[H.S] Shots

Olivia hits on Harry:

“‘I know exactly where you can stick that can of tuna, Jack-ass.’”

Harry smirks, eyes peering over the top of his script at you. “The line is, ‘Hi, honey, welcome home.’”

“Oh. Weird. I must have gotten a different script cause mine definitely says the other thing,” you reply innocently, batting your eyelashes as he exhales a soft laugh. “Yeah, see…right there. Jack. Ass.”

“Oh, it does, does it?”

“It does. Strange, huh?”

“Uh-huh. Very.”

You bite at your lip to refrain from grinning as you return your eyes to the page. “Okay, well…I think you’re good for tomorrow’s scene. I mean, it’s kind of all about her, anyway, so…no one will really be paying attention to you.”

“Gee, thanks,” he snorts as he straightens up on the small couch, tossing the script to the side.

“Hey, am I wrong?” You blink. “Hello. Florence fucking Pugh is in the same frame, I guarantee you nobody is looking at you.”

“Oh, well, I’m flattered,” he retorts, hand coming up to his chest in faux appreciation. “No, really. Give me another compliment. I think I’m blushing.”

Your eyes roll playfully as you gingerly chuck a water bottle at him. It flies across the tiny trailer and whacks him in the stomach as he flinches, laughing as it falls into his lap. “Hysterical. Truly,” you bite back. “Been a movie star for five minutes and think you’re the shit.”

He tosses his arms along the back of the couch, settling in a bit further as he nods at you. “S’been at least ten minutes, love.”

“Right, and to this day, iCarly is still your best work.”

“…you know what, I’m not even gonna argue with you on that one. I really did shine.”

“Oh, absolutely.”

“Sucked the shit out of that water bottle.”

“You really did.”

“Oscar-worthy, I’d say.”

“Abso-fucking-lutely.”

He eyes you from his spot, sensing your teasing tone, and before you can clock his sneaky intentions, he’s lifting the water bottle into the air, twisting off the cap, and flinging the water at you.

You gasp as the water effectively drenches your hair, face, and chest. You attempt to shield yourself by throwing your arms up, but it’s too late, and Harry lets out a deep, guttural laugh.

“Oh, you dick,” you squeal, immediately standing as you throw him a peeved look. “See, this is why I don’t take you home to my mother.”

He’s wearing a shit-eating grin as he watches you scramble to the bathroom. “Oops.”

“Oops my ass.” You attempt to wring some of the water out of your hair as you glance at your reflection in the tiny mirror. “I can’t go out there and let Chris Pine see me like this!”

Another laugh. “Why not?”

“Because I love him and I have mascara dripping down my face,” you huff, swiping a knuckle under your eye. “Oh, God, this is bad. Okay, gimme five, I gotta reset.”

“Babe,” he calls with another chuckle. “You look fine—”

“Bite me!” you retort quickly before slamming the door shut. “Shit! Where’s my setting powder?”

You hear him snort to himself from the other side but soon turn your attention back to the canvas that he so elegantly ruined.

It had taken you twenty minutes to get the eyeliner wing this sharp.