Harry Styles One Shots

Y/N wakes up craving blood and Harry's there to help (reluctantly)

i.

Y/N's throat burns.

The comparison is to that of a dry heat like being dropped in a desert sinkhole and swallowing mouthfuls of sand; the insides of her esophagus feel scraped raw by millions of tiny grains and pebbles. The feeling of it is scorching, wrapping around her neck, suffocating her, making it impossible to breathe. Each small gasp of air she sucks in brings no relief, only the reminder that her lungs flare and smolder every time she tries to take a breath. Her skin feels wrong, hypersensitive, buzzing, sizzling – each cell is vibrating uncontrollably against itself, unsure and uneasy like it isn't sure it's supposed to be hers. Everything feels like it's too much. Everything feels wrong.

She doesn't know where she is, what time of day it is, or what is surrounding her. Y/N can barely open her eyes without it feeling like something is trying to pierce through her skull, an ache unlike anything she's experienced succumbing to her temple and spreading outward. The most she can tell is that she's lying down; her body is stretched out over something lumpy and hard, and her wrists are bound behind her back. If she pulls, the material that binds her cuts deep into the tender skin, so roughly that she wonders if she's bleeding.

Bleeding...if she's bleeding. Thick, rivulets scarlet as they cascade down her forearm, pooling in the crevices of her palms, down the slots between her fingers. Isn't it being wasted like that?

What?

How had she ended up here? Y/N is trying to search through a haze of caliginous memories to find some idea – to find anything at all, that might explain whatever situation she's in. Maybe then she could calm the rabbit-like heart thudding in her chest. But it is hard to think of anything when her throat feels like this. If she could just have something to drink, she'd feel much better, she knew it. Something warm and thick like honey, coating the insides of her throat and heating up the hollowed feel of her belly. Her poor stomach, which grumbles of hunger echoes off the empty walls, begging her to feed it, but she can't eat if she doesn't know where she is.

Fuck, she must be going crazy. How could she even care about eating when she doesn't even know the situation? She could have been kidnapped! A deranged murderer could be waiting for her outside of wherever this dark, lumpy place is, planning how to carve her bones into a walking stick or something equally horrific, and she's wondering where her next meal is going to come from. Y/N's priorities have never been the most straight, but this was an entirely different kind of screwed up.

But she's just so hungry, she can't stop thinking about it. Had she been knocked unconscious? In a coma, wherever this freak (she's taking the angle of being kidnapped, she'd decided) had her locked up and stored? Maybe it's been weeks since she's had a proper meal because that's how she's felt – her mouth waters at the thought of eating anything right now. A burger, chicken, steak – she doesn't even really eat meat that often, but she'd tear through it if someone placed it in front of her. No hands needed; like an animal, she would eat with just her mouth, her teeth, her lips, and if she could just have something to drink with it. Something warm, and hot, gliding down her throat. Something syrupy, and slow – something...something...

A sound on the other side of the door makes her stiffen. Y/N hadn't realized she'd been writhing and tugging until she stopped, holding her breath, biting down hard on her lip to stop the small sounds and noises she'd been whimpering out.

"Have you ever considered asking before signing me up for these little projects of yours?" A voice says. Goosebumps ripple up her spine, and her cheek digs against something – what she was sure was a wall, but the ridges of it feel different – like a door, "I was supposed to go to Italy tomorrow."