harry styles imagines

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Today, she decides to clear her throat every time he does. Only four other women are in the room, and Blair knows they like it when she breaks the quietness to bring entertainment to the dull atmosphere.

"Enough," Mr. Styles commands after her third act of mimicry.

She smirks and continues reading the same sentence repeatedly until she becomes bored. After a few minutes pass, he clears his throat again, and she does the same.

"Ms. Lancaster, may I have a word with you?"

Blair subtly rolls her eyes. She hates it when he treats her like a schoolgirl in detention, lecturing and speaking down to her as if she is inferior.

"What is it, Mr. Styles?" she asks as she walks over to him, feigning innocence to pester him even more.

He stares at her intensely. "Do you fancy being expelled from this library?"

"I think there is something in my throat," she says with a dramatic pout. "The book I was given is quite dusty."

He hums monotonously. "I must say, that was a terrible fib. I expected a better excuse from you."

Blair's lips twitch as she fixes the collar of her dress. "I do not fib, Mr. Styles. Allergies are dreadful this time of year, have you not heard? Or maybe you and I have caught..." She leans forward to theatrically whisper, "The consumption disease."

"Your hands fidget when you lie." With an unimpressed look, he jerks his chin toward the table. "Behave. Otherwise, you will be kicked out."

The conversation, if it could even be called that, dies quickly as Blair returns to her spot. Her remaining time in the alcove causes drooping eyes and raw, bitten nails. There is nothing she can do to make time pass any faster, so she watches the grandfather clock until it chimes when the small hand ticks to the number twelve. Blair promised her father she would be home for lunchtime, so she sets the book she only read two pages of in the wooden bin, then gives Mr. Styles an icy glare before leaving the library.

On her stroll home, she reminisces about every encounter with him today. Every facial expression and unspoken word told with each glimpse. She buries the invasive thoughts that dangerously cross the streets of her mind. However, at dusk, he creeps in her brain's crevices like noxious venom. When her satin curtains are drawn, and the burning sun says its farewell, Blair cannot help but think about him after she blows out the candles beside her bed.

His eyes of marjoram green that cast her discreet glances only she noticed. She wonders if she will ever get close enough to find specks of gold in them or if they crinkle when he laughs, lighting up with radiance that has never been revealed to her. There is a chance they soften when he reads a particularly romantic line in a novel, perhaps of a private touch or confession of love.

His long fingers that flip through the worn pages of said novels. Blair wonders how they would feel slowly trailing along her arm, leaving goosebumps in their wake, or how they would feel in her mouth, the pad of his thumb erotically settled between her teeth. There is a possibility they would stretch inside another part of her body so deeply that her entire soul would ache with pleasure.

His pink lips that pout and glisten in the sunlight filtered through the clerestory windows of the library. She wonders how they would form around certain words or if they feel as soft as they look, pillowy and sweet if she were to taste them. She will not taste them, but it is nice to dream about the flawless physicality of a man such as himself.

Mr. Styles may be unbearable and shrouded with arrogance, but that does not dismiss his obvious allure. He is nothing but a pretty face that haunts her at nightfall, hung high in the gallery of her mind like the moon in the starlit sky.