Harry Styles One Shots

A Picture's Worth [m]

"I feel ridiculous."

"Enough o'that." Harry grumbles from where he's stood in the middle of his pool, face obscured behind his camera but not so much so that you can't see the furrow of his brows and the pouting of his lips.

"Are you about done, H?" You wrinkle your nose in irritation from where you're resting your weight on your hip, stood on his patio and holding the two margaritas you just made in the kitchen of his Hollywood Hills home, and Harry huffs out a frustrated sigh.

"M'tryin' to get the lighting right. Sun's givin' me a hard time."

He stopped you in your tracks nearly a full five minutes ago now, just as you were shouldering through the curtains billowing in the open doorway that leads from his kitchen to his big outdoor space. He's not set that damn camera down a single time since you'd come over this morning, your best friend Harry, and it wasn't annoying until he decided to start snapping photos of you, of all things.

"Stay right there for a mo'." Harry shouted, and when you glanced down at where he was standing in the shallow end of his pool, only his bare chest and mess of curls visible above the water, the lens of his fancy new camera was pointed straight at you.

"Why?" You laughed, pausing in your tracks, and then you heard the click of the shutter. "Are you taking photos of me?" You gasped out, an incredulous snicker tumbling from your lips, and Harry's answering hum had you lowering your eyebrows. "Why?"

"Y'look quite nice like that, love. Bikini, drinks, sunshine, city reflected in the windows. S'a good photo." Harry hummed, and you had to resist the urge to roll your eyes. You couldn't imagine you possibly looked even remotely nice, in the sweltering Los Angeles heat—if anything you were incredibly sweaty, with your hair frizzy and swimsuit wrinkled. "Might even let y'put it on your Instagram if you're nicer to me." He added, and this time you really did roll your eyes, smiling despite yourself.

That was five minutes ago.

Now you're still standing here, reluctantly entertaining his latest interest in photography despite the fact that you can't imagine he hasn't gotten a decent shot by now, and the iciness from the margaritas is starting to numb your palms.

"I think I'm getting hypothermia." You mutter and Harry snorts, biting into his lip as the shutter goes off a few more times.

"S'like forty degrees out, love."

You'd never give him the satisfaction of mentioning it, but you reckon if anyone's a sight worthy of a photo today, it's Harry; he's in a tiny pair of paisley-printed shorts and a pair of round, tortoise-shell sunglasses, leaving miles and miles of glowing skin out in the open and on display. From his muscular thighs to the hard plane of his stomach to his incredibly broad shoulders, his entire body is radiant in the sunlight. He's firm everywhere, even broader and more built than you remember from the last time you two had a pool day like this, with fading tattoos littering his arms and his torso. His hair is slicked back from his head, longer than it's been in a while and lighter under the sun than it normally is, and his lips have turned that bright pink they get when he gets a little alcohol in his system.

Not that you're checking him out or anything—he's just your friend, and one that's strictly off limits, at that; you've tried to make it a point not to think about Harry in that way, because he already gets so much of it in his career, and you know he's so much more than the way he looks, but on days like today it's difficult. Sometimes, a girl can't help but notice the fact that Harry looks like a Greek God in the Southern California sunshine, even if—and maybe even especially if—he's her best friend.

"Y'know, if you haven't gotten a good shot by now, you're a really bad photographer." You tell him, biting back a smile when he lets out an offended scoff from behind his camera.