harry harbourne will be your pet pop star (harisha) wrote in dissentwo, @ 2013-07-07 22:44:00 |
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Entry tags: | !logs, char: harry harbourne, group: elixir, place: ldn (london), player: jess, player: kelly, ship: callum/harry, ship: chelsea/harry, time: 1977 01 (january) |
LOG: um. i really don't have anything to say.
FORMAT: Log
WHO: Harry Harbourne and Chelsea Baddock
WHEN: January 1977
WHERE: Chez Elixir, London.
WHAT: Trigger warnings: explicit sexual content, dubcon, light BDSM, drug use & alcohol. Haha. God. We finished this weeks ago and it's just been living in our docs.
It had been an incredibly eventful night, to say the least. Those were the nights that usually sent Chelsea to her brother’s house, in need of some comfort and familiarity. The night had started off as it typically did. She had gotten dressed, pre-gamed it at a friend’s place, before hitting up whatever the biggest party in town was. There were drinks, more than enough coke, and some other powder that though she didn’t necessarily know what it was, she had snorted anyway. Her night came to a screeching halt when one of the girls at the party recognized her as Callum Baddock’s sister, creating quite a scene, which was something Chelsea absolutely loathed. It was rare that anyone would recognize her, seeing as how she was just the little sister, but it did happen every once in awhile, and it usually meant her night was over, since the girl would harass her, while others began to follow suit. So she made to leave, but not before several girls ran after her, trying to get her to stay. She tried to ignore them and keep going, but the girls (who seemed just about as fucked up as she was) wouldn’t let it go, creating quite the dramatic little scene, calling her a bitch, and that she was sure that the papers would love to hear of the drugs they had seen her take, causing Chelsea to roll her eyes. They had no photos and no proof, so really, she had nothing to worry about. But. She was also, as mentioned, very fucked up, so when one of the girls grabbed her, she spun around and roughly shoved the other girl off of her, causing the other girl to stumble and fall to the ground. And that there was a picture taken of. While everyone rushed to the other girl’s side, Chelsea took her leave. She made her way straight over to Callum’s shared flat. It was his fault that she had this problem at all, fucking fangirls ruining her night, but it was also nights like this that made her realize that he was one of the few she could really feel comfortable around when it came down to it. Of course, Callum wasn’t home when she walked into his room. Pissed off and foggy-minded, she walked over to his dresser, knocking everything off of it and onto his floor, grabbing one of his cologne bottles and chucking it at his mirror, effectively breaking both objects. She then stormed out of his room, slamming the door and marched straight over to Harry’s opening the door with no warning. She kicked some clothes out of the way, walking over the front of his bed and clapped her hands loudly to get the attention of Harry and whatever skank was in bed with him. “Hey, rando,” she said sharply, pulling the covers back and tossing them aside as she did so. “Grab your shit and leave.” A pause, the girl didn’t move. “Now.” One of the two shapes began to stir at Chelsea’s words but it was not Harry, who was starfish passed out across half of the bed, blackout wasted and destined to remember nothing past around eleven that night. It was his companion, a heavily tattooed punk in her late twenties who had introduced herself as Babe Ruthless, and whose real name Harry had never gleaned. Babe Ruthless was the bassist in the band Harry’s friends had taken him to see that night, and she had more piercings than Harry had headlines in Witch Weekly in the last issue (a lot). She’d taken one look at him and thought he’d be a fun time, and she’d been right, but not right enough to get over being woken up when she’d just been about to pass out. Babe Ruthless sat up, her mohawk askew and glared over her boney knees at the intruder. “The fuck?” she slurred, rubbing a hand over her face as if that would change the apparition of the small drunk teenager at the doorway, or, for that matter, the famous drunk teenager in the bed. Chelsea rolled her eyes and bent down to pick up what looked to be like the older girl’s clothes, tossing it at her thin frame. “I said get the fuck out. Shoo.” “Whatever,” said Babe Ruthless, who really didn’t give that much of a fuck. She pulled her dress over her head one handed and grabbed her boots with the other. The popstar house gave her the creeps, anyway. Fuckin sell outs. She left, not bothering to say anything else. Bending down and removing both her heels, she tossed them aside before removing her dress, because whether Harry woke up or not, she was sleeping in his bed, and that dress was probably one of the least comfortable ones in her wardrobe, giving her a hard enough while she was awake. She grabbed the blankets that she has tossed aside earlier, bringing it over her as she settled in next to Harry, reaching over to gently shake him, calling his name to try and wake him. When that didn’t work, she shook him a little more forcefully and shouted a little louder. “Harry! Are you awake?” Harry stirred slowly, turning his head from where it had been face down in the pillow to peer at her. “No I’m still sleepin,” he said, his voice even lower and raspier than usual, a dimple appearing in his cheek as he smiled. The room dipped and spun. It was a nice spinny, sort of like the tour bus, which at this point was almost easier for him to sleep in than a stationary bed. Actually, Harry could sleep anywhere. It was an acquired popstar talent. Right now, though, he was mostly just really, really drunk. And confused in the way Harry got confused, uncomprehending but agreeable. He didn’t question the oddness of his life, he just went with it as if everything had a logical explanation that he would be told at the end, if he was good. Chelsea grinned at his response, staring over at the boy who she was quite fond of, which was more than she could say for a healthy 99.99999% of the people she had ever met. She leaned over and kissed his cheek. “Well, wake up. You’re no fun asleep. Please?” Well, it was the magic word. Though, really, Harry didn’t even need that, but he rolled over obligingly, opening his eyes all the way. Babe Ruthless was gone, which would have probably been more upsetting had Chelsea not been there and, possibly, if he’d known her for more than six hours. He realized in a sort of idle way that he was not wearing any clothing, but it sounded too complicated to do anything about that. “‘m up. Hello!” Harry grinned dopily at her. If it was impossible to sway sitting down, Harry was beating the odds, his skull rolling against the pillow. “I’m absolutely trashed, Callum’s not here, and I think we should fuck,” she stated very seriously, meaning every single word. She sat up and kneeled next to Harry’s body. The coke had left her too awake, too wired. Sex seemed like a good idea, and her and Harry have had great sex in the past. It was only logical she should suggest it, really. “Want to?” Harry looked up at her for a moment, processing at a snail’s pace, his brain moving slow and easy. “Okay,” he agreed, before he’d really thought about it, because he liked Chelsea and he liked sex and he’d liked having sex with Chelsea before. Another (more sober) time would probably have had him thinking about how he felt sort of weird about sleeping with Callum’s sister, and how he’d meant to stop doing that for a couple other reasons, but it really didn’t occur to him. He was sad and everything felt abstract and not real, and sex was really nice and Chelsea was good at bossing him around. Sure, Harry had just had sex, but he was eighteen, and also an international popstar. More is more. A more sober Chelsea would have seen Harry in this condition and just slumped right back down beside him and try to fall asleep. But not only was she not sober, she was basically vibrating from all the coke in her system, and sleeping just didn’t seem like an option just yet. Plus, he was awake and consented. It was all she needed to hear before straddling his lap, moving her hair away from her face as she leaned down to kiss him, glad that he was already undressed, speeding up the process. Harry kissed back, instinctively, in the way he’d been complimented on before. He slid one hand up the length of Chelsea’s thigh and used the other to move one of her hands to his throat, too uninhibited to handle it more subtly. Chelsea removed her lips from his, glaring down at the boy beneath her. She removed her hand from his throat and smacked the hand that had placed it there. “Did I tell you to do that?” Harry shook his head, blinking eagerly up at her. His eyes had immediately dilated at the order, like flipping a switch. “Then why would you?” she asked, eyes intense as she roughly grabbed his chin to make sure he was looking straight up at her. “Did you you think you were in charge here?” “No,” breathed Harry, on the edge of a whimper. “No, sorry.” He tried to keep himself from shifting his hips to search for friction. Chelsea tightened her grip on his jaw, pushing him back into the pillow before letting go. “Quit wriggling. When I decide you deserve some attention, you’ll get it.” She moved both of her hands behind her back to unclasp her bra, sliding the straps over her shoulder, and throwing it to the side. She looked down at her lace underwear, then back at Harry. “Remove them.” Harry brought his hands to the waistband of Chelsea’s knickers and pulled them down, stopping where her legs straddled his. He looked up at her, unsure of what to do next. “Should I... how should I?” he asked, still sounding sort of hoarse and wrecked despite very little having been done to him yet. Chelsea smiled down at him, proud that he would ask rather than just going ahead and doing as he pleased. Most men (well, boys) did and it bothered her. A lot bothered Chelsea, to be honest. She wasn’t an easy girl to please. She lifted the same hand that had roughly grabbed him just seconds ago up to his this face, this time to caress his cheek with the back of her hand. “You’re so good sometimes,” she cooed, her leg moved over his, so that she could kneel next to him, hands bunching at the lace and pushing them down herself, not nearly patient enough this evening to follow through and wait for Harry to do it. She made a mental note to instruct him through it next time. Still kneeling beside him, her lips curled up as she kept her eyes on him, her fingers softly running along the length of his shaft, providing no friction. “Don’t you want to thank me for the compliment?” Eyes half-mast and arching into Chelsea’s hand in short aborted movements, Harry bit his lip hard enough to bruise. He’d glowed as he always did at the praise, feeling safe, sort of, and grounded in a way he couldn’t be in most of his life. “Yeah. Thank you,” he said, breathy. Her finger wrapped around Harry, holding him firmly as her other hand moved to his hair, clenching the locks tightly, pulling his head back none-too-gently, giving him a single pump as she spoke. “That hardly sounded sincere.” Harry twisted his hands in the sheets, gasping through his teeth when his hair was pulled — unsurprisingly, he’d always liked that — and looked at Chelsea sideways, neck at an awkward angle from where he’d been pulled back. “Sorry, thank you, Chelsea, thank you,” he gasped earnestly, before squirming a bit. The sting of pain at his scalp and the pressure on his cock kept him on the edge, not quite enough, and he felt desperate and keening for more; he couldn’t keep quite still. “Please.” He wasn’t sure what he was asking for, except that he wanted more of something, he had about three hundred ideas but knew Chelsea didn’t take kindly to direction. “Please what?” Chelsea asked, hair still gripped tightly in one hand as she pull his face to face her, her other beginning to move in a slow rhythm, brushing over the head with every sweep. “You have permission to speak freely.” A million possibilities rushed through Harry's head and he bit his lips red and swollen. "I —" He thought about the box under his bed, the toys there. Floggers and cuffs, more than one dildo that he felt embarrassed asking anyone to use on him. There was a paddle and a riding crop he liked. He didn't know if Chelsea would, she hadn't before when they were too drunk to stand, in that few weeks they'd been fucking regularly, and Harry was definitely too drunk to stand now. And there were Chelsea's nails, which were long and sharp and drew slick blood on his back and inner thighs. And there was... just her telling him what to do, that was good too, that was the whole point. It wasn't just the alcohol pulsing through his veins that made him dizzy, wanting, eager. "Could you, could you hit me, choke me — call me, call me, you know — oh." He bucked up, already wet for it. It was impressive, really, Harry's imperviousness to whiskey dick. Whether that was alcoholism or eighteen, he had yet to find out. “Call you what?” Chelsea asked, not giving him time to answer before releasing both hands and straddling his hips, her own slickness moving against his as her hands rested on his upper chest where they began to dig into the skin there. “A slut? Do you get off on that?” Chelsea dug her nails in deeper, dragging them down a few inches, slowly. “Being reminded of what a good little slut you are?” Harry's eyes went glassy, his pupils almost engulfing the green of his irises, and his mouth was a distended o. "Yes, yes, please," he pled, breathing fast and shallow. “You will not come without my permission, understand?” Chelsea asked through clenched teeth as she moved her hips against his, as much in need of some friction as him – well, perhaps not as much. She leaned down to press her lips near his ear, biting down on his earlobe before sharply warning him. “Or else you will be sorry, and I’m not feeling very forgiving tonight.” “Yes, okay, I won’t,” agreed Harry hoarsely, gasping at every movement of Chelsea’s hips. Chelsea moved her lips from his earlobe to his neck, trailing kisses and nips down it, leading down to his shoulder. Once she found just the right spot (her favourite spot) at the crook where his neck met his shoulder, she sunk her teeth into his flesh, not tearing the skin, but definitely leaving a bruise, her tongue then running over the new mark she had just left. “Put those hands of yours to good work. Show me that you’re good for something other than just laying back and being fucked.” Harry moved his hands right away, one running up the length of Chelsea's thigh before dipping in to circle his thumb lightly at her clit. He palmed one breast with the other, but it was an awkward angle even with his gangly limbs and he alternated, circling a nipple with his long fingers before fitting into the curve of her waist, switching as Chelsea moved over him. "Is this good? Am I being good?" he asked after a moment, slurring his words, too out of it to hold back. Chelsea moved against his finger, her right hand moving to his throat, not quite squeezing just yet. He would have to earn that. She leaned back, so that she was sitting up as straight as she could with her small hand still wrapped as far around his throat as possible, her other resting on the on his abdomen. “Be rougher, touch me harder, and maybe you will earn a compliment.” Panting for it under the grip of Chelsea's hand, Harry obeyed. He dug his thumb in roughly, twisting it so that the edge of his thumbnail rolled in with the pad of his fingerprint. Harry had good hands, long fingers, more dexterous and controlled than his gangly limbs which were growing too fast for him to have a handle on. He dug them into her side, too, twisting her nipple hard. A ghost of aggression passed over his face; he was going for this with the raw determination one only usually saw from him when performing. Harry could be rough too, want to dominate sometimes, although he wanted to take it more than give it. Sometimes he wanted to fight for it and lose, be battled into submission. It was harder to get that with a girl, especially not when they were as small as Chelsea, but he liked it. He liked it less when he got an ill-timed erection from roughhousing with Reagan, but those things happened. The bellicose look soon passed from his features, though, temporary like a passing cloud and he was back to glazed naked want, though his fingers still moved feverishly. Chelsea’s grip on his throat tightened some as he followed his orders quite beautifully, a small moan escaping as he pressed harder into her, though it still wasn’t enough. Nothing felt quite enough when she was this far gone, the coke making her feel more sensitive and numb at the same time. She bucked against his hand and looked down at Harry through narrowed, heated eyes. “Harder,” she nearly barked her command, hand squeezing a little tighter. If there was one thing she had made sure to learn to have a better grip on, it was choking, as the first few times she had tried it (and had it tried on her), she worried about the dangerous side to it, which though that was partly what she enjoyed about it, she didn’t feel like really incapacitating any pop stars today. “Harder, and you’ll be fucked and rewarded like a good boy.” Harry redoubled his efforts, frantic. His fingers dug into Chelsea's breast, gripped hard at her side, dug into the flesh of her back as he pushed between her thighs, using more nail than fingerprint now against her clit. He lost his grip a few times but regained it, fighting through the disorientation to do what he was told, harder each time. "Please," he breathed, more reflexive than anything else, sounding wasted and looking wrecked, "Please, I'll be good, I'm, am I doing it, please." The extra push was what needed, the roughness of his touch and fingernails digging into her skin exactly what she wanted. She bent down and placed a gentle, but firm, kiss against his lips, muttering against them. “Such a good boy. My little whore is doing so well. And good boys get to get fucked.” She kissed him again, hand moving back to align himself at her entrance, sitting up in order to take him in slowly until she was sitting flush against his hips, adjusting herself to better be able to move. Harry gasped, eyes half mast and mouth open as she took him inside, every centimeter sparking his nerve system. "Yeah, good," he whimpered, flush with the praise and the feel of it, "I'll be so good, I'll be good for you please, oh, oh god." He swallowed hard, tilting his head back as the room swam around them. It was so dark except for the soft bleed of streetlights through his curtains, quiet but for his pleading and the slippery sound of her sliding onto him. Harry's mind was blessedly, beautifully blank. There was no room for anxiety or fear, just the sharp sweet combination of pleasure and pain and the warm sea sensation of being so wasted that it didn't matter, nothing did, it was okay. No room for anything but the dizzy drunk feeling of being controlled that made him go pliant and easy, glassy eyed and a little absent. He loved it, he loved it, god it was good, it felt so good, Chelsea's tight wet heat around him and knowing that he was doing good. Harry didn't have to worry. He was exactly where he was supposed to be that there wasn't anything he should be doing differently that it was okay, he could let go now, he didn't have to worry. Chelsea shut her eyes tightly as she quickened her pace, her hands holding onto Harry’s side, holding on as tight as she could as she rode him. Everything felt surreal, she felt almost weightless as she continued to move, her body’s reactions felt more poignant, her stomach leapt at every touch. All of her energy from earlier was focused on this one thing, and for the first time all day, she felt all of the stress and anger just dissipate. For the moment she was utterly content, and if Harry was unhappy that she had taken a moment from ordering his next move, he would just have to deal, because she needed this moment, her nails digging in further into his side. Breathing hard to keep himself from coming, Harry arched his neck to expose the long tan line of his throat from his chin to the dark tattoos at his prominent collarbones. He wanted her hand there, he wanted her to choke him to bruise him to ruin him, he wanted it so badly he was whimpering throaty and deep with every exhalation. Harry was downright pornographic in bed, he couldn't help it, he always looked fucked out and wrecked and he got loud, with a dirty mind and a graphic vocabulary and all that vocal projection training. All of Elixir had been subjected at one time or another to Harry’s porny moans and his forgetfulness when it came to silencing charms. It used to embarrass him when bandmates mocked him the next morning, when he’d walk into the kitchen half naked and covered in lovebites to a chorus of "oh yeah, sit on my face, make me take it, baby, fuck me harder, I love your cunt, let me come, I’ll be good, don't stop baby, right there, please," in only partially exaggerated imitations of Harry's fucked out raspy cries, all of them pulling overwrought o-faces and laughing. It still embarrassed him, but that didn't put him off. He liked it, more than a little, the edge of humiliation, being put on display. He tried not to think about how he never came harder than when he’d been fucked with the door open, his band members just downstairs, the bloke whispering in his ear telling him how they could all hear what an eager slut he was, how they all knew exactly what was happening, that Harry probably wanted them to know how he liked it, probably wanted them to fuck him too. He’d felt exceptionally weird after that particular dalliance and stopped returning the bloke’s owls, acting a little distant and awkward around the boys for a week or so. Harry felt his mind spin in and out of himself, it was hard to remember that this was Chelsea and he shouldn't scream her name because that's where the line was, he thought, but he never knew where the line was, it kept moving. "Choke me, please, Chelsea, please I need it," he babbled, nonsensically, eyes unfocused, "Fuck my mouth, make me gag on it please I need it, please." Chelsea slammed back down onto Harry with extra force, bending slightly at the waist, so that her hands could easily reach his throat. Before she made a move to choke him, however, she raised her right hand, slapping Harry right across the cheek, not hard enough to bruise, but he would still be feeling that sting. “You want me to choke you? What next, you little slut? Are you going to want me to fuck you in the ass one night?” Chelsea asked, both of her hands now moving to his throat, giving a squeeze and pinning him down, resuming her movements, the new angle hitting a spot in her, almost causing her to lose her composure, but she kept her eyes focused on the boy beneath her. “Maybe I’ll fuck your face first next time, before I take your ass. You would love that, though, wouldn’t you, you little slut?” Black and white bled at the corners of Harry's eyes, his vision blurring the room into a rocking vision, distant like watching out the window of the tour bus. He felt like he was on the bus, then, the room jolting and moving under him as he was pulled along for the ride. Harry let out a strangled moan at Chelsea's words, feeling so close to coming but forcing himself back from the white hot ledge even though it felt so good, so good, the bone jolting slap almost making him lose it inside her. He groaned, the sound halted and jarring through the grip of her fingers. "Yeah, yeah, I love it, I want it, I want it so bad, I'll be good," he gasped, his pitch gravelly. Harry didn't think about how she'd said 'next time'. He didn’t think about how he'd stopped sleeping with Chelsea that summer after a two intense weeks of drugs and fucking because of how he'd felt so guilty about Callum and also once Chelsea'd started to mess him around it'd been so, so good but in the morning Harry was always off, sort of hazy and needy and bad, his eyes watering at the slightest provocation, even more thin skinned and vulnerable than normal, and he didn’t know what to do to fix it. Once they'd stopped getting fucked up together it was possible for Harry to stop in the first place, instead of getting so coked up and blind drunk that Harry forgot he wasn't supposed to fuck his best friend's sister. He was too fucked up to remember that now, it was too good, and he swam in and out of what felt like a dream, the sharp point of Chelsea's chin morphing into other people and back again, flickering like a light going on and off. Harry's head rocked helplessly and he bit his lips so hard they started to bleed a little in his attempts not to orgasm. "Yeah, yeah, I'd love it, I would, oh please, I want you to fuck me, split me open, god I want it I want it, I want your cock, make me choke on it," rambled Harry, completely dazed and his voice garbled through the hold, "I'll be so good, please, let me, let me please, I want to taste it, oh, oh god." Chelsea removed one hand from her throat, but the other remained with a tight grip, as he she used the hand that was not free to support her body as she felt the coiling in her stomach grow more and more. She could feel the heat begin to rise from what felt like the tip of her toes, and if anything Harry had just said seemed off, she was too far gone to notice. “Fuck, just keep going. I’m almost fucking there, don’t you dare fucking stop,” she moaned, moving her hips against his, edging closer and closer, and just as she felt she was about to fall off, she just about screamed out Harry’s permission. “Oh fuck! Come now.” "Let me, please, I want to suck it I'm good at it please you can have whatever you — oh." Harry hadn't stopped his garbled monologue, slurring all the words together and then spacing them out, breathing shallow and fast enough to hyperventilate. He seemed almost possessed, semi-conscious, his glazed eyes rolling back into his head. Harry's flushed red mouth was lazy and slack, mumbling filthy ephemera as he periodically let out moans that were downright obscene, but quieter than normal. He was too disorientedly wasted to be loud, the room swam and he struggled to remain conscious, to will his eyes to focus on the person above him, whose features shifted with every rise and fall, the light from the window turning them into a kaleidoscope of people, twisting back and forth. "Oh, oh fuck, Chels, yes, oh I need, I ne — Cal, please, please, I love— oh god. Fuck, fuck me you're so, you feel —" Harry groaned, loud, when he got permission to come. He wasn't sure if he was dreaming, but he thought he was. All the colours merged together and his whole body was cloudy and detached. The elfin face above him had dark intense eyes and a sharp jaw and Harry's eyes wouldn't focus, he couldn't find himself in the haze and he was trying, he was almost there but he couldn't quite get the pleasure to come to the point, to reach that peak to spill him over into bliss. "I can’t — I need, I need, more I need, hit me, please, bite me leave a mark, let me be good for you I'll be so good I promise oh, please I'm so close, Cal, I need you I—" It was hard to pick one word from another in Harry's frantic mumble. His limbs started to shake and the heat was coiling in his stomach and he was so close, so close. Someone's face swam in front of him, they were riding him and it was so good, it was a dream or a hallucination and he didn't know where he was, he didn't recognize his surroundings, and he couldn't make out his partner's face anymore except in pieces, a flash of brown hair, a soft cheek, a snub nose. Harry kept whimpering, longer and louder and more needy. "Make me yours, mark me keep me make me, I'll do any, anything, I—" He gripped at the air, at his partner's flesh, clumsy in his attempt to move trembling hands to his chest. He groped until he found himself and dug into the flesh, twisted his nipples hard enough to bruise, mouthing the air and whining, on the edge of it. "I'll do anything, don't stop, please, please. Oh fuck, Cal— please, yes, I'm gonna co— oh, fuck, oh god, Callum," he keened, mindless and coming, finally, hot and wet and confusing, his partner's face at the edge of his half-closed eyes. At that moment, if there were any force that could make Chelsea stop from climaxing she would have, hearing the name she had just heard, but it was too late and she fell right over the edge along with Harry when she felt him finish inside of her, and she collapsed on his chest when it was finished. She lay there, breathing heavily, eyes shut, as she replayed what Harry just said over and over in her fogged mind, thinking that maybe she had just heard wrong. She wasn’t in the right mind, and she had misunderstood more important shit before. No, but she heard that name clearly. It was the same name she heard so many of her ‘friends’ had shrieked or screamed over the past two years. The same name that countless others had used her to get try and get to. And now, this? When she found the energy, she lifted herself up, looking down at Harry, and though she tried to erase any sign of hurt from her expression, she wasn’t quite sure she succeeded. “What did you just call me?” Chelsea asked in an uncharacteristically softer, more vulnerable tone. Harry lolled his head to look at her. He got soft and pliant and not-all-there after someone dommed him and tonight was no different, though now the alcohol was weighing down his head, tipping him towards edge of going completely unconscious. Harry’s eyes were huge and watery and sweetly vacant — Harry’s not here right now, leave a message — and he smiled at her dreamily like he hadn’t heard, or hadn’t processed the question, peaceful and stoned with the aftermath. He reached out vaguely, looking for contact and reassurance, something to ground him because he was floating somewhere not there. Harry didn’t seem to recognize her. His gaze was adoring but unfocused, missing her eyes and slipping towards her chin. His eyelids weighed a ton, and the bed surrounded him and he seemed to sway in it. He thought he was on the bus, probably, wondered where they were going. He wanted someone to hold him. “What?” he asked, finally, his stoned accent drawing the word out into a long, hoarse sound — woo-ah? — that small unfocused doped up smile arising again as he spoke. “You called me Callum,” she said, more to herself than to the boy beneath her who was clearly not going to be able to participate in any conversation at the moment. She moved away from him touch when he reached out to touch her, and if her eyes began to well up, well, at least he wouldn’t remember in the morning. She pushed herself off of him, moving to the side of the bed without another word, searching for her discarded dress in the dark. The room had begun to spin, between the come-down and orgasm, and she just needed to get out of the room and fast. She stood up somewhat unsteadily, refusing to cry no matter how dirty she felt at that moment, still able to feel the messy result of their fucking as she stood as she threw on her dress, sans undergarments. Pictures caught her eyes as she finished straightening out her desk. Several of the boys, of Callum, and some other people, all older. All the pieces of the little pop star’s life, one that she really should have known better than to throw herself into. She dabbed her eyes with the heel of her hands, turning to look at Harry once she regained composure. “Fuck you,” she spat, taking one of the frames that had the largest picture of Callum, and throwing it against the wall, much like she did in Callum’s room earlier. She didn’t even bother looking for her shoes before storming out of the room, slamming the door as loud as she could behind her. She needed a shower, and then she needed whatever drugs she could find lying around. Which, luckily for her, was just about everything. Because fuck pop stars. Harry slipped in and out of consciousness on the bed, arm still reaching out, his fingers slowly moving as if he was trying to hold on to where she had been, before. The clashing sound of the picture frame breaking barely made him stir. The comedown from the endorphins was intense, exhausting and emotional and he trembled with it, watching as Chelsea moved through the room without understanding what was happening. Darkness swallowed him and gave him back. The room appeared, spinning, and disappeared in flashes. Chelsea was putting on her dress. Darkness. Chelsea threw a picture frame. Darkness. When he opened his eyes again she was looking right at him. He smiled, hopeful and uncomprehending, with his earnest, dazed eyes. He reached out an arm slow as molasses, his palm up in a wordless plea for contact. Chelsea said something that he didn't register, and there was a loud noise, and then there was only darkness, deep and warm. It would take every memory from the last few hours and leave him in the morning with nothing but a nasty hangover and a formless, tenuous, razor edge anxiety that would spin into a panic attack he wouldn't understand. Harry didn't know that, though, and nothing could keep him conscious. The darkness dragged him under, easy as drowning. |