death spells ☤ (larry stylinson) [ON HIATUS]

four

another stressful week had flown past.

and harry had only just clocked onto how unorganised his life was. he wasn't feeling creative, or anything, at all. instead ignoring both his art and song books and using the time to frustratedly tug at his hair as he cursed at himself in hushed whispers.

he had no idea why but he was just so fucking tense, and had so much frustration built up in him for no reason whatsoever.

harry was just mad, at himself, at anything really.

he also hadn't wanked in two weeks either so that didn't exactly help the cause and despite the countless amount of times zayn had offered to give him head and to ride him too, harry declined every single one. because it wasn't really the same. sure sex was sex but it wasn't sex that harry really enjoyed if he were being honest, because zayn always made harry top. and harry was never really much for topping, despite what he looked like.

to harry, sometimes all you needed in life was to lie back and think of england while enjoying a random grindr hookup. or, of course, just anything that ultimately ended up with somebody pounding your arse until you were sore as hell and could hardly think anymore.

that was all he was craving, too.

but he couldn't have that because for starters, zayn was a bottom, and for some reason, always very loose. also, he wasn't all that big either, to be honest. so even if harry were to bottom for him, it wouldn't be what he needed right now as what harry needed was to be ripped apart.

he had writers block so he had no idea what to write in terms of lyrics, the only thing he had so far was she sneaks out in the middle of the night. no idea what the song was going to turn out to be, he just jotted it down as he thought about it.

he knew what he wanted to write about, however. he wanted to write about how his life was crumbling before his very eyes and he was just going to smoke his life away in the back seat of a burning car. it most likely wasn't a lie. harry was incapable of living without fucking something up.

he couldn't draw either. not having a clue about what he could capture in a painting or a random sketch at this very moment in time. he was feeling rather uncreative, and he hated himself for it.

harry sighed, shaking his head in disappointment as his eyes flickered over the state his room was currently in. it had been like that for a good couple of weeks now, it was nasty. he realised he could no longer use the excuse that he was too busy with being an artist and that maybe he should clean the house since he was the only one living there and it wasn't as if anyone else would do it for him.

but with a shrug and a sigh, he got up from where he was sitting. only to stand sheepishly in the middle of the room. shuddering at the sudden overwhelming feeling taking over his body as he noticed just how messy the house was, before sitting back down. harry was skeptic about what he should tidy first, really, the whole house was a shithole. but harry, being harry, he decided upon cleaning out his closet first.

he actually hadn't done it for a good while and he was certain he probably had something in there that he could throw out by now. so harry pushed all of his books to one side of his unmade bed and made his way over to his little walk in closet that he was surprised could even be installed into a house of that size. maybe he should go through his shoes, throw out the ones he didn't want instead of his clothing. yeah that was a good idea, harry thought.

for a man who didn't earn much money, harry surprisingly had quite a few pairs of gucci shoes in his wardrobe. they were his prize possessions because as he walked down the city streets, occasionally full with other broke people, he felt superior. and sure it might've been a horrible thing to admit to but it was the truth, the others could only ever afford adidas, harry was winning.