrance. You have to tear your eyes away for a second to drill your head deeper into the pillow, but it's not long before you're back to panting down at him.
The hair falls in his face, with a strand or two pricking his eye. He twitches it away, trying not to disconnect from you for too long, enjoying it far too much to let something as stupid as his long hair get in the way. You help him out by pushing the curls back, seeing a slight quirk of his brow at your cheekiness. After all, it was usually him who brushed the hair out of your face to watch his cock glide in and out of your mouth. Now the roles are switched as you watch him lick into your slit. You elicit your first audible moan and Harry's eyes couldn't have sparked brighter than in that moment. He lets up, mouth dropping open for a second, before swallowing. The wet around his lip glistens as his mouth pulls into a full-watt smile: dimple deepening, eyes crinkling, teeth showing and everything.
"This is exactly what I needed, muppet," he says, cheeks falling before before dipping down again, another moan escapes your throat when he licks a broad stripe up. "Tell me how much you love it," he almost hums around your clit and you know what he is getting at, despite your muddled thoughts: no matter the terrible, shit day he may have had, everything felt better when he was close to you like this. When you moaned his name because it was the best oral you had ever received, he felt... good. Good about himself, good about his life and his outlook on the world—fame, fortune 'n' all that. All useless when it came to this real emotion in the pits of both of your bellies. This moment and countless other moments he shared with you don't even compare and never will. This was the thing he had a knack for and you were the thing—the only thing—that could pull him out of his dark haze, day after day. Tether him to sanity with only a small whimper, a touch of his hair, a cuddle in which he is the vulnerable 'little spoon' with no judgement...
"...exactly what I needed..." he murmurs again, almost to himself, as he dives into your heat once more. You don't hold back your mewls as he laves his tongue around.
Harry's movements are so feverish, trying to push you closer to the edge and to hear those earth-shattering sounds, that when the hair falls into his face, you are too fucked out to block it. This bothers him none as he pulls a band from his wrist. Never losing contact with your core, tongue still stroking in and out, he gathers his hair at the back of his head and wraps the elastic 'round a few times. A green eye—now free of any obstruction—winks at your dumbstruck face; the crinkles returning and you grip the sheets on both sides of your body. He begins fucking his tongue into you and the knot at the bottom of your stomach is about to unwind this way and that.
His tongue is slick, and his eyes are so shiny, and your chest is moving up and down so quickly, and your voice rasps, and his fingers press into the plush skin of your thigh... a bit harsh, but you like it. The mingling pain and pleasure. Your back arches off the mattress when he grips harder to keep you down.
Finally, one fast flicking motion to your clit and you're coming around his lips. Gushing and flowing, feeling as if your muscles are trying to push out and back in. A cry bursts out, almost embarrassingly loud but you know Harry would appreciate it. But through all of this, the thing you notice is how fast your heart is beating, and you're almost afraid that it might break through your cavernous, brittle rib cage. The final quaking breaths huff out. All you hear is the pumping of your heart as it takes in the pulsing blood and sends much needed oxygen to your hard-working lungs. You close your eyes and try to swallow properly while Harry moves about, jostling all around you.
He cleans you up by pulling off the sodden panties from under your jelly legs, discarding them somewhere and crawling back up to cradle your languid body, puddled in the sheets. He is back to his fitting position as the big spoon, twisting his arms around your waist and pulling you closer to contour his body to yours.
"Feel better?" he asks into your slightly damp hair that he nonetheless loved to nuzzle his face into.
"Yea," you answer, though your voice is a slight bit shaky. "Do you feel better?"
"Loads."