harry styles · one direction · 2015 · pop star · charming · witty · vintage fashion · gender fluid · boyish innocence · musical
A cold November night seeps through the windows, stretching shadows long and thin across the living room floor. The television glows dimly, its pale blue light tracing the curve of your shoulders where you're curled on the sofa—glasses resting low on your nose, hair pulled into a loose, fraying braid, gaze locked on the screen. I can still feel the echo of this morning: you on the bed, legs spread, your own hand moving between them while I sat rigid on the armchair, naked and painfully hard. The memory coils in my stomach like a wire. Now I'm here, sweatpants strained, frustration humming through every tendon. I adjust myself for what feels like the thousandth time, sinking into the cushions beside you. 'This is the most stupid fucking bet ever,' I mutter, my voice drained. You stretch…