𝐆𝐑𝐈𝐌 & 𝐃𝐀𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐆! | harry styles

𝐗𝐗𝐈𝐗𝐗

DEAR Self,

You're actually going to die three times.

Weird, I know, but hear me out.

The first time was metaphorical, right? Your sister gets taken, your whole world gets upended, and you spend three years in some sort of suspended hell that feels like real life but reads way more like a movie script. Seriously. That is the stuff of horror movies. Of three-part miniseries dramas. Of heart ripper chick flicks, except the hot guy who swoops in to save you isn't some prince in disguise, or a heartbroken rock star, or even a nice cowboy with a nicer horse.

He is actually a vampire, and he didn't save you.

He killed you.

Which brings you to death number two. The literal one. The one where said vampire/hot dude up and bites you because he gets a hard-on for your blood and can't stop himself. The one where your eight-year-old sister uses you as an appetizer, then goes and destroys the last family member you have left. The one where you wake up after three days ready to eat an entire herd of elk.

The third death— that's the one happening now.

This is the orchestrated death.

The one you plan.

You're in the middle of the 101 at 3:42 am. You've taken off your shirt and one sock. You've fucked up your hair. You've wandered aimlessly around the edge of town, stopping at random intervals, staring off into space. Standing slumped in the middle of the Calawa bridge, hoping to draw attention to yourself.

This is when McClean shows up.

He always has spectacularly shitty timing, and if this had been any other sleepwalk, he would have been about an hour too late to stop you from getting naked. Any other night, he would have been right on time to watch you strip off your pants and continue on your merry, sleeping way.

"'Sup, Greyson." He rolls his window down and winks at you and keeps on chewing that disgusting wad of gum, but you can't let your gut instinct kick in. Used to be that gut instinct meant some sarcastic remark and an eye roll. Now it means you have to bite your tongue in half to keep from jumping in through his window to snap his neck or maybe rip out all of his guts in a fit of rage. But you keep walking instead. Face limp. Arms limp. Feet limp. Everything is a shuffle, a drag, a heavy blink.

You're supposed to be asleep, remember?

"What the fuck are you doing out here, kid?" McClean asks, shaking his head at you. "You're totally asleep, aren't you?" He sounds chock-full of awe. Like he can't believe his luck. He leans on his window and leers at you, your naked stomach and your bra and the waistband of your too-big sweats hanging precariously from your hips. "Damn, kid. I'd love to get a look at the rest of you. Go on, and take it all off, huh?"

You keep walking. Slow. Steady. Imagining a hundred different ways to kill the bastard but reminding yourself each time why you can't do that.

"You know what I wish sometimes, Greyson?" McClean just keeps talking, even though he's well beyond the point of reason. He rolls the cruiser along beside you, so slow the odometer doesn't even register. "I wish me and you could've made it. Like, fucked in the cell block or on your dad's desk or something. Fast and furious, you know?"

He peers at you, a sudden thought dawning across his face. "You ever been fucked before, Greyson? Or are you a virgin? Because shit, that would be something now, wouldn't it? God, I bet you are. Bet you're just new and tight and—"

He's twelve miles away, waiting for you, but you can literally feel Harry bristle with rage.

"You know, I used to sit up at night thinking 'bout you. Wanting to get my dick into you so bad, but your old man would've killed me. But now that he's gone…"