This is the prologue of the sorts. So, yeah. Enjoy.
November 15, 2011
He whispers sweet nothings into your ear as you throw your head back and selfishly swallow the alcohol without offering any to him. The contour of his lips lightly grazes over your pinna,* and you shiver. It goes unnoticed by you as he graciously pats your thick head of curls, murmuring your own lyrics:
Her infinite was more finite than she could ever anticipate.
The sun set before she could utter her goodbyes,
And dusk soundlessly swept away her confidence.
Night air seeps into her bones, chilling her heart.
You're painfully aware of how cliché the entirety of the current predicament you're involved in is, but you're so enraptured in this stranger that you can't seem to pull yourself away. Drunkenness is one more beer away—you can feel it by the slight haze that has befallen you—and you don't know if you should drink past that boundary. A tug on your blazer draws your attention from your reveries, and you stare into the shaded face of the bloke who approached you.
"Styles," he breathes out as his hand slothfully inches his way up your inner thigh. Your breath hitches, and the grip you had on your bottle of booze slacks. You're not gay, but—damn it, it feels good. You notice that this man graces you with a tight lipped smile as he observes your reaction.
"You have a task, Harold," he mutters. You don't figure how he knows your name, but then it hits you that you are famous—especially in the United Kingdom—with four other lads, but you're in a random tavern at God knows what time. His words are clear and concise. You realise that you haven't seen him consume a drop of alcohol since he had begun talking you.
Your head cocks as your jaded green eyes stare into his lifeless orbs. "What d'you say?" The slur from the alcohol is carefully concealed in your accent.
"Leave your mates and the band." The statement from this stranger instantly sobers you up. A blank face stares at you.
"No," you say while shaking your head vehemently. You sit your bottle down on the counter, and stare into the man's face. Maybe it's your imagination, but his seemingly innocent look transforms into a façade, and a wicked look passes over his face. You blink several times, blaming it on the alcohol. "The hell?"
He leans down, and his fingers no longer feel satisfying. A strong hand envelops your tense shoulder in a firm grip.
"If you don't adhere, I can very well assure you that each and every lad, including yourself, Mr. Styles, will suffer emotional torment."
Hopefully, I'll come up with something to entertain you all. Oh, and the lyrics at the beginning do belong to me. Please don't take them. Thank you.
Drop a review? I love to improve. :)
~Jia