Larry One Shots

A Tale of a Prince(ss) and a Punk Rocker

Harry was a good, innocent boy. Okay, not really innocent, but people thought so. I mean, who didn’t? He was this awkward kid who had a bunch of chocolate curls on his head, big, wide green eyes, had the feet that were too big for his body so he tripped a lot and he was basically a walking awkwardness. It didn’t help that he had dimples and was smiling as wide as Cheshire cat – maybe even wider. So yeah, to people, Harry Styles was one big, walking, innocent kid who had no idea what even sex was. So when Harry told his mum Anne that he wanted to get a tattoo, Anne was shocked. Why would her innocent, little boy want a tattoo? Did he know it was permanent? Did she need to educate him about everything? Maybe he thought it’ll wear off after some time. Okay, Anne didn’t think her kid was that dump, but you never know. He was seventeen, after all, and seventeen-year-olds did quite stupid things. She didn’t want Harry to make a mistake. What kind of a mom was she going to turn out to be then? But Harry was urgent and he really, really wanted that star tattoo (a star, she thought to herself… what guy gets a star tattooed on him?) and maybe she needed to let him go “wild” a bit. So she signed the agreement and let him have his way, warning him that he could only get one.

Harry was happy. He wanted a tattoo for the longest time now and the fact that his mum let him make one was reliving. He wasn’t so innocent. He really wasn’t. He didn’t get it why people thought that. Yeah, okay, he had a bit of a childish look going on and everything, but whoever met him could say he was total opposite. Or, well, to whom he showed his “true colours” at least. So Harry was a bit confused, and maybe a bit mad, that people found him that way. Not that he would admit that.

Now, here he was, about to make his first tattoo and no, he wasn’t excited at all. Of course not. That would be stupid. He found this tattoo patrol a few months ago. It was in Manchester and luckily, his best mate Niall went with him. Niall wasn’t really keen on tattoos so it was quite a task to talk him into going with Harry. He decided that it wasn’t really the best decision for him to watch Harry get tattooed, so he was spending his time in coffee shop next to tattoo patrol. Harry didn’t complain.

He gripped the paper impatiently as he stood near tattoo patrol, Niall leaving not half a minute ago, getting a bit nervous. He could do this. Of course he could. There was nothing to be afraid of. He wanted this since he could breathe (it was like that shut up) and he was more than ready. He nodded reassuringly to himself and then finally moved from his little safe corner and went to the front door. He turned the knob and found himself in a dark, hot room and he was sure he was going to puke by now because no, he fucking wasn’t prepared for this. He wasn’t overreacting. He really wasn’t. What did you expect him to be like anyway? That he was going to be this cool, calm person and say “What’s up, bro?” the moment he saw a hot tattoo artist? Well, news flash, he’s got it bad for guys with many tattoos who were that hot that they could put universe on fire. They probably did that already though. Let me rewind that. What happened was, Harry walked in and it was dark, yeah? And the only light in the room was this lamp on the desk. And behind that damn lamp and damn desk was standing a guy. A guy covered with tattoos. He was wearing a T-shirt, so many of them were showing. He had full-sleeves on both of his arms and some of them were peaking out from his T-shirt and going all up to his neck. His hair was done in a stylish quiff that Harry was sure he spent at least two hours doing because it would probably took him that long to do it himself. It wasn’t really helping that the small light was showing his features perfectly, so Harry could see that his eyes were highlighted with an eyeliner and he could also see numerous piercings on his face. There was a lip ring on a right side of his bottom lip, angel bites just above his lip, two of them on one of his eyebrows and he was sure he could see one on his nose. And that probably wasn’t all of it. And Harry liked it – a fucking lot. He was a vision of Harry’s perfect man. The only difference was that, well, he wasn’t exactly a vision.