Random Harry Styles Short Stories || Completed!

Adulting

You and Harry are in the kitchen pretending like you know what you're doing. He's boiling pasta and you're chopping garlic and it's really a proper imitation of adult-ing. Your lips are tinted with a classic red lipstick and it's expensive enough that it doesn't smear on the wine glass you're sipping from without the intention of getting drunk - it's a night of classy luxuriance.

"Aren't we so mature?" you quip in your poshest accent.

Harry holds up his pinky as he drinks a "delectable" clearance chardonnay from his plastic wine glass. "I'm just having the most splendid time, darling," he remarks rather snootily, pronouncing all his "ing's".

It's fantastic.

On a normal night, you've both slipped into joggers, you'd be wearing one of Harry's too-big shirts and he'd be wandering around shirtless. There'd be red lines on his belly from where he had lazily scratched and you'd have thrown your primly styled hair into a messy bun. Most likely, you'd be tangled up on the sofa, some takeaway cupped in your hands and Netflix on the telly. Or, tangled up in your bed, some takeaway cupped in your hands and a Rom-com on your laptop. Either way, usually there's takeaway involved and tonight there's not and you're putting on airs.

Harry holds out a noodle for you to slurp. And you do, dribbling water along your chin that he swipes at with his thumb.

"Bit firm," you hear the soft crunch of the noodle as you chew.

His brow furrows slightly. Harry considers himself to be a culinary chef. He brushes aside any comment on the fact that he never cooks more than pasta and sandwiches.

"Nother' minute, then," he determines expertly.

You continue chopping the onion, only stuttering slightly when you feel his hands wrap around your stomach and his chin rest on your shoulder. You lean back to give him a kiss.

"How are we doing?" he asks and you lean back into him as his hand travels your stomach to cup your breast. "Is this the 'classy, adult evening' you were hoping for?" His chest rumbles against your back as he talks.

You nod your head because, after all, this faux charade of an evening was your idea - Harry was more of a reluctant, if not amused, participant. The cheap wine, the boxed spaghetti, and leftover work clothes had all been your attempt to move your relationship to a more mature, sophisticated step. Not that ratty pajamas, takeaway, and repeats of Gogglebox didn't have their charms, but you had both been doing that since university. Weren't your mid-twenties the time to refine your sensibilities? To become more cosmopolitan? Enter a new phase of maturity?

His hand scoops aside your hair and his lips find your neck. "Was thinkin' later we can put our nightgowns on, pay some bills, and talk about our achin' joints."

You shove him with your bum as you feel his lips chuckle against the spot they tease on your neck.

"Very funny," you say dryly. "We are like proper adults now. We have jobs, and a home, and we can like rent cars abroad. Spose' it's time we start actin' like it."

He huffs, seems unconvinced. His hand smooths down your bum and runs light traces on the inside of your thigh.

"Y'know what else adults do?" he mutters cheekily in your ear.

You lightly shove your elbow into his ribs.

His hand presses firmly against the bottom of your stomach, his fingers just putting light pressure on your most sensitive part. "I'd be willin' to go missionary. S'like real adults, then. Real, boring, stuffy adult sex."

You laugh and finally give up on chopping the garlic and turn around to see his face. He moves his hands to either side of your hips, trapping you against the counter.

"You're a child."

He rolls his eyes, leaning down to kiss you. His warm lips capture yours and your hands easily lift to cup his jaw. His tender and familiar touch resulting in the usual eruption of warmth in your chest. Somehow, no matter how long you're with Harry, he still manages to create a spark within you.

Suddenly, a sizzling noise fills the room and you jerk your head to see water spilling over the pot on the cooker.

"The pasta!"

Harry pushes you back with a firm hold as he reaches to turn off the gas.

"Fuck," he quickly pulls the pot off and throws a spare rag on the floor to soak the spill. He points blindly toward the cupboard by the sink, "Towel, babes."

You watch him clean the water and stand over his shoulder sadly as he drains the sticky, overcooked pasta into the strainer. So much for a night of adult sophistication.

You sigh sadly, "Now what?"

You're tangled up in bed, hair tied high up on your head, joggers on, and drowning in Harry's too-big shirt. Harry lounges beside you, a dribble of curry dried on his chest, and fringe mussed from you running your hair through it in between the time it took to order the takeaway and the time it arrived at the door. It was quick, messy, and clumsy sex.

Harry very graciously promised you some real adult sex later.