Harry Styles Blurbs (Reader Insert)

Buttons (Fluff)

Harry finds himself restless when you're not around.

It's rare that he's at home for more than a few hours, especially when it's light outside. He's used to sneaking into his flat before the sun is out and long after it's set. But, today, he's lucky enough to have a free day to lounge at home. His flat doesn't seem so dauntingly lonely when you're with him, though, and he's pouting that you'd snuck away in the middle of his third round of morning cuddles with you.

He's a cuddler, yes, but a third round of cuddles is another rare occurrence for even him. He leans forward off the couch, messy hair sticking up every which way after being smashed against the leather and you- when you'd been next to him. He leans over to the side a bit, glancing up his stairs with narrowed eyes while he purses his lips to the side in a slight pucker. You'd run off in a hurry and he's wondering if he's done something wrong, something to upset you.

It's all still very new between you two, meaning that it's gone from being just physical to something more. A relationship, all the amenities included. It's a recent change, and Harry thinks it's too early to admit that he likes the idea of making you his- in every sense of the word. He likes, no, he loves pounding into you and hearing you whimper for him. He loves the way your eyes roll back into your head and the scratches you leave on his back. But, he's come to realize that he likes the aftermath a bit more.

When you're both breathless and spent and he turns to look at you, cuddled into his side with the sheets ruffled around you. The way you laugh when he you catch him staring at you, and the smiles that follow when he insists on kissing every bruise and mark that he'd left on you in his haste. It's more for his benefit than yours, because he likes taking time to love on you. He likes holding onto those memories when he's far away from home and you. He loves that you're willing to let him be the little spoon, but he'd much rather hold you. When he's gone, he's not just missing home- but you too.

He leans forward and reaches for his mug of tea on the coffee table, rings clanging against it and letting out a chime like sound. He takes sip of it, his eyes flickering to the show that was playing on the tv. It's one you had chosen, you had gone on and on about how addicting it was. He's not very interested in it without you laying against his chest, murmuring commentary now and then. The half empty couch is bothering him, so he's setting his mug down and getting up in the next moment.

He walks towards the stairs and grips the railing, hesitating for brief second. He can easily call for you, but he wants to touch you- have you in his arms. He's bounding up the stairs like a child, ready to make his way down the hall to his room. But when he reaches the top of the stairs, he comes to a tittering stop. You're not too far down it, just walking into his laundry room with an armful of clothes. He tilts his head as he walks over and peeks his head into the door of the room.

You've tossed the clothes into the washer and are currently trying to reach the detergent, which he keeps on the shelf above it. You're making small grunting sounds and pushing one palm to the top of the machine, the other stretched wide and fingers wiggling towards the handle of the detergent bottle. Harry leans against the doorway, arms crossed over his chest as he watches you with a keen smirk. He's about to say something when he notices what you're wearing.

The shirt is riding up your body as you arm stretches and he gets a peek of the dark purple panties he had taken off the night before. They're nice, but he's following the path of the familiar black silk shirt as it continues to slide up and expose more of your skin. It's familiar, and he places it immediately. It's the one that his last name embroidered on it. It's not the first time you've worn one of his shirts, but it is the first time you've worn this particular one. He snaps out of his haze when your feet slip against the tile slightly, taking a step forward he presses one of his hands to your lower back covering it entirely, as he reaches up and grabs the detergent for you. The wood is cold beneath his feet and he shivers slightly.

You yelp softly and turn around to see him giving you a funny grin. Your hair is in the half up half down style you'd tossed it in after getting out of bed, a few strands escaping to frame your face. You frown at him, brows pushed together tightly, "Harry! You frightened me!"

He chuckles, setting the detergent behind you on top of the washer before he glances down. "M'sorry, love. Didn't want yeh t'hurt yourself.." He trails off and focuses his eyes on the white font that's boldly standing out against the dark fabric.

"Oh sod off, I almost had it.. Hey, eyes up here, Styles," you scold, reaching over to lightly swat him on the shoulder.

He's fast, though, impeccably so and he grabs your hand and brings it to his mouth before you have a chance to pull it away. He presses a few messy kisses to the back of it before he uses it to tug you into him, arm wrapping around your waist and lifting the fabric up slightly. "S'my shirt?"

The question has a curious tinge to it and you can see that he's amused by the sparkling in his eyes.

You tilt your head at him, raising an eyebrow. You're surprised he's asking that question, really. "Maybe..." you mumble, biting your lip and meeting his eyes nervously.

He grins, a downright bashful grin that makes your heart flutter. "S'got my name on it, dunnit?" He releases your hand to lift his up to your face and press his index finger into your bottom lip softly, releasing it from your hold with a small smacking sound.

"It does..." you confirm, following his finger as he lowers it. You ping pong your eyes across his face and swallow when you're unable to read his expression.

"M'sorry, Harry. It's just, well you haven't washed your clothes from the trip and I had to wash mine so I figured I'd do a load..." your gaze lowers to his now empty bag from the promo trip he'd come back from last night that's settled in the corner of the room. "I just grabbed the first shirt I saw in your closet. I can chan-"

He cuts you off with a furious shake of his head and a squeeze around your waist, "Didn't say I wanted yeh t'take it off, sweetheart."

He knows why you want to wash your clothes, considering he had fucked you in your shirt last night. A rushed frenzy from the moment you two had stepped into his flat. But, the thought that you'd included his clothes warms his heart, a feeling he's getting used to associating with you.

You snort slightly at that, "Well, that's a first."

"Oi!" He squawks, lowering his forehead to yours and letting out a grunt. His voice is softer when he speaks up, "S'not nice, love."

It's a half hearted reprimand and you laugh softly, tilting your head up to press a kiss to his chin.

He hums and grapples closer, fisting more of the fabric in his hands. He buries his face in your neck and you giggle when you feel his lips fluttering up and down the column of it. His confession is muffled against your skin but you hear it loud and clear, "Like seeing you with my last name on yeh."

You don't have a response to that other than a shy smile, lifting your arms to wrap around his broad shoulders and give him a squeeze. He lets out a content sigh before pulling back to press a kiss to your cheek, then the side of your nose, and then your forehead. Yes, he's definitely into the idea of you being his and only his.

You turn your face and nuzzle your nose into his cheek, "You know, your fashion taste is quite inspiring."

"Yeh think so?" He counters, turning his face to bump his nose into yours in a clumsy manner.

"Mhmmm, might have to borrow some more clothes.." you muse, fingers running through the messy locks at the nape of his neck.

His dimple pops when he smiles next, "Well, love, think I can help you out."

He raises a hand from your waist, trailing it up your side and around the front. He pulls back a little to look down and then up into your eyes with a mischievous look, "If yeh wanna look like me..." his fingers run over the buttons at the top of his shirt as his voice grows huskier with the next sentence, "Gonna have t'lose a few more o'these, angel."

He manages to pop one button before your lips are on his and he's hitching one of your legs over his hip. Your back hits the machine and he winces, but he'll take of that later. The laundry could wait for you, because he's decided he no longer wants too.