London is becoming so autumnal this week, leaves turning and it's getting blustery and cloudy, I would love to read something cosy and domestic about being at home in London with Harry if that's something you wanted to write
I am going in a different direction with this, because when I think of Autumn and London!Harry, I think sweaters.
Cosy ones. Ones that give him sweater paws and that you enjoy cuddling up to him when he’s got one on. He just looks soft wearing them, and you’re glad for the cooler weather when he starts pulling them out again.
Because as much as you love them on him, you quite like them on yourself, too.
You’re meant to be meeting up with some friends for lunch, and he’s told you that they’re more than likely to want to sit outside. The day is clear, but crisp, and it’s still comfortable enough to sit on a patio as long as you’re dressed appropriately.
He’s already dressed, and he tells you that you have 15 minutes before you really need to get going, and leaves you standing at the wardrobe in your bedroom with a frown plastered to your face.
You fish through the drawers and the racks with your mind set on one thing you want to wear, and you grow increasingly more frustrated when you can’t seem to find it. “Harry, have you seen my jumpsuit? The striped one?” You call out, eyeing the laundry hamper.
“No,” he calls back. “Did yeh leave it at yours?”
“I swear I brought it here…” you mutter, pawing through the hamper.
You jump when he appears in the doorway. “What did yeh say?” He asks, now dressed in his jacket, sunnies tucked into the collar of his t-shirt.
“I said, I thought I brought it with me…” you reply with a sigh, tossing the laundry back into the basket.
“Wear somethin’ else,” he shrugs easily, lip ticking when your glare at him. He knows that when you have an idea in your head, you’re pretty set on it. “Can wear somethin’ of mine if yeh fancy. Might look nice.”
You scowl deeper, and he lets out a cackle as he turns and makes his way back down the hall. “Ten minutes!”
“You fuck….” you grumble, turning back to the wardrobe.
It’s then that you spy it. A thick brown sweater that you have always, always loved on him. You stand on tiptoe to take it down off the rack, admiring it, running your fingers over the collar. He did say you could wear something of his, didn’t he?
He’s about to call out that you have two minutes when you come shuffling down the hallway, and his eyes pop.
The sweater is huge on you. It’s big on him, but on you it sits longer in the arms, and the hem grazes your thighs. You’ve put on a pair of thick tights and a short black skirt, and rolled up the sleeves to your forearms to ‘complete’ the look, and you catch eyes with him briefly before going in search of your sneakers.
“S’this?” He asks, voice thick, when you bend down to pull one on. His fingers catch the hem of his sweater and he tugs.
“Said I could wear something of yours,” you reply loftily, shrugging, a little smile on your face. “Is this alright?”
He clears his throat, hand dropping from you when you stand up straight, turning to face him. “Yeah…” he says, giving you a once over and then wishing he hadn’t. You’re meant to be leaving. “Yeah it’s…”
He isn’t ready for the possessive swell that comes over him, but seeing you like this, in his clothes, has him briefly considering calling his friends to tell them you won’t be able to make it.
He crowds up against you, hands gripping your hips through the thick cotton, groaning ever so softly. “This is mean.”
“What? Why is it mean?” You ask, breathless. You’re warm all over from the way he’s looking at you. “It’s just a sweater….”
“S’my sweater,” he says, squeezing your hips. “Christ…”
You laugh, getting your arms around his shoulders to press your frame to his. “If it’s too much I can…”
Shakes his head, ducking down to kiss you firmly, stamping down his possessive feelings, and he grunts again, pressing one, two three quick kisses to your parted lips in succession before he sucks in a breath. “Should get goin’…” he says gruffly. “Should…”
You nod, pinching your lips together for a moment because you’re almost ready to say stuff lunch. “Yeah, we should…”
(And sure, it takes 20 minutes longer, and you have to change your tights because someone gets a little overzealous, but when you do finally leave, you decide to walk to the restaurant, enjoying the chill in the air….)
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