Harry Styles Imagines/Blurbs

He Plays with Your Hair

Despite his big, awkward hands, it wouldn’t be uncommon for Harry’s fingertips to get lost in your hair. Sometimes it’d be intentional, but usually it’d be an absentminded gesture-- something he’d do without really thinking of it— because your hair would just be so soft and warm and lovely and he’d just need to be touching you, you know?

Like when you’d go home for the holidays. Sometimes he’d be in the living room with your family—talking and carrying on about the usual—and you’d come in to join the festivities after having gone to the toilet. With the whole family home the seating would be limited, so you’d sit down on the floor in front of him, his knees spreading to allow you access to the chair as a backrest. And almost immediately his hands would find your shoulders as he’d laugh about the last thing your dad had said, grip light, but firm, thumbs pressing in enough to make you want to crawl up in his lap and never leave. As the conversation would go on around you, he’d sweep all of your hair back behind your shoulders without really paying attention, fingers finding every stray piece and combing them back for no particular reason other than for something to fiddle with. You liked that he felt the need to touch you even amongst your family, liked that he did it without even thinking of it, liked that he always found a way in every situation. And then you’d remember to ask him about something and turn your head slightly, his body hunching down to let his ear nearly meet your lips. His curls would mix with your hair as he’d slide the lengths he’d been holding over to the side to make room for his face, and you’d quietly speak your question with a hint of worry—usually something along the lines of “Did you get the last suitcase out of the car before Jon left?” or “Did you ever call Bib about next week?” And he’d mumble an answer, trying to calm you, because it was Christmas, after all, and did you really need to be worrying about that stuff? “Everything’s going to work out fine, love,” he’d have told you repeatedly over the weeks preceding. “Just enjoy your family.” And you’d remember his instructions when his serious answer would turn into a cheeky smile on his face and he’d make a playful quip, causing you to jilt your head back with an annoyed “Haarryy..” But you’d be thankful for the commotion around you (your whole family talking and joking and catching up from months apart, and not really paying attention to you) because then he’d look at you with those flirty eyes of his and kiss your forehead, willing you with his childish banter to relax, and you’d appreciate the moment with him—just him. And despite your sarcastic slap to his shin, he’d giggle and sit back again, hands already intertwined with your hair.

Then there’d be the times when you’d be waiting around for something—perhaps in a queue at an amusement park or on the street or even just backstage—and he’d do something dreadfully silly while standing behind you, like pull your braid like a five year old or lift up two sections on either side and pretend they were wings or put it all on top of his head and ask you how you thought he looked. And you’d roll your eyes and shake your head, his playful boredom dissolving into his own giggles as he’d sweep all your hair over one shoulder and slide his hands underneath your arms to hug you close, chin planted on your shoulder. He’d quietly laugh a stupid, “I love you..” and you’d sigh dramatically at his childish behavior and sarcastically repeat the sentiment, your fake reluctancy drowned out by his chuckles.

In most hugs he’d be too busy stuffing his face in your neck or being distracted by the slow circles you’d trace in his back to think or do anything else, but whenever you’d come to him in tears and just need all your problems cuddled away, he’d be too concerned about how you were and what he could do to help and how your tears felt on his shoulder to really pay attention to his own feelings. So he’d bring you in slow and firm, arms securely around you with your head tucked up underneath his chin, breathing slow and calm to help you catch your breath, one of his hands finding the ends of your hair on your back and gently working its way through them. And after a few minutes, after it’d seem like your body wasn’t shaking so much, he’d lean you back and lock his concerned stare onto your eyes, needing to know if you were okay. Like not “okay,” in the sense of right in that moment (because obviously you wouldn’t be), but okay-- make sure nothing too serious had happened, make sure there weren’t any people to be reckoned with, make sure you were going to be back to okay-okay eventually. His protective nature would brood in his eyes as his hand would find the side of your face, swiping disheveled strands from your eyes and fingers beginning a slow trail through your hair as he’d mumble his concern. And even though your sniffles wouldn’t allow for much response, your head would nod just enough to let him know that yeah, it was alright, no, he didn’t need to go kick anyone’s butt, no, he didn’t need to freak out. And that’d be all he’d ask of you for the moment because he’d know you’d just need time and tears and lots and lots of cuddles before it’d make sense to speak it aloud. So he’d press your head back to his chest with the hand that’d been holding your face and tangled in  your hair and give a long sigh, wishing his body could protect you from all the hurt in the world more than ever.

Kisses would be different though, because while sometimes they’d be romantic and serious and sexy, most of the time his quirky nature would win out and they’d erupt from stupid chuckles. Like when he’d unexpectedly pull you tightly against himself, his eager eyes making you laugh, and tuck your  hair behind your ear, pulling down each fly away and drawling on cheekily about how they got their name and how unfairly they’re treated and what if you let them be who the wanted to be—you know, his usual nonsense. And you’d giggle at his stupid commentary, but be mostly concerned with the way his lips would draw up involuntarily and make his dimple poke out, his own silly smiles making you giggle more. So he’d pause his fiddles and look at you with a, “What?” and you’d just grin up to your eyes with a head shake of, “You’re an idiot.” Which, of course, would make him bust out into chuckles too and lean down to kiss you, hand still lost somewhere in the hair at the back of your head.  But it wouldn’t last long, because more giggles would come and you’d both dissolve into laughter and smiles and pokes and general childishness.

Occasionally there would be the kiss, though, that’d sort of come out of nowhere. Something would just come over him and he’d feel like he’d need his lips on yours more than his next breath, so he’d slide his fingers through your hair on either side of your face and hold your head firmly in his grip, the sensation of which would make you shiver and lose your breath for a moment. His eyes would meet yours with the hint of an impish grin as if to say he just couldn’t help it, but you wouldn’t have time to give a smile back because he’d already be pulling your face toward his, somehow still gentle in his fever. And his fingers would curl as he’d press his lips to yours, your hair twisting around the tips as the warmest feeling would wash over your body—something about the way his hands moved underneath your hair and his lips on yours and your breath with his. And maybe it was silly, but you couldn’t help but grin like a school girl when he’d smash his forehead to yours and let out his own giggles, embarrassed in all the best ways by his unexpected need for you.

And then there’d be the times that you’d walk in to find him lounging on the couch watching television, one arm stretched over the top of the couch, the other clutching the remote at his side; one leg extending down the length of the couch, the other foot set down on the floor beside him, creating the perfect opportunity for cuddles. So you’d begin to crawl on top of him, his face turning and brightening as you’d get closer, his eyes tired but happy. “Did you sleep well?” he’d ask about your nap, hand from the back of the couch brushing your face and sending shivers down your spine as his fingers would meet your scalp, motions more gentle than usual with his mind visibly soaking in your sight, your smell, your silly grin. He did so love seeing you soft and snuggly and swore it was when you looked most beautiful, with your hair falling all about and your lips all pouty and your blinks slow enough for him to appreciate every eyelash. And you’d respond in the affirmative to his question, though you’d still feel half asleep, and plop down on his chest. “Good.” He’d smile and kiss your forehead, fingers still entwined in the hair at the back of your head, gently rubbing as he’d shift to make your more comfortable. And that’d be the extent of your conversation for a while, his gaze shifting back to the TV, your eyes closing in exhaustion, but his fingers would continue to move through your hair, softly rubbing and trailing and massaging and sending tingles all up and down your body. After a few minutes he’d get distracted and stop, his thumb resting on your cheek, his mind wondering if you’d fallen asleep yet and if maybe the volume was too loud. “Just a little longer, Haz..” you’d mumble your request almost incoherently, and though you wouldn’t see it through closed eyes, he’d smile. Because in that moment his heart would swell at the thought of having you as his own, having you to laze around with on Saturday afternoons, having you to keep him warm and let him want you and have you want him back, despite his awkward drawls and stupid jokes and ridiculous life.  So he’d continue without a word, fingers running back and forth in the most relaxing of ways, letting himself document the moment in silence so he’d be able to come back to it for a very long time and remember how wonderful it felt, how comfortable it was, how beautiful you were.