pink + white
in which harry owns a flower shop and things are going really well with the girl who buys flowers from him because he finally gathered the guts to ask for her number and his best friend won’t stop teasing him about it.
read part one here
word count: 10.5K+
pairing: florist!h and y/n
warnings: more pining and more love-sickness and maybe some h-word stuff. some cursing, and some light drinking :D enjoy!!! (also, why lie: this isn’t edited. sorry).
* * * * * *
For the first time in months, maybe even years, Harry is preparing for a date.
The word itself sounded so foreign in his mind’s tongue, and his physical one as well because he would occasionally stop what he was doing and mouth the word to himself.
Date.
In the middle of humming to himself while stirring the homemade pasta sauce, he realizes that his peppy demeanor is reminiscent of Snow White. All that is missing are the twittering birds and other scurrying creatures bathing in his contagious bliss, helping him hang sliced fettucini on the pasta racks, trying the straps of his apron behind his waist, and harmonizing with his steady, rumble-y, chocolate-y renditions of Otis Redding and The Temptations as they come out of the speaker sitting on his counter.
He’s happy. He’s so fucking happy that he wonders if he’s sleeping and is bound to wake up to grey skies and rain and ice, cold feet. His cheeks are sure to ache by the end of the day because he just cannot stop smiling; it’s the only way to release the bursting joy cramped inside his chest at the thought of meeting with the girl who had been gloriously plaguing his dreams for the past two months.
A few nights ago, they’d decided on dinner (she’d even said ‘it’s a date!’ and he had bit his lip with a smile while ogling his phone) being that same weekend at Harry’s house. Saturday at six. Y/n was bringing desert, and her sweet self. He was antsy, just as a child on Christmas morning, his train of thought nonsensical and in short spurts, bumping into round cul-de-sacs and dead-end streets that were vandalized with y/n’s face.
When he wasn’t working, he was scouring the internet for recipes that looked good and had good reviews. Saturday morning he woke early, went to the market and bought the freshest looking vegetables, chicken, and a bag of flour. He even called his buddy who worked at a five-star Italian restaurant and asked if he had any tips on how to make the meal tastier. The floral bordered notepad had two pages worth of notes, his eager scrawl spelling out an entire new recipe for buttered pesto fettucini, a dozen garlic knots, and marinara sauce to dip the bread balls in. Confident enough in his own cooking skills, he’s not worried about a disaster resulting from the step-taking and recipe-following. He knows the food will be good, he just hopes they’re her liking. What if she doesn’t like Italian?
But, that would be impossible because… who doesn’t like Italian… right?
Flour dotted his nose and cheeks, contrasting starkly with the light and sparse caramel freckles on his cheeks. The red marks of tomato lingered on the frilly trim of his apron, blending with the tiny strawberries that belted across his angular hips. Harry wasn’t exactly the cleanest cook, but he figured that sacrifices always had to be made, and he would negotiate cleanliness if it meant wondrous faces of approval from the second the prongs of food-filled forks touched tongues. He liked praise. Verbally communicated. Through notes and texts. But his favorite kind was physical. He loved knowing that the subtle changed in poster- the straightening of backs, the widening of eyes- were caused by him (and the uncontrolled moans and writhes that came from his partners in did more for him that the actual sex). Insignificant stains would not stop him from beholding the unconscious demonstrations of indulgence and delight in y/n’s body language.
At a quarter to five, when all of the lids were placed on pots and pans, buns staying warm in the oven, and his kitchen smells like what he would imagine Italy to smell like, Harry clapped his hands together, untied the neat bow at the small of his back and walked into the shower to freshen up for his special guest. One hour was pushing his ‘get ready’ abilities, but as long as he got out of the shower in thirty minutes, which was a little more than usual, he would make time. The outfit he wanted to wear was pre-selected and ironed the night before, resting on a hanger on the back of his closet door.
Shucking off his clothes and tossing them into the woven basket at the corner of his bedroom, Harry clicks open Owen’s enclosure and allows his tiny green friend to climb into his fingers. The poor thing had been inside for a large chunk of the day, and would most likely go back inside soon after the mist cleared from the bathroom mirrors. That morning, after a refreshing session of yoga with his owner, Owen was gently placed back into his home with an orange slice and three crickets (one of whom Harry thinks he saw just before picking up Owen for company during his shower). It wasn’t unusual for him to spend so much time locked up, and Harry was sure to open the enclosure to an agitated chameleon after y/n left, his spoiled antics procuring an attitude for the change in his schedule.
When the water is running in his shower and slow clouds of vapor start to rise from behind the steam-blurred sliding door, Harry sets Owen onto the thick bundle of eucalyptus that hangs around the shower head, careful to make sure he’s out of the stream’s way and settled upon the reader, coiled leaves. He showers in silence in hopes to be out quicker, and uses an expensive coconut and cinnamon scented shampoo meant to enhance your curls!’ that he only brings out on special occasions when he wants to boost the amount of cappuccino springs bouncing off his head. Bubbles trail the path of his mint-green loofa, under his armpits and across his chest, up and down his abdomen and over the taught muscles of his thighs.
“Hope y’not peeking at my bits, perv,” he chuckles, picking up Owen and twisting the water knob with slippery fingers, soapy moisture from the shea additive lingering between his knuckles, “got the best seat in the house for that.”
The numbers on his phone- which is frosted over with a blurry sheen of white that turn into water droplets when he swipes at it with his thumb- read 5:26pm, and even though he’s out four minutes earlier than he expected, a sense of hurry settles over him. Speeding to complete the final steps of his routine (a bit of moisturizer that smells sickeningly sweet to keep his hair soft and a dash of hydrating cream on his face because it always got really dry after a shower), Harry’s cursing under his breath in fear of being late to open the door to y/n when she arrived. He’s thinking he should’ve gotten up earlier and skipped yoga to start cooking or something when he steps in front of the mirror.
Tonight he dons a long-sleeve shirt that matched the hue of coffee with a little too much milk, the two top buttons left undone to display his signature string of pearls perched delicately on his collarbones. Midnight blue pants dotted with small, embroidered silver stars stretch around his thighs and flare softly at his ankles to conceal the heel of his ‘fuck me’ ankle boots that were the same color of his shirt, the heels a chocolate brown tone with rhinestones dotting the bottom edge, spelling out the words. A bit vulgar, considering this was a date with cotton candy, bubblegum, and all things sweet personified herself, but it exposed (if you could even call it that, she’d have to concentrate on the heel of his shoes to see it) the racier side of him only some got to see. Dirty, naughty, smutty.
Fuzzy pink handcuffs in his nightstand are more than enough evidence to prove that there’s more to him that it seems, but only really, really special people got to see that side of him. People who made him comfortable and confident because sometimes he needs a little push- a little reassurance.
People who made him want to act in such a way. Men and women who openly embraced the fluctuation of his diverse character, soft and cool one second, and dominating the next. He was versatile and double-sided, like the sexiest presidential portrait on the back of a coin.
But, he’s getting ahead of himself. Y/n is to be with him in no less than- fuck. Ten minutes. A quick look at the time increased his speed by at least 3 x’s, and resulted with a bruise sure to form on the side of his shin as he banged his leg at the end of his bed while walking out of his room. Long, lean, bambi-like legs made it hard to maneuver a space with efficiency when you were- in Harry’s case- a 6’2 frenzied man bustling around a semi-crowded bedroom.
y/n <3: hiiiii harry!
y/n <3: could you send me your address? i’m in my car rn and i just realized i have no idea where i’m going
God help him. He doesn’t think the letter ‘i’ has ever sent him to a state of near-squealing before, and that’s only because Sarah once sent him a screenshot of a tweet explaining the various ways different vowels and the amounts they came in conveyed how the girl felt about the receiver. And… well, if that was anything to go by- and that’s not saying y/n goes by the same grammatical standards as everyone else, it was just nice to think about- the five i’s and her use of the word ‘hi’ instead of ‘hey’ and even ‘hello’ implied that she was very into him. Lucky, considering he felt the same way.
But then again, just because it was something that he’d read online doesn’t mean that it’s true or that it applied to her. The excessive use of smile-inspiring letters could be her preferred use of texting, and she could talk to everyone this way, not just to him.
That though alone slowed his rubber-burning heart by two beats, and so did the realization that he hadn’t told her where he lives. Slimy feelings of insecurity oiled his spine while his brain looped a montage of his guests' faces as they approached the back (sometimes front) entrance of his home. Half-hidden pinches of amusement, doubt, and sometimes even disgust. He would be lying if he said he could handle any of those concealed expressions because it’s his life, but he thinks that what hurt the most are their offensive remarks. As a result of these precarious situations, he’s learned to conceal much of himself from those he doesn’t trust, but it was hard to do that with y/n.
His ears rang with the echoes of previous lovers.
“You live in a store?”
“Is this your home? A flower shop?”
“So, what, are you like some kind of homeless person living in a store?”
Harry wasn’t ready for the possibility that any of… feedback could possibly come from his sweet daydream come to life, but he supposed it was way too late to back out now.
Harry: I live above the flower shop, so just let me know when you’re here :) !
Devastating grey bubbles jumped on her corner of the screen, and before he even had time to register his panic, Harry had her response.
y/n: omg ok! I’ll be there in a few minutes then!!!
Then.
He panics.
It’s not that he didn’t time himself correctly. No, he meticulously planned out every detail of this day from the moment they agreed on dinner so that every single detail would be perfect and remarkable. But, what he hadn’t counted on was her estimated time or arrival. Minutes? Minutes? How many fucking minutes?
A rebel curl escaped from the neat up-do Harry had combed his unruly hair into, nearly remiscenest of the chocolate swoop of a Hershey’s Kiss, and he would have thought so too if he’s taken the time to look into the mirror one last time, but he couldn’t afford to blow his seconds like that. The heels of his shoes clicked and clacked furiously as he raced across into his bedroom, flashing ‘fuck me’s’ over and over again. Slender, ring-clad fingers glittered as they curled around a plastic bag sitting on his bedside table, and crinkled as he turned it over so all of it’s contents spilled on his bed. The red bag was from a local craft store down the street, and Therese, owner of Thistles & Things, had applied an employee discount before he even had the chance to modestly complain. Seven packets of pastel pink flower-shaped tea lights tumbled onto his duvet, and Harry mercilessly tore each one open with excessive force and bared teeth. Three, six, nine, and eventually twenty-one of the small candles landed in an incongruous pile that he scooped up immediately.
He was halfway out of his room before he remembered that he needed to grab a record, too, and he skittered backwards like a cartoon chased-animal. A hiss steamed from his lips as he slammed the same shin into the same place on his bed. He’d bruise for sure, and as much as he wanted to bend down and sooth the tender skin with a press of his palm, there was no time.
“Fuck me,” he echoed the statement on his shoes, half-limping into the living room and clamping a hand over the eye-shaped knob to yank the door shut behind him.
Over the last few days, Harry had memorized the placing of every candle that he had bought, and it didn’t take him long to settle them all into their places. The dining table didn’t require any because he had already positioned two golden candelabras at either end of the rectangular oak surface, candle sticks birthing tender pale wisps of light that cascaded over the covered ceramic pots of food. Two plates were already made opposite each other, across the short end of the table, giving Harry the hope of a game of footsie.
His living room, however, did need lighting. He placed two on every small table, and four lined up in a row across his coffee table, albeit slightly crooked because he feared he was running out of time and his hands weren’t all that steady. The sudden realization that he needed a lighter for it all to work had him rushing back into his kitchen and rapidly pulling open drawers to find the forsaken stick. When he does, he’s sipping back to every flower, delivering fire to their center with fingers that trembled too much to make an easy, smooth process.
“C’mon,” Harry muttered, shaking his wrist lightly in hopes that the small wicks catch fire sooner.
With knees that knock together nervously, he straightens at the last candle. His heart is pounding wildly in his chest, and a crazy picture of someone plugging an aux cord over his heart with speakers that blare louder than a vibrating gong flashes quickly through his mind’s eye. He feels like a silly, love struck boy, and as much as it scares him, it also feels good. Because it meant that he was opening himself up for someone, rejection be damned.
Just as he was settling the needle into the first groove of the record- a classical compilation of soothing pianos and violins- his phone brightened with an incoming message.
y/n: i’m outside!
Harry: I’m on my way down
A chorus of ‘fuck, fuck, fuck’s’ spewed from his soft mouth, and his shadow was followed by rapid clicks of his boots against the hardwood floor. When he reached the door to the stairs, he turned to inspect his setting one last time and took a deep breath, his cheeks puffing out through the exhale.
The soft hue of gold glazed the color palette of his ‘princess-home’, as a boy had once labeled it, with strokes of languid romance, softening the atmosphere with the same sweetness as that of a marshmallow. He’s turned the rest of the lights off, leaving the candles as their primary source of light. Though the flame itself was not colored, hues of pink tinged the light that dipped into the wax, making it look like orbs of light the color of Venus’ navel burned serenely around his home, adding to the tender setting Harry tried so hard to create. Vases that so beautifully littered his living room were filled with sprigs of mint, lavender, dahlias (a deep affection),and white roses (new beginnings) favorably polluted the air with the distinct scent of flora and rich herbal life. The heady smells blended with the creamy tones of the Italian food on his table, creating the orgasmic sensory experience that Harry toiled to articulate.
It wasn’t the time to question his thought-out vision, but the wretched coils of hesitation prompted him to question if his efforts would overwhelm her and possibly scare her off. Harry had never gone this far for anyone before, at least not really. He always pictured pretty things for people he liked, wanted to lather them in treasures and receive their smiles and words of praises with a blush that painted his face from satisfaction rather than bashfulness, but he’d never brought these visions to fruition… until y/n.
Well, he thought, it’s too late to back out now.
Spinning on his heel with purpose and wavering confidence, Harry closed his eyes, steadied himself with an unstable intake of oxygen, and tried very hard not to fall face forward down the stairs in his rush to get to her. His grip on the rail was slippery from the moisture of his palms, and the thunderous impact of his feet against the ground reflected the discordant pumping of his impatient heart. There was no booming music anywhere nearby, but the ghost of rumbling bass echoed at the base of his throat, vibrating against the pearls nestled against his collarbone… or maybe that was also his heart.
A tugging thought makes him want to hesitate before opening the door, but by some miracle he doesn’t. He’s shoving the second to last barrier between them open with his shoulder, trying to control his breathing with strategies his old therapist had taught him long ago, and striding through a dark flower shop while the flaring fabric of his pants whispering with every step towards… her.
The singular light hanging above his front door had been purposefully left on past their shut down time because Harry didn’t want her standing- not even for a few seconds- in the dark while she waited for him to welcome her in, and it shone down on her like a spotlight on center stage, highlighting her role as the sweetest love interest. His love interest. Because surely, there was nothing sweeter than her, and there was nothing but feeling in the shape of hearts- both anatomically correct and incorrect. And that made them both Prince and Princess, bound for a happily ever after, did it not? Two coy, blushing youths meeting with gifts and food and whispered words of bashful compliments and a heap of unspoken secrets hidden in their chests. The classic Disney set up.
Harry’s steps faltered.
Did she have to be so… so adorable? He thought for a moment that there was a ringing in his ears, but then realized that it was just a pathetic whine coming from the back of his throat at the sight of the angel waiting for him. Y/n truly looked like a tuft of cloud dropped from the sky of the clearest day, clad in a ditzy white summer dress that sprouted from her waist like the bell cap of foxgloves, cutting off elegantly at just below her knees where the smallest sliver of her skin winked at him before disappearing into a pair of go-go boots. A white headband held back the stubborn fringe that still somewhere managed to escape, and….they were wearing matching pearls (this detail ignited an inexplicable flame in the depths of Harry’s loins, and his fingers unconsciously came to rest on top of his own necklace). No ounce of color adorned her person save for the baby blue ceramic container she held in her hands.
Both of them appeared to be each other’s opposites. Harry in his dark color scheme, y/n in her shade of white. Yin and yang. Strangely, his mind conjured an image that he had seen during one of his late nights scrolling through Pinterest: an art piece depicting Hades, a dark, looming shadow, and Persephone, a small white fairy-looking thing. Their colors, Harry knew, only served to highlight the compatibility of their love, the brightness Persephone brought into the God of the Dead’s life after eons of being alone in his realm of souls. Part of him felt warmth at the romance and poetic nature of the similarities between their relationships, and the other side of him- the ‘fuck me’ side- turned to a much more provocative view of things.
How delicate could y/n feel in his arms? How… How vulnerable could he make her feel during an act that required physical transparency? He wondered briefly if he would be able to make a small bump at the bottom of her navel with the head of his cock, and instantly felt guilty that his thoughts were so salacious when the night had only just begun.
Her lips spread into a shy smile the moment he entered the circle of light streaming from the light at the top of the door, and his own expression of pure happiness was a natural- instinctual reaction to hers. A sheepish twist of lips blossomed into a blushing grin, and the gleam of romantic recognition danced around the edges of his irises like the sparkle of light against the condensation of a Coca-Cola bottle. He was hyper-aware of the way she watched him as he turned the already-there key and broke the last barrier between them.
“Hi,” he squeaked, the greeting breaking against the roof of his mouth. He cleared his throat, and tried again. “Hi. Let me take that for you.” Reaching for the container in her hands and shaking his head when she begins to mumble an argument, he nudges the door back further with the heel of his foot and gives her space to enter, feeling dizzy when the smell of her sweeps over him as she passes through.
“Hey, you,” are her first official words of the night to him. Y/n folds her hands in front of herself and looks around the store as if she’s looking at it for the first time (and Harry guesses that, at night, it is a completely different place).“I can’t believe you didn’t tell me you lived on top of your store, Harry!”
Dread drops down his spine like a tsunami. There it was. The single sentence that usually signaled the night would be underlined with bitter awkwardness. However, the form of delivery was different. Y/n didn’t sound as put off as others usually do, but he couldn’t be too sure. She wasn’t facing him, instead slightly crouched and inspecting a stem up close in the darkness. It was hard to read her, or anyone at all really, when he couldn’t see their faces. His tongue dried, and while blinking back the embarrassing threat of tears, he swallowed and asked, “Y-you don’t think it’s a bit… weird or anythin’?”
“Of course not, silly,” she gasps, spinning on her heels before popping up straight. She sounded confused at the question, the furrow in her brows telling him that she hadn’t expected that, and the relief that floods through him is palpable. The tension that crept up his shoulders dissolves like steam in the air when she makes eye contact with him, a warmth similar to the inner heat that spreads throughout his sternum when he drinks hot chocolate or coffee settles at the base of his spine and he’s tingly. “My favorite book as a little girl was about a toy teddy bear who stayed the night at a mall because his owner forgot him, and he spent the entire time looking for one of the missing buttons on his overalls. This is kinda like that… I think.”
“Y’talking about Corduroy?” Harry asked. His brain was going a mile a minute, barely able to keep up with the way this conversation was moving, the new direction it was taking, and the imagery of the lost bear from a storybook his mother still has in the attic somewhere, loved and covered in his fingerprints (both young and recent). It didn’t usually go like this. His dates never talked about stuffed bears. His date never talked about something he knew or was familiar with. His dates never continued the conversation with such a non-caring attitude, and he wasn’t quite sure what to do, what was right, and what he should or should not say to make sure nothing got spoiled. Giddy and deadly anxious, he breaks eye contact, eyes downcast, and starts making his way back up the stairs.
“Yes!” Y/n replied, the tap of her shoes making Harry’s ears prick in awareness, “did you read his story, too?”
“He was…” He hesitated. Up until now, this sweet angel of a girl had been nothing but kind to him. Her words were not double-edged or traitorous to his feelings, her tone held no stale sarcasm, only genuine interest. Harry could be honest with her, he knew that. Nothing about her pointed to future embarrassment, but that hesitation was second nature to him. Like breathing. Only instead of releasing and taking, he’d constantly been holding back, and this was new. It was good. He cleared his throat, playing off the pause in his sentence, “he was actually my favorite as well.”
The confession left him on the edge of anticipation, horrified that he would start sweating because he was so set on pleasing her. On making sure that none of what made him him, acted like a fold of carpet, causing her to trip up and leave in a foul mood. He instantly questioned if his comment was ‘weird’. Queer, maybe, but not wierd to him. Y/n, though… she wasn’t him. What if she did think- no. No, Harry couldn’t go there. She was sweeter than every jar of organic honey he’s ever tasted, her shine prettier than the opaque glaze of the amber syrup, and even if she did think something was off about him, Harry knew that she wouldn’t admit it openly.
Y/n was not like the rest. She had already proved that by not turning up her nose in a visible sign of distaste at his living accommodation. In fact, she had seemed… intrigued. Curious. Maybe even fascinated.
They’re halfway up the stairs, so he can’t look over his shoulder and risk dropping the pan in his hands while tripping down the stairs to read the emotions on her face while she responds. Both of their legs sync in stride, slicing like a pair of twin scissors as they move up to his open door. A soft chorus of swishing fabrics accompany their slightly bated breaths, hers more than his.
“Are you just saying that or are you being serious?” Y/n said, the curve of a question mark contorting her breathy words with the cleanest swoop. Sincere.
“M’being serious!” Now at the entrance of home, Harry can partially twist his upper body so that his eyes can feast on the delicacy of her glorious image. If his eyes were physical entities, and what he was seeing was a frozen, tangible thing, he imagines they would be starving beasts eating for the first time in months, clawed fingers scooping morsel after pink morsel into their irises. Gorging. Consuming. Devouring the heavenly art they so had the privilege of touching, biting.
Not even the praised masterpiece of the Sistine Chapel could compare to what he was looking at. In the dim lighting of his decorated apartment, y/n’s virginal clothing was bathed in a dusting shade of blush from the pink candles that were placed throughout the place. Color snuggled against the contour of her body, multiplying her tender appeal to surpass the effect of a newborn lamb on wobbly knees. Or the inner veins of a pink rose. So incredibly soft. Her fingers toyed with each other, wiggling amongst themselves as her chin slowly dipped and lifted, her eyes slowly taking in the scene Harry worked so hard to set. They were slightly wider than normal, her mouth parted as her tongue ran along her bottom lip, moistening the skin before they closed and the tendons of her throat contracted around her swallow.
Her silence was shattering his insides, in a way that Harry could not determine. Would this be the tipping point? Would this be what makes her run away? Did she not like his home? He was filled with questions that piled on top of each other too quickly for processing. The side of his trousers were damp with the sweat that he wiped from the center of his palms, and also to keep from running his hands through his hair and turning it into an unruly, poofy mess like a cartoon electrocuted cat.
Setting the baby blue container next to the kitchen sink, Harry asked, “you don’t like it?” His words were merely a sound. Meek and feeble. Frail like a defenseless baby. The tremble of a kicked puppy’s shoulders. The heavy vulnerability in his tone makes y/n whip her head in his direction, the same air of confusion coating her features like a thick buttercream frosting, and her first words were a swipe of grabby fingers revealing bread underneath.
“What?” Her chin digs into her neck in recoil. “No, Harry… no, I love it. You did all this?” She lifts a hand and sweeps it around her in a half circle, the end of her skirt curling upwards and Harry thinks fire ants are biting the apples of his cheeks when his gaze drops down as she moves. Instantly, he feels like a creep for checking her out, and even worse, for allowing his blood to flow in a nether direction. “For me?”
He stutters a response, blushing and grinning like a school kid and mentally kicking himself over it. But he’s so relieved and a little shocked that he allows the tension that’s built up throughout the day to leave his body and decides to just… enjoy himself without overthinking every action. Scratching the back of his neck with one hand and stuffing the other into his pocket, he leans one shoulder against the wall and stares at a candle by her hip.“O-of course, I thought you, um, deserved it.”
It’s her turn to flush now. They look silly, practically toeing at the ground like cherubs in a vintage Valentine’s card, but just as adorable. Plumes of the finest birds feathers couldn’t match the downy lilt of her voice as she spoke to him. It felt like a caress against his skin. “No one has ever done anything like this for me before.”
I’ll do this a million times over for you and more if y’let me’, Harry thinks. In that moment, every inkling of a future, desire, dream, want, every fantasy solidifies itself and he knows that he wants more with her. He wants it all with her, all because she was nice to him (might as well call him a puppy; a few pets and coos and he’s loyal forever).
Instead he pushes himself off the wall and backtracks the few steps to the sink, fingering the aluminum covering the casserole she had brought, and answered with more fluidity and confidence that he had ever possessed around a conquest, “It was my pleasure, y/n. What’s in here?”
Several squares of flaky, buttery looking pastry sit on the inside. A nutty, sweet smell wafts it’s way up to his nose, slinking down the ridged of his throat and dropping down to his stomach, where the aroma pokes a sleeping dragon called Hunger. Harry comes to the realization that he hasn't had anything to eat since breakfast that morning, and even that was just a serving of oatmeal and half a banana. Too busy preparing and thinking, worrying.
“Baklava,” y/n said, her voice sounding far-away and distant. Harry looks towards her, his heartstrings tugging now that she was further away- now that she didn’t have his full attention- because she was looking around his apartment, her back to him. “Got the recipe from a greek restaurant I ate at every morning when I spent a semester abroad. It’s not as good as the gran’s who taught me, but it’s still pretty g-,” her sentence broke off in a breathy gasp that fueled a rocketship in Harry’s belly, the flames feathering further, below, because it was reminiscent of a surprised pleasure that came after the first thrus- “Is that Matisse?”
There’s a scene in the movie Twilight that illustrates the moment Bella’s heart stops- the crystallization of every blood cell and vein, the freeze of every artery and the hollow within- and Harry imagines that is exactly what is happening inside his body when y/n correctly inquires the name of the artist he loves so much.
“It is.” Nodding, Harry brings two slender fingers to rub underneath his nose, his closed fist a feeble attempt to hide the smile fighting it’s watch across his mouth. Tens of thousands of hummingbirds tickled the inside of his rib cage every time she spoke, and he had to shift his weight because the bottoms of his feet were sizzling with the emotion that raked his body. He watched her as her head moved slightly up and down, observing the blue silhouette of a curving woman that was framed on his wall. “Y’know Matisse?”
“Mhm, he’s one of my favorites,” her hair bounced in affirmation, then she turned to him, “I love your home, Harry. It’s very pretty.”
Roses bloomed on his cheeks.“Thank you, love,” twin flowers appeared on the roundness of her face, too, and Harry was satisfied knowing that the nickname he let slip affected her as much as it did him while saying it.“Y’wanna come see what I made for us?”
“Yes, please!”
They both took the small steps to the set up kitchen area where an array of pots, food, and arranged plates waited elegantly and poised. The gold accents and shine of ceramic shouldered an enchanting allure underneath the incubating glow of the candelabras perched at the ends of the table. Harry waited for y/n to reach a stand besides him before reaching for the closest lid with a steady hand. Surprisingly steady, given that she was so close to him their arms pressed against each other, creating a bubbly static of electricity between them. Her warmth scorched through layers of clothing and branded his skin, her smell- a unique blend of vanilla, mint, and a flower Harry couldn’t place because his mind was too frazzled- invaded his nostrils with the same flurry of an aggravated hornet. His mind was only y/n, y/n, y/n, while his mouth spewed ornate descriptions of the meal before them.
The smell of roasted garlic, butter, tomatoes, grated parmesan cheese, and freshly baked bread surrounded them in the form of a large Italian cloud. Clinking dishware twined with the smooth drawl of Harry’s accent that dipped and stuttered whenever he glanced at her and found her already looking at him from the side, the bridge of her nose covered in the lace-like shadow of her eyelashes. His thoughts scattered, and once or twice she had to fill in the final word of his sentence.
“...and here is homemade garlic and rosemary…”
“Bread?” She suggested.
“Y-yes. Bread. Or, knots. Whichever works.” Setting his hand back down on the back of the chair in front of him, Harry inclined his head towards the food, gesturing his question, “s’what do you think? Ready to eat?”
Y/n nods, smiling up at him with stars in her eyes (really just the reflection of the flames on the table, but Harry attributes them to her inner sun shining through). “Pretty please,” she said.
“Sit. I’ll serve you.” Pulling out the chair in front of him and motioning for her to sit, Harry tries his best to not look down as she flattens her hands underneath her bum while sitting, emphasizing the curve of her hips. He pretends not to notice, like he isn’t fighting a sweat, like his collar isn’t tightening by the second, and like the statement written on his shoes isn’t repeating over and over in his head. Fuck me, fuck me, fuck. Me. “If I’m serving too much, let me know, okay?”
Y/n shoots him an excited smile and nods quickly, like an eager puppy, and fuck if Harry’s cock isn’t jumping in his pants. He feels so inappropriate. He fears that the word ‘HORNY’ is written in a glittery hot pink across his forehead, and that his semi-hard-on was transparent through his starry pants. Shame makes him even hotter, the angel on his shoulder shunning him for mentally defiling someone so innocent, and yet somehow that only spurred the ache in his groin further. Praying that it was dark enough for shadows and the midnight blue of his pants to conceal his hormonal reaction, Harry began serving her from the closet casserole: basil pesto angel hair pasta.
She doesn’t interrupt his portioning until he reaches for the second garlic knot and a timid squeak leaves her worried lips, “can I just have one, please?” Her hand is outstretched, reaching out towards the plate and her eyes slightly wide and her eyebrows raised. He thought that she looked so cute underneath the dim light, ethereal, and his semi grew closer to full-on hard. Literally.
“‘Course, love.” The edges of his eyes go soft and downturned like half-crescent moons, and he nods to assure her that her request was well received. “Did y’want any more or is this okay?”
“That’s okay. I’m not sure I’ll be able to eat it all as it is, and I feel bad because it smells and looks really good.” She glances down apologetically at her food.
“Don’t worry, I’ll give you plenty of leftovers to take home,” he waves her worries away, and serves himself, bringing out the wine he had for them to share.
They eat in comfortable banter that switches from chat, jokes, and silence everyone in a while, but hidden glances (that aren’t so hidden because they often catch one another) are heavy throughout the meal. So is the ‘accidental’ knocking and nudging of their feet underneath the table.
Everytime y/n hums about how good the food is, Harry has to pull at his collar, cross and uncross his legs to alleviate his dick, and lower his gaze to his own food to hide the flush that’s heavy on his cheeks.
When they wrap up their meal, they playfully fight over washing the dishes, and then finally settle on sharing the washing and drying duty (Harry washing of course, because he couldn’t let her take the brunt of it) and ‘accidentally’ bump hips while they stand at the sink. While putting the plates away, Harry boldly stands behind her ‘to place a plate in the cabinet above her head’ and places a hand on her waist to let her know that he was there. But he doesn’t move away right after setting the plate down, and maybe it was the wine he drank because before either of them know it, y/n is tilting her head to the side so that Harry can run his nose down the length of her throat, inhaling her scent as he does so.
Reaching her shoulder, he presses a kiss there, straightens, and then walks back to his kitchen area to refill both of their wine glasses so they can sit on the couch and converse a while longer.
They talk about things that Harry can’t concentrate on because he’s staring at her too hard, and he notes that her crossed legs are angled to his, both of their body languages pointing to each other. He remembers reading once that it was an indication of interest, something that our bodies did without notice because it was a procreation survival instinct or some shit. He doesn’t know and he can’t care enough to remember because all he can think about is how pretty she looks in his home. His mind is muddy with cartoon red heart bubbles that blow out of his ears and pop as soon as they’re free, only to be replaced by another.
And then he can’t take it anymore. He has to tell her.
“Love, you’re so beautiful it hurts,” he states bluntly, peering up at her with a steady gaze.
“It’s the wine talking,” she says, brushing off his compliment.
“No,” Harry shakes his head solemnly. “It’s me talking. Tispy me. This is what sober me thinks all the time, but I don’t have the balls to tell you because I’m afraid you’ll run away from me.”
She was in the middle of taking a sip of wine, and Harry’s statement made her giggle.
Some of it slips out of her mouth and down her chin.
Time stops.
Time stops the moment that dainty dollop of white wine slips past her lips and down her chin, glistening like a precious diamond as it marks a wet track down her throat, settling at the delicate hollow of her throat that still vibrates from her bashful laugh.
Everything around Harry freezes, even her movements, and before he knows it, he’s moving. The low concerto playing on his vinyl record sounds like it’s underwater, drowned by his adrenaline. Somewhere, something in his mind is telling him that this is wrong, that he should get her explicit permission before acting so boldly, but a louder, PSA-level thought is telling him that she wouldn’t push him away. There was more than enough to prove that she felt the same way that he did (the way she froze and her breath hitched when they were putting their dirty dishes into the sink, her eyes fluttering when his nose dipped to smell the curve of her neck).
Wrapping his long, slender fingers around her wrist to keep the wine steady and away from his line of fire, was okay. Leaning in with the same speed of a cornered cobra- thought this was no prey and predator scenario, because had that ‘time freeze’ effect not muddled his tizzied senses, Harry would have seen that y/n tipped her head back in the slightest centimeter, almost expectant and welcoming of his salacious touch- was okay. The fact that his salivating tongue dropped out of his mouth instinctually to trace the path left by the rebellious wine in reverse, was okay.
What was even better than that, was the revolutionary flavor that exploded like fireworks across his tongue- the perfect mixture of her, her skin, and the bittersweet bubbly wine- buzzing him all the way down to his toes. The crotch section of his pants becomes uncomfortably tight, and Harry can feel the head of his dick leaking precum onto the lower section of his abdomen, where the waist of his pants sits just below his belly button. His lips flutter around the vein where her pulse thrums, and continues all the way up to her chin, nibbling on the tender, baby-soft underside. A whimper leaves her when he pinches her skin with his teeth particularly hard, and he moans in response, licking over his assault apologetically, soothing her.
Leaning back, he takes her in, and fights the urge to rut into the air.
Her breathing is erratic, her chest heaving as she sucks in loud gulps of breaths, head thrown back. If Harry hadn’t grabbed hold of her hand, that wine would be all over his vintage couch. She’s flushed, her neck from his abrasions, and her face from- well, he hopes it’s because of him, too. A faint shine decorated the curves of her face, highlighted from the candles on the coffee table, and her lips are shiny and red from her own lips and tongue, a brilliant color of rushing blood coating them as air leaves in soft tufts. Her eyes are closed, but her eyelids and lashes flick and flutter from erratic movement.
The music slowly comes back into the focus of his eyes, and Harry’s teeth sink painfully into his bottom lip, muffling a noise that’s a mix between a whine and a moan. His ankles cross and uncross nervously, and he begins to detach her fingers from the stem of the wine glass, a task that proves to be more difficult than it should have because y/n’s knuckles are whiter than bone as they clench tightly underneath his hand. Her eyes snap open when he strokes the bumps of her fingers, coaxing her to let go. Gulping, she flexes her fingers, and Harry takes the glass, setting it on the table before taking that same hand and turning it over in his, taking it up to this mouth and gently kissing every finger tip, all while holding eye contact with her.
“Please,” he whispers hoarsely after her pinky. Her hands, he notices, and trembling, and the endearing notion of her own nerves, makes him press her spread out hand against his chest. “Let me kiss you, darling.” It was a plea and a question all the same. His desperation and adoration were written all over his drawn eyebrows and dilated pupils. Cock stiff and straining against the seam of his pants, he fights off another pitiful whimper as y/n pulls in a ragged breath.
“Yes,” she whispers, her voice shaky like the crunch of broken glass under a boot. Her hand, small within Harry’s, continues to tremble as she continues to speak, her head nodding along with her feeling while her red lips shape around her words.“Yes, I want- want you to kiss me.”
Swiftly, yet lightly, like the flap of a butterfly’s wings, the pads of Harry’s fingertips map a trail down to her wrist, where he presses a wet kiss against the vulnerable underside, and continues to the crook of her elbow, goosebumps prickling below his wake like paint and a paintbrush. “Thank you,” he groans, his breath harshly fanning against her skin as he continues up to her bicep, his lips hovering over her skin now that her sleeve creates an offensive barrier. “Thank you, love. Y’such a treasure.”
The tip of Harry’s nose replaces his lips in a smooth transition, and dips into her collarbone where the movements stall, running back and forth the little hollow in a way that makes her suck in a breath, her hand coming up to sink into his bicep because she’s begun to sink into the couch and away from the affections of Harry, which is something that neither of them can have, so he remedies the situation.
Wrapping an arm around her waist, he hauls her up and her thighs part without instruction so that she is straddling him, her bum resting on the thick of his thighs. White cloth flares against her thighs, obscenely creeping up high near the juncture of her thighs before swooping back down, and the sight sends a throb down Harry’s cock. He’s sweating now, every inch of his body hot, but he wants to look at her. Drink her. He wanted to worship her, kiss and lick at every crevice of her body and cum from that alone.
Y/n stared at him, her eyes wide, dazed, and glossy like a doe’s. Lashes fluttering innocently, eyebrows meeting on her forehead almost petulantly. “You’re not kissing me,” she whines.
Fuck, he thinks. Fuck, fuck, fuck. The words on his shoes burn into his heels, and a smirk teases his lip at her impatience. Old ways, domineering ways, begin to take hold of every thought, action, and word. A side of him that doesn’t really come out unless it’s during sex prowls behind a cage that’s in the process of being opened. Since he first saw her, and even before that, Harry hasn’t had any company in his bed. It didn’t feel right. Nearly three months, and the fire within him was raging, eager for arson. Maybe this was the reason for his teenage-like reactions. Everything about her had his prick swelling. It was ridiculous.
The arm remains around her waist (he wants to drag her closer to him, but it didn’t seem appropriate, yet) and he brushes her hair behind her ear, his finger coming down her jaw to caress the underside of her bottom lip. Y/n is preening at his touch, leaning into his hand as her eyes flutter closed and her breath comes out a little heavier. “Be patient with me, love.” He says, voice husky, “I’ve wanted you for so long, and now that I have you I want t’make it last. Don’t y’want it to be good?”
She nods, her eyes closed and her face tilted up at him expectantly. This won’t do for Harry. He required her full attention, her complete contribution. It was more comfortable for him when there was communication, and he understood that his actions and words could sometimes be a little overwhelming, so he didn’t mind providing an extra command or reminder to be present when it was needed. He takes her chin in his hand and taps his finger against her jaw to make her open her eyes, “Can y’use your words for me, darling? I asked you a question, did I not?”
Her throat nudges Harry’s knuckles as it contracts around a very thick swallow, eyes fluttering open like she’s waking up from a pleasurable dream, “y-you did.”
A pleased look smooths over Harry’s face, the arm around her waist tightening slightly. “Then answer me: don’t you want to feel good? Don’t you want me to make you feel good?”
“I do.Yes, I do Harry. I wanna feel good… please,” y/n whimpers, pouting and twining her hands around his neck so that the tips of her fingers could play with the ends of his hair. That dazed look in her eye was getting heavier at the same rate that Harry’s dick was growing even thicker in his pants because he was enjoying the desperation in her tone. He loved that she trusted him enough to melt in his arms the way she was doing, shuffling forward to try on his lap in a way that showed she was positively itching to be kissed, and noises of his own arousal were fighting, clawing their way up his throat.
The raspy-ness of his voice has increased by tenfold, adding a devilish gravel to his voice that coaxed a soft mew from her. “Good. That’s much better,” he mutters, praising her. His eyes travel all around her form and snag on her chest, where pebbled points clearly outline her nipples through the fabric of her dress. Harry chews on the inside of his cheek, using every ounce of self-restraint to keep from bucking his hips into the air while she’s patiently waiting, innocently yearning for something that- from him- wasn’t going to be innocent at all.
Tenderly, Harry strokes the pads of her fingers in a line from her cheekbone, to her lips, to her other cheekbone, and back down to her lips, pulling the bottom one down and licking his pink mouth as he watches it spring back out. He meets her eyes while tucking his hand behind her neck, his fingers digging into her hips with more of a bracing force than necessary because he was too tense. Too wound up, and she was droopy like a drizzle of caramel, waiting and falling wherever he led her. Harry needed her calmness because he was afraid all hell would break loose once he tasted her. Thighs flexing beneath her, his abdomen clenched with both heat and nerves, and his heart was beating light-years per millisecond.
The couch creaked once as Harry shifted his weight forwards, and y/n’s eyes fluttered closed to the beat of the quiet and serene piano keys in the background, her breath puffing out once more before it lodged in her throat, her chest stilling, and he can’t held the endeared smile that inches itself onto his face. “Breathe, baby,” he mumbles, getting close enough that he was inhaling her air, the smell of sweet wine and her shrouding his hyperactive senses, “And you tell me if you want to stop, okay?”
She responds with a soft, weak, “okay,” and a bob of her head, his previous order on her mind. “Please kiss me, Harry.” Y/n’s eyes are still closed, but her impatience is clear to him when her eyebrows furrow like she’s about to cry and her eyelids crinkle with the pressure she’s putting on them. A rare, mean side of him wants to chuckle, revel in how lax she is for him, but he knows that too much for her right now, and that he shouldn’t tease her anymore.
“Okay, love. Only because you asked so nicely.”
He’s a little more rough than he needs to be, shutting his eyes while holding her in place by the back of her neck and firmly but slowly sliding their lips together- hers between his-, groaning at the same time that she preens and allows his mouth to move hers, parting her lips and suckling on her top one at a pace that makes her jump right on top of his groin, eager for more and eager to be closer to him. The feeling of their lips meeting feels like running his fingers against silk and lace, or underneath warm bath water that has been sprinkled with velvety lavender salts.
A cry escaped her when Harry parts from her, panting like he’s just ran a marathon with matching beads of sweat gathering at his temples, distraught from the loss of connection, and her eyes snap open, tears welling quickly, but they only escape when he flicks his wet tongue vertically from her bottom lip to a dainty cupid’s bow, all while keeping eye contact. This makes her yank on the soft chestnut strands of Harry’s hair that were twirled around her fingers, not hard enough for it to even be remotely painful, but the force tilts his head back a little and a drawn out moan ribbons from him.
Y/n shifts in his lap, arching forward so that the tips of her breasts rub against his chest and while he continues to lick into her mouth, Harry feels that his chest is on fire. Muffled sounds of pleasure interrupt the slicking noises of their lips moving against each other and it’s so obscene that he pulls her tighter against his chest, positioning his feet wider against the ground so he can push his hips off the couch and right into her-
“Fuck me!” Harry groans the words that have been on his mind all night, the same ones etched on his shoes, and rests his forehead against hers, breathing heavily and trying to collect himself. His lower abdomen, just where the head of his cock sits, feels uncomfortably moist, and throbs from the pressure of her pussy that had been sure not even seconds before. It was too much. Too much for him to go through it without embarrassing himself, and just when he’s about to say something, shaking his head defeatedly with a regretful, dull shine in the dark green of his eyes, y/n mewls, restless, and grinds back down onto the thick length begging for release.
Hissing, Harry’s head falls against the back of the couch and his hands come to grip her hips, stilling her movements. His chest rises and falls rapidly while incoherent thoughts on why he has to stop what’s happening crumble in his mind. “Love,” he pants, “don’t wriggle y’hips like that, s’driving me insane.”
“But I need…” Her words leave her in something less than a whisper and more than a breath, her skin around her neck dotted with perspiration. Attempting to move her hips down again, she’s met with a harsh squeeze from Harry, and both of them know that there will likely be bruises the size and color of graped blooming there in the near future. Her thighs begin to quiver, and she takes her hands out of Harry’s hair to plant them on his shoulders as leverage because the position he has her in is tiring her muscles.
“What is it, y/n? What d’you need?” The classical music continues, the violins playing a quiet, violent song to match the tone of Harry’s voice, the build-up right before the drop. He knows what she needs, because he needs the same thing, and it’s driving him insane. His balls are tight against the base of his cock, a visible outline of himself protruding against his pants that not even the dark color can hide in the dim, terracotta lighting anymore. With his head still leaning against the back of the couch, his eyelids droop as he speaks to her. “Want to come? Is that it?”
The urgency of her nod makes the headband that was clinging loosely on her head to fall back against the wooden floor with an obtuse clack. Her eyes are wide, glossy. Harry’s spit paints her mouth like a red lip gloss, and his are painted by her saliva, a sparkling champagne.
Cooing at her, he lets go of her hips and wraps her up in his arms again, pulling her close and nuzzling into her neck as she pushes down on him with no direction, “Oh, angel. All y’had to do was ask.” The warmth of her pussy surpasses the layers between them and shoots straight down to his dick. She lifts herself again, and arches befores sitting again. Having gathered the amount of leverage she wanted, y/n drags her hips forwards, up the thickness of him, and stops just at the swollen head before jerking a bit, a needy moan evaporating on her tongue. Harry clenches his jaw, trying to hold off his orgasm so that he can watch her get herself off while all of their clothes were still on. “S’right baby, use me. Rub y’tight little pussy all over my clothes. Y’gonna come on me? Y’gonna leave your taste on me?”
Her jaw falls slack at his words. “Yes. God, Harry, yes,” the movement of her hips stutters, delivering a particularly heavy grind over the wet tip so that it presses against the heated skin of his stomach and Harry’s eyes roll to the back of his head, his grip on her hips steady so that he can buck up into her warmth. The crotch of his pants is so wet, and not just from his own precum, but the moisture that has seeped through whatever underwear she’s wearing. And suddenly, suddenly he needs more. Suddenly, he has to see her pussy rubbing down on him.
“Are you wet f’me, darling?” Hands settling on her lower, exposed thighs in preparation to slide the dress upwards (or away if she doesn’t want to), Harry leans in closer and drags the tip of his nose from her jaw to her ear, where he nibbles on the lobe, suckling it to soothe and particularly hard bite, and whispers into her ear, “can I see?”
“Yeah,” y/n squeaks and looks down at Harry’s large hands and they slowly slide upwards, but never stops moving. Not even as her white thong comes into view, the delicate, pale fabric transparent from her wetness and sticking to her like a second skin. The gift of Harry’s prick slides right between her folds, parting them even through the underwear. A small, pearl-like roundness indicated the location of her clit, and he understands why her hips jolt everytime they go over the head of his dick.
Because she’s rubbing her clit against him.
White spots litter his vision, and by some miracle he doesn’t bust right then and there. Instead he cries out, almost shouting the next time her hips buck against him, but he doesn’t take his off where they meet. The room has become unbearably hot, filled by their sweat, panting and moaning, and jerky, desperate movements. “I’m gonna come, baby, fuck. Let me,” he’s thrusting up, wanting to go in, but knows that it’s not the right time, and so he slips his hand underneath the bunched dress so that he can hold her by the waist and take them both over the edge. Up until that point he had been enjoying watching her use him, take what he needs from him, but now he needs to do it himself because he won’t allow her to orgasm after him. “Let me finish fucking you through y’clothes.”
They move so fast their movements are blurry under the lighting, rutting up and down into each other with a new sense of urgency. Y/n moans every time he nudges her clit, and when he begins to feel a faint pulse coming from her heated center, he grinds against her harder, pulling her down against him in addition to the force of her own movements. He does this once,twice, and then she’s crying, tears actually falling down the side of her face as she jerks in his hold, swiping up and down his crotch in quick, messy moves.
Her nails cut the skin of his bicep, even through his long sleeve, and the small bit of pain throws him over the edge, his own body convulsing as his balls draw up and that ache that has made his dick stiff exploded into a prickling, liquid heat that shot through him and stained the inside of his pants. Rutting into her a few more times, mindful of her oversensitive whimpers, Harry drags her to his chest and kisses her languidly. It’s messy his tongue tripping on the outer corners of her mouth while her’s is skittish, but it’s okay because they’re both sated and it feels good to be in each other’s arms where they’ve dreamed of being for longer than normal without doing anything about it.
They’re both quiet, catching their breath as the needle trips over and over again at the end of the record, demanding to be turned off. Y/n is nuzzling into Harry’s throat, and a flicker of guilt flashes against his heart, faint apprehension because he knows that they both wanted it, they both spoke consensual words out loud, but he feels he had a little too hard on her. Too rough with his words. “Fuck, I’m sorry. Was supposed to be a gentleman, but you’re so angel-like and soft, I couldn't stop myself.” He drops his head to the side and kisses her temple, “had to taint you a little bit.”
Y/n giggles, a response that he wasn’t expecting, fisting his sweater vest in her hand. “Are you always like this?”
He feels that he knows what she’s going to say, but he asks anyway, but to hear her say it.“Like what?”
“Dunno… um…” her voice decreases in increments, “bossy?”
Harry smirks. “Did you not like me telling y’what to do?”
“I did like it,” she whispers, hiding her face into his neck so that her breath hits his collarbones. Goosebumps are born where her warm air lands, and he chuckles, rubbing her back in slow, comforting circles.
“That’s all that matters to me. I’m happy I didn’t push you too much.”
They grow silent again, content. She kisses his neck occasionally, the same spot over and over again until his shoulder hitches up and a breathy laugh leaves him. He leaves one hand on her back and the other trails up and down the hand clenching his shirt, enjoying the way she shivers when he caresses the crease of her elbow.
Eventually, she sits up straight. “Suppose I should start walking back home,” she mutters, blushing.
“Walk? Love, you walked here?” He’s shocked, and his grip tightens around her possessively when she mentions leaving. After things went so well? Maybe he was growing attached too fast, but it was hard not to when y/n was so sweet to him, with him.
She responds like the answer is obvious. “Yeah. I live just down the street remember?”
Harry shakes his head. “Y’can’t go out there by yourself right now, s’dark and y’have to pass alleyways to get home. I can drive you-”
“No!” Y/n is quick to interrupt him, shaking her head in denial. “I don’t want you to get up and fuss.”
“Then we’ll stay right here.”
“Okay.” That was easier than I thought, he thinks. He’s not letting her leave tonight, and if he could have it his way, he would like her to spend the night tomorrow as well.
“And please don’t push me away like that, saying ‘it’s time to go home’. I don’t mind y’being here. I want you to be here more than I’ve wanted anything in a long time, okay?” He pauses so that he can get her understanding (he gets it, in the form of a nod). It pinched his heart knowing that she would be so quick to leave, and he wonders if maybe she had that reaction because she was used to leaving after a hookup (not that this classified as that) and the thought made him sad because he knew firsthand how shitty that was. He didn’t want her to feel that way ever again. “Good. How ‘bout we get out of these clothes and go to sleep, hmm? S’that sound good to you?”
“Yeah,” she says, smiling up at him with stars in her eyes, “yeah, that sounds good.”
And Harry is so full. He’s so full of love and happiness, more than he has been in a long time, and it’s all because of the pretty flower girl in his arms.
******
ngl i had to take several pauses while writing him.... lol....riding.....
anyway, part 3 (the final part) is loading! thank you for being so patient with me and reading! don’t forget to reblog (bc i love reading the tags) and leave any comments you have in my inbox! i love you!!
<3 abigail may