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histoireettralala · 2 years

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The real Mazarin ?

It was Mazarin’s misfortune, and the single factor most shaping the events and outcome of 1652, that he confronted the figure of Condé as his opponent, who embodied simultaneously the unchallenged right of a prince of the blood to participate in government, and the military genius responsible for the great successes of France after 1643. Had the young Condé been a mediocre military commander like his father, the political dynamic would have looked very different. The military paladins of the regency would have been Turenne and Henri, comte d’Harcourt, from a cadet line of the House of Guise. Both were capable military commanders, but political minnows in comparison with Condé. Mazarin could have bought the adherence of both with territories and titles, and in all probability neither would have made a serious attempt to assert themselves against the queen mother and her minister. Instead Mazarin faced someone for whom no political or territorial bribe would be sufficient, except the concession of powers that would effectively deny overall political control to Mazarin.

Yet it was also Condé’s misfortune —and that of France— that he encountered the real Mazarin, rather than the self-sacrificing servant of monarchy and state celebrated in hagiographic accounts of his ministry from the nineteenth century onwards. The Mazarin who had discreetly demonstrated his diplomatic and administrative abilities to Richelieu in the 1630s, and insinuated himself into the team of Richelieu’s ministerial fidèles, did not intend to spend his career as a lowkey political figure operating behind the scenes. His accumulation of rich benefices before 1640, and his ability to persuade Richelieu —who was normally intensely hierarchical in such matters— to nominate him for a cardinalship, might indicate a different agenda. Another hint may have been his cultivation of Anne of Austria at a time when most of Richelieu’s ministers regarded the queen as politically toxic. Whatever Mazarin’s real ambitions before 1643, he had prudently confined his role to that of faithful subordinate of Richelieu and then part of Louis XIII’s ministerial team during the king’s last months. But with the death of Louis XIII, the assumption of control by the queen regent, and Mazarin’s achievement of the status of unchallenged minister-favourite, the restraint which had previously characterized his personality and actions was thrown off.

To understand Mazarin and his motivation, it is necessary to abandon a superficially plausible notion that he saw himself as an outsider, a foreigner relying on cleverness and charm to climb the ladder of power and status in France. On this reading he was inhibited by his second-rank Italian background, in awe of, and not properly understanding, French grandees such as Condé, Longueville, or Vendôme. And indeed to Condé, Mazarin always remained the upstart ‘gredin de Sicile’, or the ‘illustrissimo signor facchino’, constantly seeking a political role far above his social status. Mazarin seemed in some respects to confirm this view of himself as upstart and outsider: he combined the ingratiating qualities of a favourite —using his foreignness to cement the complicit relationship with that other ‘foreigner’ at court, Anne of Austria— with an understanding of diplomacy and Realpolitik honed from his early career in Rome. Moreover, apart from the queen mother’s favour, Mazarin’s primary qualification for the role of first minister was his distinctly un-aristocratic administrative energy and capacity. The recognition customarily given to Jean-Baptiste Colbert as Louis XIV’s omniscient administrator, with his extraordinarily detailed grasp of every aspect of his government portfolio and a capacity to maintain a mountainous correspondence, may be seen as a tribute to the even more impressive working habits of his previous employer. To find someone who could equal Mazarin’s mastery of detail, his ability to range over domestic and foreign policy —whether supply of the galleys at Toulon or factional politics in Brittany— all with the same detailed knowledge and the ability to resume a subject months or years after he last discussed it, we would need to turn to Napoléon Bonaparte. Certainly Mazarin’s grasp of affairs and work-rate surpassed cardinal Richelieu, no laggard in his capacity for administrative graft. But Richelieu acknowledged his lack of knowledge in key areas, and delegated with far greater willingness than his successor. Indeed, a besetting weakness of Mazarin’s entire ministry, and a cause of much tension with his subordinate ministers, was his obsessive reluctance to delegate even practical executive authority to others.

Yet while this prodigious ability, which is certainly greater than that of any of his likely rivals in the years after 1643, is clearly relevant in explaining Mazarin’s success as a minister, it nonetheless misses the key point. Mazarin did not see himself as a backroom facilitator of effective government, aware that his foreign background and modest social status required discretion and reticence. On the contrary, he regarded himself as the primary architect of the greatness of the French monarchy. In passage after self-promotional passage in his correspondence, Mazarin celebrated the first six years of the Regency as the most glorious years in the history of the monarchy—a succession of military victories and diplomatic triumphs that had realized the great project to ensure France’s prestige and hegemony in Europe. It might come as a surprise to those who envisage

Mazarin as a créature and disciple of cardinal Richelieu that in Mazarin’s opinion the six years from 1643 far surpassed any comparable period in Richelieu’s ministry. And it was on what he regarded as his incomparable personal achievement that Mazarin’s deep sense of public and private entitlement rested: the monarchy and the kingdom owed him much, in terms of both gratitude and recognition, and a continued monopoly of power and influence.

If the great French families initially looked down on Mazarin, he certainly did not regard himself as their inferior; his apparently ingratiating and obliging language masked a ruthless sense of self-importance and his primacy within the state. He believed himself to be indispensable, and his language to the queen mother, to his supporters, and even to his enemies reflects that conviction. Both past achievements and promises of benefits and advantages to come created obligations, especially on the part of the crown, and from those ministers and other appointees who owed their positions and prestige to Mazarin’s success. Perhaps this conviction that his deeds could speak louder than words partly explains Mazarin’s reluctance to enter the ideological battle after 1648. It certainly underpins the poorly improvised attempts to justify the arrest of the princes in January 1650: in Mazarin’s eyes such high-handed actions were an element of his understanding of ragione di stato, necessary to preserve a superior direction of the affairs of state. This of course played to a massive literature of criticism in the mazarinades, for whom Mazarin’s policies were inspired by the tyrannical maxims of his fellow Italian, Machiavelli.

There is little doubt that well before 1650 the figures of Condé and Mazarin were set on a political collision course which would have required exceptional restraint on one or both sides to avoid. The fundamental difference, however, was that Condé could probably live with the political survival of Mazarin, whose role had been cut back to that of essentially executive first minister, accountable to a royal family dominated by Condé. In contrast, by late 1649 Mazarin’s assumptions about his own position were wholly incompatible with the political power and influence of Condé. Mazarin might be forced into political cohabitation with the prince, but it would delegitimize and disempower his ministerial position and all those associated with him.

David Parrott- 1652- The Cardinal, the Prince, and the Crisis of the Fronde.

#xvii #david parrott #1652: the cardinal the prince and the crisis of the fronde #la fronde #cardinal mazarin #louis ii de bourbon condé #cardinal de richelieu #anne d'autriche #louis xiii #jean-baptiste colbert #napoléon bonaparte #louis xiv

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maevesheart · 11 months

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♫•*¨*•.¸¸♪ masochistic desires

series masterlist

note: harlem gage is a completely fictional character, as with cillian, petra, and jane.

summary: prince harry, known for his extensive drug use and lewd band, openly rebels against his birth into the most famous english family in the world. his norm of getting everything he wants is challenged when you, the know-it-all, smug american, rejects his advances. but the prince is never one to turn down a challenge.

WC: 6.4k

TW: swearing, drugs

listen to: babylon - 5 seconds of summer

♫•*¨*•.¸¸♪

the halls of condé nast’s london headquarters were bustling with men and women dressed to the nines in all designer clothes.

you had been expecting this, but not quite to the extent you were experiencing this moment. a flurry of directions were flown at you by the woman giving you directions — bella, maybe? you couldn’t really remember, your focus was trained on keeping up with her long strides.

words flew out of her mouth, before she came to a sudden halt in a large window-lined room filled with cubicles, whiteboards covered in posters and samples, and racks of clothing.

she leads you to one of the cubicles in the front, a man wearing thick black glasses on the opposite end.

“here’s where you’ll be, harlem, the fashion lead of british vogue will be here shortly to speak to you.” she smiles and walks away, leaving with the glasses-clad man, who is now staring at you with wide-child-like eyes.

“hello, i’m y/n,” you smile at him, sticking out your hand.

“cillian, nice to meet you,” his irish accent is thick, and he swallows quickly before placing his hand in yours.

“where’re you from? i mean, that’s a stupid question, i can tell from your accent — god, i’m sorry sometimes i—“

you cut off his awkward rambling, “i’m from new york. you’re irish?”

he nods sharply, turning red and leaning his head down to go back to his work.

okay, awkward…

you pull your computer out of your black goyard tote, but before you have a chance to pick it up, harlem, the fashion lead, is standing above your desk, his famous wide smile across his cheeks.

“y/n l/n? your outfit is amazing,” he examines as you stand, eyes raking down your body, picking at the tan tweed chanel jacket your wearing.

a sewn bow goes across the cropped jacket, tying together in the front. thick black lines the collar, and the matching skirt has small slits on each side, with gold buttons down the middle.

you paired the set with tweed black chanel flats, simple yet elegant, perfect for a first day at a famous magazine house.

“thank you,” you smile, his bright blue eyes still scanning down your body.

“alright, follow me,” he smiles, and you follow closely behind him.

people stop to say hello to him, their eyes following you in a mix of jealousy and admiration.

you didn’t know why he wanted to speak to you, you were just as much confused as everyone else.

he turns the corner and enters the large doorway into a big office with floor-to-ceiling windows, a simple black desk in the middle with a rolling chair.

a white board sits behind his desk, different sample pieces taped up and scribbles in dark ink, the words the masochists are in all caps and underlined three times, you assume that is the issue of the month, even though you’ve barely heard of the group, or person, or whatever it was.

“please, have a seat,” harlem speaks, unbuttoning his jacket as he sits in his chair.

you sit down across from him, folding your hands into your lap, suddenly feeling very nervous.

“you met jane this morning, i’m assuming she gave you the rundown of how things work here?”

jane! that was her name, the secretary who led you to your desk. you nod to him, remembering the directions and few names jane threw at you this morning.

anna wintour, the global head of vogue, roger lynch, the coo, and then a few other names who worked in various departments, like harlem gage as head of fashion and petra taylor as head of design.

he continues, “perfect. i can dive right in,” he opens a drawer, pulling out a folder with your name scribbled on the front.

he flips it open, flicking through a few papers before pulling one out. the same words, the masochists, is printed on the paper in large letters, followed by a few names and a location.

“miss l/n, i’d like to personally give you your first piece.”

you watch as he slides the paper over to you, his demeanor a bit more uncomfortable than it was when you had met him just a few moments earlier.

you were confused. on the paper it says that the masochists is a band, an up-and-coming “punk rock” band that was founded on the basis of rebelling against societal norms.

“i’m sorry, i thought i was writing about fashion?” you question, shaking your head.

you had been hired as a paid intern for vogue’s fashion department. you assumed this would mean going to shows and dissecting the various pieces; not some band you had never heard of.

“that is correct, miss l/n, we, um well i, thought it would be great to put you on with the masochists. they’re a young band with great talents, their members are rather famous,”

you raise an eyebrow. if this band was so famous, wouldn’t you have heard of them? or even have an understanding of who was in the band?

“sorry, but i’m failing to find the connections,” you gave an awkward smile, not wanting to overstep. but this was ridiculous! you didn’t want to write about some random punk band you’ve never heard of.

“it’s custom that we do a background check on each employee, and with you, our data team found some connections, within your family or friends, or whoever you’ve posted on instagram. but they’re there. and they’re hard to miss,” an awkward smile falls on his lips, as if he’s trying to say he’s sorry.

you had worked so hard, trying not to let your fathers last name determine your work or career.

at first, you hoped they recognized your name from mitch y/l/n, your little brother, who plays d1 lacrosse at unc.

but you knew that was way too far fetched.

your father had owned a publishing company, one that held heaps of stock in various other magazine houses.

one of which was condé nast. the building you were sitting in right now.

after his and your mother’s death a few years back, your eldest brother, noah, had been given sole inheritance to the company.

he sold it for a pretty penny, and now the three of you — you and your brothers — were living quite comfortably.

“so you’re implying that i only received this internship because of my late father’s stake in the company?” you wondered, peaking an eyebrow as harlem shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

“no, of course not, but it was a key factor.”

he realized soon that he shouldn’t have said that, and scrambled to cover up the mess he was creating.

“miss l/n, your connections are immaculate. as are your talents. we’ve reviewed your portfolio and previous pieces you did at parsons and nyu. but the masochists, this band is a diamond in hiding. i think it could do wonders for your career here. and i like you, as i liked your father. so i’d like to offer the review to you first.” he was composed, almost compassionate.

you found it hard to believe him. but you were selfish by nature, and knew that you wanted to write. you wanted to show your talents, show that you were more than your last name and father’s connections.

“alright.”

♫•*¨*•.¸¸♪

the job was easy enough. you were to attend the masochists gig at some college bar, and write about their outfits. maybe even get an interview with their stylist.

seemed easy enough.

harlem walked you back to your desk, gave you a hasty and awkward hug before waltzing back to his office.

the fellow people in the room gawked at you, shocked to see a brand new intern hugging and whispering with the harlem gage.

if only they knew why. you scoffed, grabbing your tote, ready to head out and start the first day of second term at the imperial college of london.

you were lucky to be one of the few nyu students selected to do a year abroad. you were a senior, majoring in journalism and a minor in fashion design, this would hopefully make a big break in your career.

you hoped it would be as good as harlem was promising.

you were sitting in one of the back rows of your trend forecasting class, having entered a few minutes late, you didn’t think it would be right to interrupt the entire class in order to find a good seat.

so here you were, stowed away in the back of the lecturing hall, your computer propped in front of you, glasses sat atop the bridge of your nose, trying desperately to concentrate.

you lightly tap the end of your pen onto the desk, feeling extremely sleepy listening to your boring professor explain something you had already learned; it was custom that you had to take this class, even though the intro to trend forecasting was required as a freshman at nyu.

a warm hand reached out and slammed your pen onto the desk, you looked behind you, a scowl playing on your lips, eyes meeting the light green you couldn’t seem to escape.

you rolled your eyes, not wanting to deal with his royal-pain-in-the-ass, and turned around.

harry was extremely amused. he assumed you’d be more feisty, maybe give him a good lecture, but nope. just an eye roll. he wasn’t willing to settle for that.

“where’s my feisty girl, eh?” he leaned down to your seat, lips brushing your ear.

your body shuddered, and harry didn’t miss the light sigh that left your lips.

“leave me alone.” you growl out. leaning forward, getting some more space between you two.

you didn’t understand how he was everywhere you turned. the bar, and now sitting behind you in class. he was a prince, yes, but that did not mean he deserved your respect.

he had been nothing but an arse. if anything, he should be demanding your respect. not the other way around.

“cmon princess, don’t be like that,” a smirk tugs on his lips as he watches you spin around, not expecting that word to fall from his lips.

“just because you have a title does not mean you can treat me like a piece of meat.” you surge forwards, face inches away from his. you swear there’s steam coming from your ears.

a blond boy sits to harry’s right, letting a chuckle fall through as he watches the two of you argue.

you turn to look at him, raising an eyebrow. he was handsome, light blond hair scattered across his forehead, a muscle tank hanging loosely on his body, arms crossed against his chest. his silver lip ring glimmering in the dim light.

“and who’re you?” you cross your arms, almost fully turned around in your chair at this point.

harry sends him a side-eye, pissed that nash is at the receiving end of your attention.

“he doesn’t matter,” harry spits out, reclaiming your attention that he so badly craves.

“darling, my title’s never denied me anything. i don’t expect you’ll be an exception, either,” harry smirks, your frown somehow turning deeper.

you huff and turn back around in your seat, refusing to feed his ego or slightly give in… his eyes were too pretty! you weren’t always perfect… your self control lacked sometimes, just like everyone else.

“the glasses are cute. i like them.” he leaned down once again, lips ghosting back over your ear. he pulled away immediately, you gnawing on your bottom lip, trying to stop the red from flushing into your cheeks, ultimately failing.

was he being… nice? giving you a genuine compliment?

no! snap out of it y/n… he doesn’t even know your name! or bothered to ask for that matter…

you ignored him, and the growing heat in your cheeks by tuning in with your stoic professor, hanging onto his words, trying your absolute hardest to block harry out.

this became increasingly difficult, as much as you didn’t want him to get a rise out of you, his continued chuckles and kicks to the back of your chair were driving you mad.

“oh will you just stop it!” you whipped your head around, almost 100% sure that the entire class was watching, as you may have said that a bit too loud to go unnoticed.

harry’s eyes have a gleam in them, nash (you think his name is that, harry said something starting with an n — you aren’t the best with names) is awkward? trying to sink to the bottom of his seat watching you and harry size each other up.

you were far too stressed about your assignment for harlem to worry about harry right now, and he was really pissing you off.

all you wanted was to get the stupid concert over with and write the dumb report, you did not have time to deal with harry on top of all of it.

“miss l/n, could you take it outside please?” your professor asks. you tuck your chin into your chest, immediately feeling extremely self conscious.

“of course. i’m sorry, sir,” you speak out, shocked your voice hadn’t betrayed you yet.

gathering your things, you threw harry one last glare, eyes softening as his face held a look of… pity?

turning back, tears burned into your eyes, but you refused to cry. no, you would not let yourself unravel over something as ridiculous as a prince who needed some serious humbling.

you walked as fast as you possibly could, wanting to put as much distance between yourself and harry as possible.

he had ruined your weekend, now ruining one of your easiest classes. he was a dick and you despised him. how could he sit there and be so smug? so… mean? how could he be so mean to you? all you had done was stick up for yourself, but you assumed he wasn’t used to that. a man like him was used to taking what he wants and not caring who he hurts in the process.

you could see that between he and nash. how nash was timid, lips sealing as soon as harry gave him a look out of the corner of his eye.

yet you found it hard to feel bad for him. anyone who was associated with harry left a sour taste on your tongue, and you usually weren’t the forgiving type either.

once you had made it out of the design building, you sat down on the concrete steps, placing your head in your hands.

you didn’t care about your chanel skirt possibly getting dirty, or how you threw your goyard down onto the pavement.

you wanted to go home. desperately. first semester was fine, you did well in class and landed your internship with condé nast.

but now, here you were, feeling like prey in the eyes of the king of the safari — hunted, stalked. you did not like the feeling whatsoever.

someone dropped down next to you, you saw their dirty black converse through the cracks in your fingers, where your head lay.

lifting your head up, you met harry’s friends blue eyes, filled with a look that simply stated, i’m sorry.

“i’m nash, by the way.” he offered a tight lipped smile, extending his hand.

you looked down to it, before looking back up into his eyes. you took his hand, giving it a weak shake.

“y/n,” you muttered out, resting your elbows on your knees, and then setting your chin atop your palms.

“sorry, about…harry. he’s difficult sometimes. i know firsthand how much of a dick he can be,” nash awkwardly laughed, watching you with careful eyes.

harry had sent him daggers when he dashed out after you. harry wasn’t the type to apologize, he usually let nash do it for him.

“whatever. i don’t feel like dealing with the disrespect today.” you brush off your skirt, chin still resting in one palm.

neither of you say anything, nash’s presence helping the pit in your stomach.

you feel sick. sick with hatred and anger. you hate how much you let harry get to you in there, how you had resorting to yelling at him.

you weren’t loud, or obnoxious, or flashy. he had just proper pissed you off, and you never let people walk all over you.

“harry is difficult sometimes… but he’s not evil. and i don’t know what went down with you two before but he made us move so we could sit behind you in class today. the other boys wouldn’t… so it was me who had to.” go figure.

nash was his puppy dog, eyes soft and genuine, you figured it probably hurt him to speak badly of harry.

but… he made them move? he wanted to sit near you? you couldn’t think of any other reason except to annoy you, adding it to your growing list of cons.

silence created a blanket over top the two of you. while nash’s presence pissed you off (greatly), it was also weirdly comforting.

you were extremely conflicted.

nash left you moments later, his coarse hand lightly pressing into your shoulder, saying goodbye.

back inside, nash slumped in next to harry, who was twisting a tooth pick in his mouth.

“she’s kind of… almost reserved, harry.” nash murmurs out, harry looking at him out of the corner of his eye.

“well whatever she is, i know she’ll be a good shag. always love the feisty ones,” he smirks, running a hand through his tousled curls.

nash wanted to rebuttal, to argue with him. he knew it would be no avail, yet he found himself wanting to stick up for you.

in his eyes, you were weak, no match for harry.

harry was… powerful. he had connections, obviously, and his parents were willing to give him anything to keep him docile and submissive. but harry wasn’t either of those things.

harry would tear down everything to get to a person, he was egotistical, and self-important, and nash believed you to be the exact opposite of what you truly were. he thought you’d be easily swayed, and give in to harry. a swipe of harry’s credit card and you’d be on your knees.

but you didn’t need money, and you didn’t want power, or the ego trip of hooking up with a prince, you wanted to make a name for yourself, to have a career.

harry was willing to stand in the way of that. and you were willing to fight back.

♫•*¨*•.¸¸♪

september 28, 2013

you had been staying off the internet for the past day, wanting to be completely surprised at the masochists concert tonight.

you did listen to their album, and while you weren’t a complete fan of their style, you had to admit that it was good.

your favorite song had to either be clouds or only angel, the lead singers voice was mesmerizing, and you found yourself lost in the music.

figuring you could get away with being a little casual tonight, you slipped on your favorite pair of jeans, black and slightly faded, with distressed cuffs at the bottom.

you paired them with your black adidas spezials, a simple vintage fleetwood mac shirt that you had thrifted thrown onto your body, you had rolled up the short sleeves to make it into a makeshift “tank top”.

tucking it into the jeans, you buckled your thick black belt, the buckle in the shape of a silver horseshoe — it was one of your favorites.

you threw your signature black leather jacket on over the outfit, the concert was outside at a college bar, and considering it was october and the weather was changing, you figured warmth was a must.

grabbing your black the row tote bag, you shoved a notebook, a few pencils, your ipad, and other essentials. and your pepper spray — just in case. you could never be too careful.

the walk to the venue from your apartment was short — the outdoor space was just around the block. close to your favorite coffee shop.

you were surprisingly in a good mood. harry had pissed you off once again, and you wished you could’ve kneed him again.

you were shocked he would even come near you after what he pulled outside the bar. you had seen him twice in one day! it was too much — you wanted nothing to do with him.

he was far too self important for you. his ego smeared all over his face, screaming i’m better than you to every person he met.

you also didn’t understand how no one ever seemed to recognize him. his father ruled the country you were in, his sister next in line. he was one of the most famous people in the world — why was he so unrecognizable?

maybe people chose to ignore him. you knew he was violent and irrational, the people of the uk must know the same.

the venue was already packed once you arrived, getting your hand stamped and giving them your ticket — that condé nast was paying for.

your outfit was perfect for the scene, the only colors in the sea of people were black, white, and red, clearly this band had an in-sync fan base.

drums were set on the stage, along with a microphone standing tall in the middle.

teen girls mostly made up the audience, their love struck eyes trained on the stage as they waiting for the boys to come out.

you were stuck in the back, loads of people had shoved their way to the front, filling the entire outside space.

you retired to a small corner, close to the exit. you could still see and hear everything perfectly, the lawn wasn’t that big.

the lights dimmed, a sudden hush falling on the audience. you watched with wide eyes, wanting desperately to put a face to the voice you had been listening to for the past few hours.

a loud guitar strum is heard, lights still pitch black. suddenly the lights blink on, girls screaming as the masochists play the introduction to their song woman — one that you did like.

you watched, a light smile tugging on your lips. the lead singer was turned around, lightly moving his hips to the beat, a melodic sound coming out of his mouth.

it was like sex for the ears, and you were loving every second of it.

you forced yourself to tear your eyes away from his body and the way it was perfectly moving, his back still turned, and shifting your line of sight to the other band members.

one with cropped brown hair and dark brown eyes was on the drums, his arms flexing as he hit the different parts of the instrument, a concentrated look on his face.

you took note of his outfit, all you could see was his tight grey flannel, a few buttons undone, revealing his upper chest.

you shifted to the boy on the right of the lead singer, his black hair sticking straight up and into a million other directions. a piece hung down low over his forehead and eyes, moving as he beat down on his red guitar, eyebrows furrowing in focus.

he was beautiful. dark eyes coated with dark, long lashes, a light stubble and mustache, earrings in his ears, and a simple black t-shirt straining against his muscles as he moved his arm up and down the guitar.

he had a microphone pressed against his mouth, singing along to the song, your eyes trained on his lips. you assumed he was the role of the lead guitar, as well as backup vocals.

there were two boys on the opposite side, the farthest right had light brown hair, flat against his forehead, high cheekbones, and bright blue eyes.

a tattoo sat above his right eyebrow, something scribbled that you couldn’t make out because of your distance from the stage.

he was beautiful also, playing the rhythm guitar, smiling out to the crowed, enjoying the attention.

the other boy was shorter, wearing beat up black converse, ripped black skinny jeans, and a loose grey tank.

his blond hair splayed across his face, sweat beading down as he beat against the guitar, obviously on the bass.

your eyes flicked up from the black guitar, taking in all his features.

it was… nash? his eyes were trained down, but you could make out all his features. it was the boy who had chased after you… sticking up for you against harry.

harry! you flicked to the lead singer, his back finally turned, letting the audience get a good view of his toned chest, his shirt completely unbuttoned and flying to the side as he writhed his body along with the strum of the guitars and the beats of the drums.

his green eyes were on yours, a smirk toying at his lips as your mouth dropped into an “o” shape, and your eyebrows knitted together in frustration.

why was he everywhere you turned! and why were you starting to like it…

no! y/n enough!

he was hot, there was no point in denying it, but you’d never tell him that.

you busied yourself with writing down the outfits of choice for each the boys, so that you wouldn’t have to stare into the eyes that you hated so much, yet seemed to be blushing because of.

blushing?! you couldn’t believe yourself.

no boy had ever gotten to you like this before, and you would not let harry be the first.

he was a pompous, arrogant prick who couldn’t tell his arse from his head. you wanted nothing to do with him.

but yet again… here was a free show, with music you did like, and some serious eye candy, all for you… you could stay a little bit longer.

a little bit longer turned into a while longer, and you had stayed for the whole show, swaying along to their covers of my chemical romance and green day. harry’s voice was magnificent. if being a prince didn’t work out, he should seriously continue this path of music.

pretty soon you were hanging off the arm of a cute blond boy named luke, his brunette friend callum cracking a joke, you and luke doubling over in laughter.

them and their other friends michael and ashton had gotten a round of drinks, and you figured why not. luke had approached you after seeing you all alone in the back, his presence was comforting and he seemed genuine.

he was dressed much like the masochists were, skinny black jeans and a metallica graphic tee hanging loosely off him.

ashton had run off to speak to the band, luke had said. they were friends with them, they had told you, they had all started their music journeys together, and luke and his bandmates wanted to be supportive friends.

after thanking luke and callum for their generosity, you told them you had to leave.

“why don’t you come with us to the after party? we’re going down the street to a bar, it’s chill, you’ll like it,” luke encouraged, callum humming in agreement.

“i don’t know, i’ve got work tomorrow and —“

“y/nnnnnn, please?” callum pouted, tugging on your arm.

you caved, not really wanting to go home anyways.

“i guess i’ve got a few spare hours,” you smiled, callum and luke now tugging you away into the streets of london.

♫•*¨*•.¸¸♪

alcohol was coursing through your veins, mind cloudy with thoughts of more beer and getting your ass on the tile floor to dance.

“dance with me!” you shouted over the blaring music, callum and luke shrugging, allowing you to pull them into the dance floor.

now you were grateful for your loose t shirt and jeans, they allowed you to move freely.

your dance moves were all over the place, grinding against thin air, your hips methodically moving along to the addicting song engulfing your senses.

“i want another drink!” you screamed, scurrying away to the bar, ordering a cosmo.

you suddenly found yourself needing to use the restroom, heading down a hallway that you assumed they’d be in.

it was dimly lit, and the music was muted, making the hallway eerie.

your senses were heightened as you turned a corner, your pepper spray clutched tightly in your left hand… you could never be too careful.

“hi.” the silky smooth voice with the accent that you refused to admit turned you on caused you to jump, and you lifted up the pink spray bottle, pressing the button.

harry shrieked, hands coming up to cover his eyes. it was too late now, the damage had been done.

“oh god, oh my god, are you alright?!” you rushed over to him, your hands trying to pry his off his face.

“no i’m not okay! you just assaulted me!” he groaned, slumping against the nearest wall.

“i’m sorry harry, you just startled me,” you trailed off, watching with gentle eyes as he rubbed his, trying to rid off all the spray.

“could you get me some water?” he asks, quietly, gently, possibly the most gentle he’s ever spoke to you.

“of course,” you murmur, rushing into the closest door, running a paper towel underneath the sink.

you brought it back to him, carefully pressing it against his eyes, his head tilting backwards, pressed against the brick wall.

silence surrounds the two of you, his quiet breathing the only noise. though you didn’t like him, you couldn’t help but feel bad. he wasn’t trying to hurt you, he was just saying hello. and you sprayed pepper into his eyes.

“i deserved it,” he lightly laughs, carefully peeling the wet paper off his eyes, his hand around your wrist.

“what?” you question, almost all the alcohol in your system had dissipated once you had sprayed him.

“i deserved it. for how i’ve treated you.” he stared into your eyes, his a little bloodshot and red — likely due to the irritation.

“maybe,” you giggled, looking down at his long fingers still around your wrist.

“but it still wasn’t nice of me,” you whisper, smiling back at him.

“nonetheless. i’m sorry.” you nod at his apology, a silent acceptance.

“you were great, by the way,” you are staring at him, sipping down all of his features, trying to take a photo and remember it forever. he was gorgeous.

he nods, trying to find the right words. “yeah, i was surprised to see you here. y’know, i still don’t know your name,”

you smile as you realize he’s never bothered to ask, and you’ve never cared enough to tell him.

“y/n.” you smile, “and i actually didn’t know you were the singer until i got here. i’m here for work, to do a diagnostic piece on your wardrobe, but i had no idea who i’d be looking at,”

“i hope i didn’t disappoint,”

you go silent, harry’s been quiet, gentle? he’s the most reserved you’ve ever seen it. “i can assure you didn’t,” you say lightly.

you didn’t know what to make of this. sitting on the floor of a dirty bar, harry leaning his back against the wall, you on your knees, pressing into the side of his thigh.

he looked like a painting, big, round green eyes staring up into yours, dark curly hair creating a halo around his head. freckles dot his nose, something you’ve never noticed before.

he has dimples when he chuckles or smiles, and his nose lightly scrunches. his laugh is melodic, you could listen to it forever.

your heart beats faster in your chest, unsure of what is going on. here you are, pressed against the man who tried to have you grope him last night.

yet this harry, he was… well, different. he had apologized, owned up to his actions.

for some reason, your mind betrayed you, a whisper ghosting on your lips, you hoped he hadn’t heard the soft words, “i also know you’re a prince,”

you were afraid to look at him. for whatever reason, you did not know. but all of a sudden you felt small, timid. here you were, sitting with a prince. a prince who was wearing tattered clothing, tattoos peaking out under the long sleeves of his white button down, studs in his ears.

“hmph. that i am,” he shrugged, his hand leaving your wrist. the cool air hit the burning on your wrist, aching for his touch once more.

“i didn’t know you were one last night. if i had… i probably wouldn’t have kneed you.” you sheepishly admit, feeling very small.

he chuckled, his head turned away, his hand on the concrete floor dangerously close to resting on your thigh.

“still better than letting me be a perv.” he turned back, apology swirling in his eyes. maybe he did truly feel sorry.

you nod, flustered.

a heavy silence followed, the both of you refusing to look at each other.

“well, i, um, i better get back. luke will probably be looking for me, i think,” you stumble over your words, clamoring to your feet.

“luke? as in luke hemmings?” harry quirks an eyebrow.

“oh— i don’t know, really. i met him tonight at your show. he was with a guy named callum. they’re real nice. australians, i’m pretty sure.”

“yeah that’d be luke. he’s a cool guy,” harry said while climbing to his feet, brushing off his jeans as he peaked over to you.

he took in your outfit, effortless but you were beautiful. he figured you’d be beautiful in any situation. in his bed, in a cafe, in a fancy restaurant, anywhere he could get you.

“yeah, he’s nice,” you smile at harry, suddenly feeling very awkward as the two of you just stand there and stare at anything but each other.

“okay, well,” you mutter, awkwardly swaying your arms. harry nods, lips in a tight line, neither of you knowing what to do next.

you finally look up to harry, his hair thrown in all different directions, your eyes softening as you drink him in.

he was different alone. he was gentle, nice to you. maybe he wants all that ba—

“y/n!” nash and one of harry’s band members — the name, you weren’t sure of — rush up to you two, eyes widening when they see you two alone.

“and harry.” nash breathes out, nodding to his friend. “hey nash, zev,” harry speaks, nodding to each of them, stuffing his hands into his pockets.

“y/n, i was uh - looking for you,” nash smiles, a hand rubbing his cheek.

“oh, okay,” you smile. “well, here i am!” you awkwardly laugh, zev and harry sharing a silent conversation. their eyes bore into each others, harry’s soft and zev’s questioning.

“i’ll see you guys later,” harry coughs out, his body suddenly rigid, cold, distant. if you reached out and touched him, he’d feel like ice, you think.

zev follows after him, placing a hand on his shoulder, the two obviously close.

you walk past nash, wanting to get back to your other friends, and your drink. you didn’t have to use the restroom anymore, the feeling long gone after you saw harry.

nash matches your pace, stuffing his hands in his pockets. he thought you were rather stand-offish, he couldn’t understand why you and harry were alone. the two of you couldn’t even sit next to each other and get along — how were you alone for such a long period of time and no one heard shouting?

all of you made your way back to the bar, harry and zev going straight out the door back into london.

nash went to where the other two boys were — a table in the back. as soon as his back was turned, you rushed outside, wanting to now where harry was going.

somehow he had weaseled his way into your brain and now he would not leave, and for some completely unknown reason to you… you didn’t want him to leave.

you had known him for 24 hours… yet he was all you could think of, whether it was of him up on that stage or slumped against the wall of the hallway.

obviously you weren’t as sneaky as you thought you were, harry and zev both whipping around to see you.

“hi.” you quietly peep, zev’s eyes narrowing. the street was dimly lit by a few lampposts.

“hey, y/n, why aren’t you back there?” harry asked, taking a step towards you.

“dunno. wanted to go home,” you lightly sway and both of the boys rush to your side, neither of them wanting you to face plant into the pavement.

“uh, zev, bro can you call her a cab?”

zev’s shadow moves further away to the edge of the sidewalk, harry’s arms snug around your waist to keep you from falling.

“your hair’s pretty,” you whisper, sticking your pointer finger in his hair and twirling it around.

harry nods, then clears his throat, not knowing what to do with you. should he come with you to make sure you get home safe? or should he just get you in the cab? after all, you weren’t his responsibility. and he didn’t care about you.

….did he?

his thoughts were extremely conflicted. if the paparazzi caught him now it wouldn’t be a good look… he had never been the best son but he was trying now.

“haz, the cabs here.” zev walked over, offering another arm for you to take.

the two boys helped you to the cab, and harry placed you in the seat, you giggled as you hit the harsh leather, hand slipping from harry’s shoulder down into his palm.

“bye,” you smiled, loopy and soft.

“bye,” he echoed back, a tight-lipped smile, much colder than he had been before.

“alright, man, we gotta go,” zev’s voice is rushed and worried, clearly you had interrupted them at not quite the best time.

harry nodded, taking one last glance at you before slamming the cab door shut.

he was feeling things that he really didn’t want to feel.

♫•*¨*•.¸¸♪

#imagine #angst #harry styles au #prince harry styles #harry styles x reader #harry styles series #harry styles imagine #harry styles x y/n #one direction #masochistic desires series #maeve writes 🎀

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