Lazy Days
Featuring fiance!Harry, nail painting, bath smut, and general soppy shit.
Trigger warnings: [if there was a 6th Spice Girl she would've been called] soft spice
Word Count: 3,870
A/N: Hiyaaaa. Ages ago (and I really do mean like actual years ago, on a blog long since forgotten) I posted on here a head cannon of all the things I think Harry does during his down time. This is basically just that, but in fic version. Hope you likey like!
~~~
It’s the shifting of weight on the mattress that stirs you from slumber; the sudden absence of warmth from another body at your back; the whisper of fingertips over your hips and thighs. Still, your body is too tired, your limbs too sore to stay conscious for long, and once the rustle of sheets and padding of feet against the hardwood dissipates, you fall back into the darkness of sleep.
Not too long later, you’re awoken again—the click of a door, the soft clunk of clay on wood. Between sponged kisses up your spine where you lay on your front, you catch a whiff of coffee. You smile to yourself.
Those same fingers from before trace the curve of your sides, those lips now pressed lovingly against the nape of your neck. As tentative fingers make way for strong, capable, safe hands, a satisfied sigh leaves you. You’re gently tugged back into the solid embrace of your lover, his front to your back, skin to skin. His arms are a blockade, arresting you into submission.
“Good morning,” Harry practically slurs, his lips brushing and breath tickling your ear.
Melting against him, your response is a croaked, “Hi.”
That plush mouth of his ghosts across your shoulder and back to your neck in slow, tantric lines. While one hand—one arm—remains firmly in place to keep your body gripped to his, the other travels to his favourite places. He starts with small, spiralling circles on your hip, before migrating to the soft swell of your stomach, following the scars of stretch marks on your thighs. You can feel his barred hand testing the weight of your boob, a light-pressured knead.
A satisfied, breathy moan leaves you, and Harry’s grip tightens.
“When was the last time we did this?” he asks, still massaging your breast.
“Did what?” You barely open your mouth to speak.
“Just…nothing? Slept in? Cuddled?”
You grunt, thoughtful. You can’t remember. “Too long.”
His hum sounds like an agreement. “Shall we just…stay in today?”
You idly skim your fingers along his forearm. “Can you manage to sit still for that long?”
He pinches your waist, and you yelp. “I can for you.”
A fizzy kind of happiness begins to bubble its way through you. He achieves this feeling a lot, with his words. His actions. Sometimes just his face. He’s so handsome.
“Deal,” you finally agree.
You drift in and out of consciousness as Harry’s mouth and fingers map your body. He mumbles in your ear in gentle pries for attention, sometimes compliments and verbal loving. Subtle affections. And it’s also contemplation—what are you going to do with your day off together?—or future planning—do you sit your mean uncle next to his problematic third cousin at the wedding just to see who makes a scene first?
You elbow him for that one, even though he makes you laugh with his boyish mischief.
Sunlight filters in through the bedroom blinds, and even though it’s cold outside, it warms your skin where it touches. Harry notices the same thing you do—the way your engagement ring glints off the light—because his hand finds yours, particularly that one finger with his ring on it, and starts toying with it.
Saying yes was the easiest decision you’ve ever made, and for some reason, Harry struggles to believe it sometimes. Why he ever thought you’d say no is beyond you.
In the quiet room, the endless band recedes as the focal point of your attention while his hands continue to caress and travel around the plains of your body. You simply let him, snuggling back into his embrace, holding his arms around you so he doesn’t let you go.
Before long you feel the sensation of want growing, pooling between your legs. It appears much the same for Harry, whose length has stiffened at your back. With a slight adjustment you let it slip between your thighs, sliding against your bare pussy. You release equally tortured groans, his face shoving into your neck, his tongue tasting and his lips sponging kisses there.
You reach behind you, pushing your fingers through his hair and gripping, keeping him pressed to you as closely as possible. His mouth finds yours, tongue eager as it slips between your lips. The kiss is anything but innocent, and it causes the friction between your legs to heighten.
“Find a condom, H,” you beg breathily.
His presence slinks away, only briefly, and you turn over your shoulder to watch him clumsily searching for a foil packet in the drawer of his bedside table. Producing one, he gets to work.
Once he’s rolled it on he’s back with you, arms returning around your middle and his length squeezing through the space between your thighs. He lifts your leg up by the back of your thigh, and his cock sinks into the heat of your wet pussy.
“Fuck yeah,” he mumbles, nibbling his way down your shoulder, “y’always feel so fucking good.”
“So do you,” you huff out, as your body adjusts to the feel of him.
It starts slow, calm. All of your recent intimate moments have been rushed and sloppy because you’re hardly ever home at the same time and you’re too exhausted to do anything. But this…this feels like the opposite.
Harry takes his time. He keeps your leg aloft while he moves in and out of you, talking in your ear with his favoured phrases.
“Can we move?” you ask after so long. “My leg’s starting to cramp.”
“Sure.” He slows down and pulls out of you. “How d’you want it?”
Throwing him a devilish smile, you roll onto your front and lift your ass in the air.
Harry chuckles. He takes a firm grip on one of your round ass cheeks, squeezing and pinching, before landing a swift smack to that same place.
You groan, arching further into the mattress.
His dick sneaks back inside of you and he takes your hips in his hands. His thrusting starts off measured, timed to perfection to build the ache inside you. His cock really does feel sensational, the way it stretches your inner walls, filling you up.
“That feel good?”
“So fucking good,” you assure him. “But I need it faster, baby.”
“How fast?”
“Just…faster than this. It’s nice and all, but I like it when you’re a bit messy.”
“Funny, you never say that when I’m drunk.”
Drunk Harry trying to have sex is…an experience. And not necessarily in a good way.
“I want to feel my backside jiggling, and that ain’t happening at this pace.”
He smacks your ass again, his palm immediately soothing the sting. “I can do that.”
And boy does he deliver. With his hands back on your waist he pistons his hips with vigour. It feels sensational. Your body comes alive as every thrust reaches a deeper, more pleasurable place.
“Fuck, Harry, yes.”
He loves that—the praise you give him. Turns him on and builds him up. He gets faster, sloppier. He becomes uncoordinated, jostling your body forwards, backwards.
You reach under the pillows, fisting the sheets and the corner of the mattress, just looking for purchase on anything.
“You feel. So. Good.” He punctuates each word of his statement with a punishing pump of his hips.
A cry leaves you, and you bury your head further.
He smacks your ass again. And again. The sharpness of it, the crack of skin-on-skin echoes through the room.
You suddenly feel his weight over you, the warmth of his skin against your back. His cock shifts inside you, a strangled gasp garbling from your mouth at the bottoming feeling of it close to your stomach.
His teeth sink into the crook of your neck and then he soothes the bite over with his tongue. “You’re edible.”
“Likewise,” you choke.
Still thrusting away, he grabs a boob in one hand and toys with your clit with the other.
The noises you’re making become hysterical and disconnected. You’re a mad woman—you’ve lost your mind.
“Harry,” you pant.
“I know,” he grunts, his teeth in your neck again. “Fuck.”
“I’m gonna come.”
“Yeah?” His breathless question leaves perspiration along your shoulder.
“Yeah. Come with me?”
“I’ll certainly fucking try.”
You clench your pussy around him. “Please?”
“Shit!” he yells. “Do that again.”
So you do, your delicate muscles contracting around his thick, hard length. He rubs your clit faster, and you tumble over the edge as he follows.
Spent, Harry collapses onto you, his body a delicious weight.
“Fuck, that was good,” he pants.
“It really was.”
“I think I need a nap.”
“We’ve only just woken up.”
“You’re the one who wanted it fast and hard.”
“Yeah. And?”
He sighs, his lips grazing your neck and shoulder. “Nothing. Absolutely nothing.”
— — —
Later that morning, as you’re pulling fixings out of the fridge for a cooked breakfast, Harry appears out of the pantry, tying an apron around his waist.
A laugh tumbles out of you. “What are you doing, H?”
He gestures down himself with both hands. “Getting ready to make breakfast.”
“You and I both know you will not be doing any of the cooking.”
“I will be here for moral support.”
“Right. Which involves sitting there,” you point to a stool at the island, “and looking pretty.”
He flashes a winning smile. “You think I’m pretty?”
In lieu of swatting him with a tea towel, you flip him the bird.
“Is there anything I can do?” he offers, even as he’s rounding the counter to take his usual seat.
On a sigh, you say, “No, Harry. Your company is all I need.”
“You’ll be sick of me by the end of the day,” he predicts.
“Impossible.”
The food is a poached egg and salmon affair, which you plate up and serve at the counter. You take a seat in the stool beside Harry, both turned towards each other with your knees interlocking. He eats his breakfast one-handed, his other resting on your knee, squeezing every so often.
Rumours by Fleetwood Mac drifts from a speaker on the windowsill—Harry’s choice—eventually bleeding into Rock Spectacle from the Barenaked Ladies—your favourite.
When you’re done eating, Harry collects up all your dirty crockery and leaves a peck to the top of your head as he passes. While he does the washing up, you take the clothes out of the washing machine and put them into the dryer, then add a second load to the washer.
You finish your task before him, so you head into the living room and start looking for something to binge for the day. When Harry does reappear, now only in his boxers, he snatches the remote out of your hand, wraps an arm around your waist and yanks you down onto the sofa with him. You yelp as you tumble into his lap.
“What do we need to catch up on?” he asks, barely struggling with breath as he rearranges you with ease.
You wind up with your legs draped across his lap, the rest of your frame curled into his side. You make an attempt to swipe the remote out of his hands, but he holds it aloft with a shouted, “No!”
Heaving a sigh, you give up. “Silent Witness is back on. Or there’s, like, ten new murder documentaries on Netflix.”
He gives you a funny look. “Anything that doesn’t involve death?”
You scoff.
“Please. You love it.”
“I’m concerned you’ve watched so many at this point you could easily murder me and get away with it.”
“And you’d be right,” you deadpan.
He barks a laugh. “Fine. Murder in the day, rom-coms at night.”
“Good plan.”
— — —
Some hours later, when the low January sun is just past its highest point, the two of you vacate your nest on the sofa for some lunch. While Harry puts something together from the scraps in the fridge, you find the bits you need to paint your nails. Once you’ve eaten, you set everything up on the coffee table.
“What are you doing?”
Peering up at him from your seat on the floor, you answer, “I’m painting my nails.”
He’s quiet for a moment, curiously studying his own nails. “Will you do mine too?”
You fight the twitch of your mouth. “Sure. Pick your colours out.”
He joins you on the floor to rifle through your polishes. “What are you having?”
“Blue. Dark glitter and pastel.”
“I want the same.”
“Alright,” you say with a giggle.
“Can I paint yours?”
“If you like.”
So, with your insane murder documentary on in the background, you take turns to paint each other’s nails over the coffee table. He’s meticulous and particular with his work—tidying your cuticles, filing your nails to an even length, and never painting outside the lines. He also applies cuticle oil when he’s finished.
“Only thing missing is the warm flannel massage,” you joke.
He gives you another of his funny looks. “Do you want that?”
“No,” you chuckle.
“I’ll do it,” he insists, “hang on.”
“Harry, it was a joke!” you call after him as he runs from the room.
A minute later, he returns with a steaming flannel in hand. Retaking his seat, he leans over the table and takes each of your hands in turn, massaging your fingers and palms with the hot cloth.
“How do they look?” he asks as you admire your fresh manicure.
“They’re perfect,” you declare. “In fact, I’m concerned my abilities aren’t up to scratch.”
Your fiancé scoffs. “Don’t talk bollocks. They’ve always looked good.”
Deciding to keep quiet, you snatch his hand in one of your own and the cuticle stick in the other. While you prep his nails for polish, you keep an ear trained on the TV and what’s happening in the story. Harry remains suspiciously quiet, but you can feel his gaze on you all the time—not what you’re doing to his nails, but on you. It should be unnerving. Maybe even disconcerting, but you actually find it oddly relaxing. You’re so used to having his eyes on you—though it has always boggled you why he’d want to—it’s a comfort. You feel safe with him.
“Jesus Christ,” you mutter at something said on the telly, and you catch Harry’s nose wrinkle.
“That’s grim,” he agrees under his breath.
“You gonna do that to me one day?” you tease.
“What? Quarter up your dead body and shove it in a barrel?”
“Yeah.”
He barks a laugh. “No way. You’re no use to me dead, darling.”
“Aw. That might be the most romantic thing you’ve ever said to me.”
“Fuck off,” he scoffs.
— — —
The sound of a cork being popped causes your head to lift from where you’d been staring thoughtless at the rising bath water. You find Harry standing in the doorway to the bathroom, two wine glasses slid between his long fingers and a bottle of something bubbly in the other.
“What’s that?” you ask, swirling the water around with your foot to even out the temperature.
Steam swirls seductively through the air, rising from the tub in wafts and waves. Lavender and chamomile candles burn in the corners and on the windowsill. Your bath time playlist fills the otherwise silent room, featuring pandemic Taylor Swift and early London Grammar tracks.
“Wine, duh.” Harry places one glass on the lip of the tub and the other on the floor.
You watch bewildered as he fills both. “What for?”
“We’re celebrating.”
“Celebrating what?”
He kisses his teeth and shakes his head, his response an exasperated, “So many questions.”
You roll your eyes as you strip out of your clothes, knowing well enough you’re not going to get an answer to any of them. Also, who really cares what the wine is for? You’re an adult with no work commitments tomorrow.
Harry sits beside the tub using a stolen pillow from your bed to cushion his backside. While you talk more wedding plans his hand dangles in the water, sometimes just swirling the water around idly, other times gliding a finger up and down your arm, your waist, your thigh.
His touch is intoxicating, and you find yourself sinking lower into the water.
His gaze trails to your legs where they’ve subtly spread for him. Expression hungry, he dances his fingers across your inner thigh and up to your pussy.
The conversation naturally drifts off as he starts teasing your clit, his chin now resting on the side of the tub to watch his work.
He knows exactly what he’s doing, he’s done it so many times—a talented man with talented fingers. Perhaps not quite like this, though, set up in the bathtub, but it works all the same. In fact it might be even better this way.
He works his way around your needy clit and then into your wanting heat with his finger, causing your body temperature to spike. You moan and gasp your way through his clever ministrations, having to bite down on your own finger when he adds a second to take up more space.
What actually finishes you off, unbelievably, is when he leans in to kiss you.
When you’ve calmed down he slowly removes his fingers, and he’s about to wipe them on a towel, but you snatch his hand and clean them up yourself before he can. He groans and kisses you again.
With your legs like jelly, Harry helps you rise out of the bath and onto the solid, heated bathroom floor. He finds your towel and wraps it around you like a well-sated little burrito. He brings you into his arms, your body flush against his, and he pecks the tip of your nose ever so lightly. You can’t help but smile up at him, because you seem to have found the man who is the exact perfect mix of sweet and spicy. Your smile brings out his own—dimples and laugh lines and all.
“Shall we get a takeaway?” he asks, breaking the spell you’d found yourself in.
“I’ve bought stuff in for dinner!”
“Ah, we can have that tomorrow.”
“Harry,” you scold.
“I really want Thai.”
“You always want Thai.”
“That’s not true. Yesterday while you worked late I had sushi.”
“But was that really just a substitute for Thai while I wasn’t home?”
“Nope. I really wanted sushi.”
“Sure.”
“Come on, bab,” he starts nudging you towards the door, “go put your jim-jams on, and I’ll put the order in and set the lounge up for movies.”
“You don’t know what I want,” you argue, digging your heels in.
“You have the same thing every time, my love.”
“Well maybe I want something different.”
“No, you don't.”
At the entrance to your bedroom, he whips off your towel and shoves you through the door. “Go on.”
— — —
Harry’s phone starts chirping on the coffee table when you’re nearly done with your first film. His head is in your lap, knees up with his white-socked feet pressed against the arm of the sofa. Your hands are in his hair, freshly painted nails scratching his scalp. You love the noise he makes when you do it—he purrs like a kitten.
Glen Powell and Sydney Sweeney bicker their way around Sydney on the telly, with Glen’s abs and Sydney’s chest on display for the entirety of Australia to see. Not that you’re complaining.
Harry blindly reaches for his phone while moving as little as possible, and lifts it high to check the caller ID.
You wince at his mother’s name on the screen because you know he’ll never turn her down if he’s free, even though it’s your first day off together in months and you’re in the middle of a film. This isn’t to say you have anything against the woman—you don’t. She’s amazing, kind, and generous.
But…
“Pause the TV, bab?”
Harry is a mummy’s boy.
And sometimes, just sometimes, you don’t feel up to listening to their conversation for an hour.
Still, you love the man and his mother, so you pause the movie and paste on a smile that portrays interest. Anne asks about your day, how work is going, how the wedding planning is coming along, and fortunately these are all things you can give invested updates on.
Conversation naturally turns to Harry’s sister, the baby, and the next time you’re all free at the same time. Your work is unpredictable, so as always you can only give the disappointing, unhelpful answer of “You’ll let her know soon.”
You’re not sure exactly how long you end up on the phone with your mother-in-law-to-be, but it’s approximately one whole glass of wine. As soon as the call ends, Harry curls up right back next to you, his head returned to its favourite place in your lap.
Another two full films later—10 Things I Hate About You and 13 Going on 30—you finally hit your limit and decide to call it a night. You do a quick tidy up, clearing the mess of your dinner and that second ‘celebratory’ bottle of wine. Not wanting to wake up to a mess, the two of you tag team the dishes, although Harry spends the first few minutes clinging to you from behind and feeling you up in lewd ways.
It’s late by the time you’re done. You can’t fight the yawning you’re doing, and your body is close to shutting down. The ascent of the staircase to bed looks like a mountain.
“Want a piggyback?” Harry offers with a peck to your cheek.
“Yes please,” you say, still yawning.
“Climb on, then.”
You scramble ungracefully onto his back, your arms fastened around his neck and your legs hooked in the crease of his elbows. He carries you up the one flight with criminal ease and straight into your shared bedroom, kicking the door shut behind him.
“Ready for bed?” he asks, settling you back on your feet.
Smothering another yawn, you nod as you stumble toward the bed. “I am. How can I be so tired after doing nothing all day?”
He smiles down at you, green eyes shiny and hooded. “You’ve worked hard recently. It’s probably catching up to you.”
You grunt in response. His hands paw at your clothes so you allow him to undress you. Once you’re both naked you tumble into bed.
Finding yourself back in an innocent tangle of limbs, you sink against the warmth of his body.
“What shall we do tomorrow?” Harry prompts, his lips brushing your temple.
Your finger traces the lines of tattoos on his chest—the swallows, the butterfly, the ‘g’ and the dates. “No idea.”
“Walk?”
“No.”
“Drive?”
“Maybe.”
“Noted.” He giggles, kissing your temple where his lips rest. “I know just the place to go.”
“Yeah?”
He hums. “I think you’ll like it.”
“If you’re with me, I’m sure I will.”
His arms tighten around you, and you reciprocate his grip, burying your face into his neck.
“I love you, H,” you mumble, on the cusp of unconsciousness.
And just as you slip into that dark, warm abyss, you hear his whispered, “I love you, too.”
