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honeypie-styles · 5 months

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Christmas Thyme part 1

Author: @ihearthes

Pairing: Harry x Reader Insert (1st person)

Rating: Smut (NSFW, 18+ Only)

Word Count: 2665

‘Tis a week before Christmas, and just as I am preparing to twist the “Open” sign to its “Closed” side, the bell over the door jingles. Inwardly, I groan. Outwardly, I paste on my brightest smile as I pivot towards my (hopefully) final customer of a very long, very exhausting day.

I freeze.

Because standing there in the doorway of my boutique is Harry Styles. THE Harry Styles. You know. As It Was. Watermelon Sugar. Sex on a stick. That last one isn’t a song. Just a description.

“Um, hi,” I mumble, not knowing what else to say, but then I quickly tack on a “How may I help you?”

His eyebrows draw downwards, and he looks around at the merchandise which, after a long day of Saturday sales in the last few frantic days before the most important gift-buying holiday of the year, is scattered everywhere.

I’ve no idea if I want him to decide to leave immediately or if I should beg him to stay and shop. I do neither.

But only because I spot another person on the street outside, pointing at one of the most sought after and most frequently purchased soy candles. She and her friend appear to be heading towards the door, so I summon the last of my energy and lunge for the door ahead of them, pulling the shade while simultaneously rotating the lock. My panicked movements mean I jostle the popstar as he stands nearby.

“Oops! I’m so sorry. I just…”

“Are you open or closed?” He asks, worry etched on his forehead where it peeks out underneath his black beanie. I take him in, recognising his face instantly. With a pair of joggers, he wears a black Pleasing crewneck, and I’m briefly jealous of how cosy it looks. I wouldn’t mind snuggling close – to the crewneck, of course.

I am, after all, a competent businesswoman. Pfft. Okay, I’m trying to be one.

“We’re closed now, but if you don’t have much to shop for, you’re welcome to look around while I tidy up in preparation for Tuesday’s maniacal clientele.

He grunts, and I assume it’s affirmation that he’d like to look around, so I nod. “Are you looking for something in particular? Or shopping for a certain someone?” Wracking my brain, I attempt to recall if he’s currently dating anyone, but I’ve no idea. Since opening up my pop up last month, I’d not had time to do much more than work daily until exhaustion forces me to crawl into bed with a heating pad on my back and warm peppermint compresses on my feet.

“Just looking…” He smiles, and I’m nearly blinded by the left dimple.

Holy shit. No wonder he’s so popular.

I have the silly idea that I should sniff him. It would be easy to make a tonne of money from bottling his scent and selling it. Then I would have enough money to set up a permanent shop to sell my organic candles, soaps, and lotions.

Resisting only because I have managed to maintain some self-respect after being yelled at and cursed at by customers all day long, I decide to provide him some privacy.

“Absolutely. Let me know if you have any questions.”

He nods once, and I swear my insides melt into a puddle like Frosty the Snowman when the sun has come out.

Stepping to the counter, I fiddle with the sound system, turning off the grating holiday tunes that permeate the atmosphere this time of year and sliding instead into some soothing jazz from Alfa Mist. As soon as the first song starts playing, Harry’s head whips around and he stares in my direction.

“Excellent choice.” His voice is gravelly and kind with a bit of surprise in it.

“It’s the kind of music I prefer,” I shrug, not knowing what else to say.

“Me too.”

It’s such a surprising thing for him to say that I do my own double take, but he’s returned already to smelling the candles on the wall display.

Shrugging, I move to the first shelves to the right of the register, straightening products, and making mental notes of what I need to restock. When I move to the next set of shelves, though, it’s clear that a mental note isn’t going to be of any help. There are simply too many hand lotions, soaps, and other products that need to be replaced. Sighing, I move behind the counter again, withdrawing a pad of paper. Quickly, I jot down what I need to replace on the first two shelves.

Turning my head, I see that Harry has barely finished sniffing one shelf of candles. “Um…” He glances up at my utterance. “...would you mind if I stepped into the back to grab some more stock?”

“Whatever you need to do.” His voice is so silky that I could easily wear it and nothing else against my skin forever.

In the small stockroom, I remove my shoes, wiggling my toes that have been screaming at me for the last two hours. Grabbing a basket I keep for just this purpose, I fill it with the items on my list before stepping back onto the main floor. The coolness of the tiles under my toes is soothing, and I sigh at the pleasure of it on my hot skin. Quickly, I restock the first two shelves, giving my feet a workout as I have to rise onto my toes multiple times. My knees also get to practise squatting so I can place items on the bottom shelf.

After I slide my protesting feet back into my shoes, I sneak a peek to check on Harry. He’s moved on to the next set of shelves, opening the sample shampoos and smelling them one by one.

At this rate, he’ll be here another hour at least.

Surveying the third set of shelves, I jot down the merchandise I need to pull from the back for this one. It’s the shelf of eye compresses I’ve made that include differing herbs to soothe the skin around the eyes and quiet the mind. With a quick glance at Harry, I return to the storeroom, trying to recall where I’d placed the box holding more eye compresses.

Spying it on a higher shelf, hiding behind a box of the scented rice neck pillows I’d designed to be heated and worn next to the skin, I stand on my tiptoes in order to reach. Just — one — more — inch — CRASH! Both boxes clatter to the ground, the sides splitting open on the box holding the neck pillows, and I sigh.

“Are you okay?”

His voice startles me, and I jump like that time I’d been forced to watch a horror movie by my previous boyfriend. The arsehole.

Placing my hand on my chest to calm my pounding heart, I smile at where his head has emerged through the curtain separating the sales floor and stockroom.

“Thank you for checking on me. I’m okay. Just knocked off a couple of boxes.”

“Shit. That looks annoying. Let me help.” He muscles his way past the curtain, assisting me by setting the box right side up. I locate the roll of packing tape I’d used earlier to package some items for a customer who wanted them delivered, handing the tape to Harry as he repairs the box. “I’m Harry.” His introduction is endearing, and I share my name too.

“No one else working tonight?” His hushed tones do things to my body that are inappropriate for work.

“No one else is working ever. It’s my shop, and I couldn’t afford to pay for help this year.”

“Damn. How do you manage?”

“Well, I take it slow on nights like this with the restocking and tidying because I know I’ll get the next two days to soak my feet and relax.”

“But how do you do it during the day with all the customers?”

“I think that’s clear from the state of the front. I muddle through.” My shrug is intended to communicate that there’s no real answer to that question.

“Can I help?”

“YOU?” I yelp, clamping both hands over my mouth at my shriek.

“Why not me?”

“Um, cause you’re Harry Styles.”

When he smiles this time, his eye crinkles come into focus, and I’m lost in him. I could stare at those crows’ feet all night, I think.

“And that means I can’t help?”

“It means that you probably have plenty of plans that don’t include stocking shelves.”

“Hmmm… tonight, I actually do not have plans. My sister and I were supposed to shop for our mum, and then my sister ended up ill, so…” Trailing off, he raises both hands to the side in imitation of a shrug. “You can pay me by helping me choose gifts for my mum and my sister. And my manager’s wife. And maybe the wives of my friends.”

“That’s silly. I’d help you with that for free.”

“Ah, well then, you can take me out to dinner after we’re done.”

My jaw drops. Dinner with Harry Styles?

Is he asking me out on a date?

“Just as repayment, right?” I ask.

“For starters,” he smirks, and my panties become uncomfortable as I rub my legs together. “I’ll take these boxes out front.” Bending his knees, he picks up the box of neck pillows with the box of eye compresses on top. Striding through the curtain, he drops the boxes on the floor and immediately starts artfully arranging the merchandise. Occasionally, he brings a pillow to his nose and breathes in deeply.

Mesmerised, I watch from the door to the store room. After a few minutes, he removes his coat, carefully draping it over the counter, smiling at me as I straighten the bottles of lotion on the table, ensuring that the rosemary mint doesn’t get mixed up with the rosemary thyme. It’s easy to get them confused as the labels are similar.

“How long did it take you to prepare all of this?” Harry asks, his hand encompassing the entire shop.

“All year. My dad –” I pause as emotion invades my throat, layering it with sorrow. Finally, I swallow, clearing the grief. “My dad was ill for the last couple of years, so I quit my job to move in and take care of him. I started growing the herbs in his garden. And then I needed something to do with all of the herbs I grew, so I started making soaps and selling them at the local farmer’s market. Demand was swift, and I’ve been expanding the line for the last eight months or so.”

“That’s amazing!” His face has lit up like the Christmas tree that’s in the corner of the shop, and his grin takes over his entire countenance. “And how’s your dad doing now?”

I wince. “He actually died in July.”

“Oh. I’m sorry for your loss.”

My watery smile hopefully conveys my gratitude. “He was ready to go. At least that’s what he told me. And I needed a project after his death to keep me busy while I cleaned out the house and prepared to sell it.”

“Sell it? Why?”

Moving to the next table, I straighten the bars of soap. Wiping a tear from my eye, I answer his question. “Too many memories. I’ve had a lot of loss in my life, and now I’m the only one left in my immediate family. So when I’m in the house, all I can see are the people no longer with me.”

“That must be hard.” His hand rests on my shoulder, and I’m startled because I hadn’t realised he’d approached.

“It’s life. Lucky for me, I have my dreams to keep me going.”

“Dreams of expanding beyond a popup shop at the holidays?”

“Something like that,” I nod.

“Sounds lovely. Listen, I’m done with these shelves, and those over there look pretty good. I, um, straightened them earlier when I was testing the product. Is there a broom so I can sweep up?”

Astonished, I blink at him. “No. No. No. I draw the line at having a number one pop musician sweep my floor.”

He giggles, his laugh growing until he’s slapping his knee, his full body moving with glee as he heartily releases his mirth. “So if I were the number one classical musician or number one jazz musician or number one country musician, you’d be okay with me cleaning the floor?”

Seeing the humour in my comment, I laugh along with him. “Okay. Okay. You’ve found me out. Only pop musicians aren’t allowed to sweep up. Everyone else is fair game.”

Bopping me on the nose, he grins. “Good thing I’m not a number one pop musician tonight. I’m just a customer who is quite taken with your goods.”

And the way he rakes his eyes over my body lets me know that he’s not talking about the merchandise on the shelves.

Dammit. Why don’t I keep a pair of spare knickers in my bag in case I run into the handsomest man alive? Because the ones I’m wearing right now are ruined.

Sticking his head through the curtain and peering into the back, he joyfully exclaims, “There it is!” Seconds later, he’s pushing the broom around the shop floor, and I am both pleased and appalled.

Reluctant to let him do all the work, I watch him and squirm. Using the broom as a partner, he dances to the music, and I can’t help the giggle that escapes.

“I remember when you couldn’t dance at all,” I reveal, then clamp my hands over my mouth at my rudeness.

“Some would say I still can’t.”

“Screw ‘em.” I grin. “Listen, I’m about to count up the money for a night deposit. Are you planning to pay with cash or credit?”

Wincing, he bites his lip, resting his arm on top of the broom handle. “Oh yeah. I was having so much fun that I forgot I was here to shop.” He looks around at the merchandise. “You’re taking me out for dinner, right?” One eyebrow raises while the other stays in place. It’s a talent not many have.

“I believe that was the deal in exchange for your labour.”

“Then let’s eat first. I can tell you about those I need to shop for, and you can decide what would be most fitting for each.”

“Hmmm…” I tease, “Are you trying to get out of buying products from me?”

“Nope,” he grins, stepping closer to me. “Trying to let you get to know me more.”

“Who's to say I don’t already know everything about you?”

“Ah, I see.” The expression on Harry’s face is smug. “You wanna have a quiz? Find out what exactly you know and don’t know?”

“Sure,” I smile, “but somehow I’m not sure I trust you. You could easily say all of my answers are wrong, and I wouldn’t be able to contradict you.”

“Let’s start. What colour are my eyes?”

“Are you taking the piss? They’re green. That one’s easy ‘cause I can see them.”

“Okay, okay. You got one right. What colour are my lips?”

Which of course drags my eyes right to the body part in question. And they look lush. Soft. Slightly chapped, but not enough to keep me from…

Shit. I’ve gotten lost in staring at his lips.

“I didn’t hear your answer.”

My tongue dips out to lick my own lips, and he steps closer, his eyes locked on my tongue. Shaking my head, I dart my gaze back to his eyes, and I can feel his breath on my cheek. Leaning forward, he reaches his arm to my left, and I briefly wonder if he’s going to wrap his arm around my waist and haul me to him for a snogging session.

Which is when he grabs his coat from the counter.

“Let’s count the money so you can make your deposit. I’m getting hungry.”

Really? I'm experiencing a powerful thirst.

Author's note: Thanks for reading. If you enjoyed it, please reblog. I know not everyone reblogs, but it really helps writers out. Hoping to have part 2 for you soon!

#so sweet omg #fic rec

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honeypie-styles · 5 months

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Please You

Harry can’t make his favourite customer and sweetest hookup come anymore. Besides the quality of the weed he sells, he prides himself on excellent service and will stop at nothing to turn things around.

Word count: 6.9k

Content: nothing wild but consistently filthy (oral, fingering, sexual intercourse, dirty talk), mentions of drug use, 18+

MASTERLIST

It wasn’t a want by this point, it was a need. Harry needed her to come or he was going to die.

“Come on, baby,” he panted, his thrusts sloppy with exhaustion and the dizziness of his approaching orgasm. He curled his hands into fists on either side of her head and dug his nails into his palms. His hope had been that the crescent moons of pain biting into his skin would be enough to take the edge off, hooking around his neck like Little Bo Peep’s crook and dragging him away from the precipice. Harry’s libido had firm heels, however, and stood firm, leaning, stretching, aching to tumble in a free-fall into the waiting sea of pleasure.

“Need y’to come for me,” he groaned, trying to focus on the angle with which he was pounding into her. He knew he was playing a dangerous hand, gambling his need for a slower pace so he could last longer by taking the wager that this was the tempo she needed and any moment now, any moment… “Gonne come, pretty baby? Baby?”

“I’m trying,” YN hissed and slapped the junction of his ass and thigh to express her frustration at his persistent urges. The unexpected sting of skin on skin took Harry by surprise and with a strangled moan he spilled into the condom, mind spinning like a globe whacked by an angry hand and spurting ecstasy through his nerves along with every heartbeat. The pleasure coiled through the spongy tissue of his body; he could picture it the way cordial spread through water, tainting the plain liquid with something sweet and fruity.

“Fuck,” he said, pulling out quickly. He was so annoyed with himself the high faded fast, diluting until it ebbed at the periphery of his consciousness. Okay, so maybe it didn’t fade entirely, still thrumming in his bloodstream while, cock still pulsing, he wriggled down YN’s body, dragging his lips on her skin as he went. He fixed his mouth to her clit and pushed his fingers inside, trying to keep the momentum going he’d had before.

No more than a few minutes later, he heard YN sigh. Harry prided himself on being a good listener. His teachers from school may have disagreed, because he loved the sights out of the window and the rhythmic sounds of his pencil hitting the bars of his uncomfortable school chair, but he really was a good listener. He just didn’t listen to the things other people wanted him to. He’d listen to the sounds of a warm body under (or above) his, though, intently. He’d listened to enough of YN’s sighs that he could orchestrate them into a symphony should he have the inclination or concentration, which many nights he did. He’d heard sighs of shocked excitement and pained overstimulation. He’d pricked his ears at sighs of delayed gratification and fuzzy highs. That sigh, puffed through her lips like air out of a broken inflatable, was none so sweet.

Harry released the suction around her clit and pouted up at her with a sloppy smack of his lips. “Did you just huff?”

“I’m tired. Can we just chill now?”

Harry pushed himself up and crawled to kneel above her. “You want to stop?” He kept his voice level, so she knew it was okay to say yes and that, inside, he was not ready to die. His cheeks were starting to burn in the way they did when he took a shot he’d been peer pressured into downing, only the taste in mouth was a lot stronger and sicklier.

“Yeah. Let’s watch that space movie you won’t shut up about.”

Harry pursed his lips. “It’s science fiction.” While still hovering above her face he squinted like the blurring of his eyes would give him new insight, the way one might squint to find the spot on the Christmas tree that needed more lights. He tried to identify what he was missing. “Are you on any new medication or anything?”

“Harry. That’s rude.” She pushed a hand on his bare clavicle and shoved, creating a breach between them just wide enough for her to wriggle to a seated position against his numerous pillows. Harry took great pride in his comfortable bed and YN took great naps in his comfortable bed, usually after he’d fucked her good and they’d shared a single joint.

“I’m just speculating,” Harry said, carefully rubbing his voice clear of judgement. “Sometimes things like that can affect reaching orgasm.”

“It’s not any medication I may or may not be on, dumbass.”

Harry flopped to the side next to her, still studying her like a ten thousand piece jigsaw. “You haven’t finished the last few times. Are you stressed? Is it about work?”

“Maybe you got bad at it.” She was smirking so Harry knew she was teasing but he pushed his bottom lip out in an exaggerated fashion.

“I’m not bad at it,” he said, quickly tacking on, “usually. You know that first hand.”

He got out of bed and pulled on a hoodie, lower half still stark naked. Harry, while stumbling headlong through his twenties, had tumbled into the role of a fairly successful graphic designer, creating merch for bands and music artists. Selling a little bit of weed on the side supplemented his pay just enough to create a cushioning in his bank account and soften the blow of his monthly bills and habit for collecting intricate Lego sets. With support from his friends and a healthy dose of delusion, he’d recently launched his own local clothing brand, colourful hoodies with the word PLEASING across the chest.

“That’s a bit on the nose isn’t it, Harry?” YN said, jerking her head to the brand name.

“Shut up,” he self-consciously drew his arms across his chest like he was hiding his nipples while he turned and walked to the kitchen, bum pert and bare. “Do you want some snacks?”

–

YN had first come to Harry wanting something to help her sleep. Harry asked all his usual queries: had she smoked before, what did she think, where did she get it from, what was she expecting? Her answers were timid but honest. Harry was instantly fascinated by her and badgering Mitch about where he’d found her. “I dunno, mate. She’s got a placement in the same building and was asking around.”

She didn’t come back for a while and Harry harassed himself with reasons why. He wanted to provide the best for his customers, both in quality and service. He almost texted her several times, asking if she liked it, if she liked him, if it was too much, if he was too much. Eventually, after agonising weeks and accepting he’d fucked it, she pinged him.

“I thought maybe you didn’t like the stuff,” he said with a cool, laidback, chill smile, leaning in his doorway.

“No, no. It was fine. It just lasts me a while. I only smoke when I can’t sleep.”

“Cool.” He nodded. “So you can’t sleep now?”

“I’ve got a lot of deadlines.”

“Oh, that sucks.” He supposed anyway, Harry worked for himself and all of his deadlines were self-imposed to create some semblance of structure to his life. “Want to come in for a bit and not-sleep together?” They did not-sleep together that time, and several times thereafter. Harry delighted himself in finding ways to make her laugh and relax brick by brick. The day they did sleep together for the first time, she instigated it, or at least ignited the idea in Harry’s head. The thought had been there, as it always was with Harry and pretty people who said smart words, but she poked the embers with a passing comment on how, ahead of weed, a good orgasm was the best thing to help her sleep.

And Harry did want to provide the best quality and service for his customers.

All the more frustrating he couldn’t deliver anymore.

Harry couldn’t stop thinking about it, is the thing. He and YN had been hooking up for a while with the agreement it was mutually beneficial. It didn’t feel very mutual when Harry got his rocks off every time and YN didn’t come even once. He couldn’t work out what had changed.

Perhaps his technique had gotten slack, or too routine. There was a possibility that the tricks he used as a safety net to fall back on were becoming lax and predictable, a yawn in the early morning rather than fireworks in the dark. He prided himself on taking instruction well. YN may disagree, for while she sometimes told him what she wanted, how hard, how fast, what position, one of the many joys of sex for Harry, was the art of surprise and making his partners marvel that that could feel like that. Despite that, Harry took instruction well when the instructions came from the hitch of her breaths and tight curl of her toes running up the planes of his back.

Harry was used to drawing several orgasms of her, collecting them like Sonic the hedgehog zooming through golden coins. Until he seemingly hit a wall and the coins burst from their bag, pinging into the distance and no matter what he tried, he couldn’t find them again. He couldn’t pull her over the crest of the loop-de-loop to come swooping down on the other side. He couldn’t make her come anymore.

It’s not even that he thought she was going to go around telling everyone, exactly. Yet Harry felt a bubble of shame mushrooming in his belly, bloating and taking up his every thought. When he was doodling designs on his iPad the imagery caught his mental processes, drowning in innuendos in the form of crude cacti and flowers with blooming petals in deep, fleshy tones. It matched the brand, serendipitously, but the exercise didn’t clear his head like art usually did.

One day, after some deliberation, Harry sent YN a link.

H: Thoughts?

YN: This is porn…

H: Did u watch it?

Harry huffed as he typed, frustrated with her deliberate simplicity. He’d spent quite a bit of time perusing online to find something he thought would complement both his and her tastes, the perfectly imperfect depiction of two people he could replace with himself and her if he blurred his eyes in just the right way.

YN: It’s 8am???

H: Yh was just doing some research b4 work

YN: Research

H: What do you think?

YN: One min

Harry scooped some cereal into his mouth, crunching the honey flavoured O’s between teeth and savouring the taste. The irony was not lost on him. Finally, his phone (in his hand, unlocked and open on her message thread), buzzed.

YN: Hot

H: Right??? Wanna try?

YN: Sure cowboy

H: thought it might help our little problem

Delighted, he spooned up three consecutive mouthfuls, chasing the final round piece around the milk until he captured and swallowed it down. Victory. Everything was brighter, better. He’d had a good breakfast, a bulging to-do list and later, he was going to make her come until she was the dictionary definition of knackered.

YN: Changed my mind

Harry blinked at the new message that came through.

YN: Have fun with your research though ✊ 💦

He spent a few minutes staring at her words and the crude emojis, contemplating how best to express himself next.

H: :(

H: At least let me try that thing at the beginning

They did try that thing, the next time YN swung by to pick up, which was a couple of days after Harry’s porn research. Of course, the research had continued. Harry prided himself on being a man of science. His best friend, studying a PhD in Industrial Bioengineering, may disagree, on the basis Harry had barely finished high school, bummed about selling drugs for a few years before accidentally applying himself to his graphic design vocation. Despite his origin story, Harry believed he was facing an enigma of the biological world and if anyone was going to work it out, it would be someone with the dedication he possessed.

“Do you wanna roll with me before you go?” He asked, before handing her the pink package adorned in planetary motifs. Harry liked to design his own weed packaging; he thought brand recognition was important in a saturated market of class B narcotics.

“Okay. But can I stay a bit afterwards? I don’t like to drive if I’ve smoked.”

God, she was so smart. She was so smart and sensible and sexy. Of course she shouldn’t drive when she’d smoked. Harry never did, but above logic, that was primarily because he walked everywhere, or rode his bike if it was further than five miles. Sometimes, when he was power walking in his puffer jacket, shins exposed to the elements, he tried to imagine himself burning at the end like a blunt, the hasty steps he took sucking all the energy out of his body in the ground. It would work for a bit and then it always came back, endless bounds of it shivering through his body and forcing him to do something about it. Draw, build his Lego, smoke, fuck.

He used to think he was good at all of those things.

YN liked Lego too, and occasionally after they’d smoked on his back doorstep, puffing smoke into the air and giggling at videos on Harry’s phone, he’d let her carry on with one of his pieces, instructions open in front of them while Harry watched closely and pointed out where she’d gone wrong only when she asked for help.

She let him try the thing from the video and Harry felt pretty confident about it, with her nestled between his legs and her bum neatly pressed into his crotch in a sexy cuddle. “You gotta be wide like this,” he said, encouragingly, and pretzeled their legs together to hold her open. “This way I can touch you everywhere all at once.”

It was going beautifully. She drenched his hand that played with her pussy in all the ways he’d learned she liked. The angle was a dream, her bum a cushion against his erection, which he’d kept clothed in his briefs, a reminder that this was not about him, but the beautiful puzzle bracketed within his hold.

“Mm, Harry.” Her voice was a sherbet drop, thrilling his senses and making his mouth water for more. “Oh, that feels good.”

“Yeah?” He asked, cleverly, splaying a palm on her belly, feeling the effortful rise and fall of her breaths before treating himself to a handful of her boobs, which seemed to delight her just as much. The squirm of her body pushed her arse more firmly into his crotch and the jolt throbbed through his whole body.

“You going to come?” He all but begged into her ear, sudden desperation spicing his tone, pleasure pulsing at the heavy base of his core, demanding his attention.

If he had been a little more lucid, he’d have noticed the change in her breath, and if he could see her face he’d have seen the scrunch of rapture ease into something less intense and more resigned. The trouble was, Harry only knew she was liking it, from the easy slide of his fingers in and around her, and the pertness of her nipple under his palm. He knew she liking it from those sounds that always started deep in her chest, waiting to be unearthed in an archeological dig Harry was all too willing to kit up and grab his best tools for. He knew she was liking it, which made him like it a little too much and come with a startled gasp, into his briefs and against the warmth of her buttocks, rutting up against her to satiate the urgency for friction against his traitorous dick. He groaned in frustration into her neck while YN giggled, pulling his hands off her body so she could shift onto her knees facing him.

“Don’t worry about it, champ. I’ve gotta go anyway.”

Harry prided himself on not worrying about things, though YN may disagree. Life was for living and there was always joy to be had in the small things, the squeak of a new shoe, the softness of a clean hoodie, the click of a novelty lighter. Worrying only took away from all that. However, that particular concern required a certain baseline level of worry so he could get to the bottom of it.

The next time they saw each other, Harry dropped off at her place, his hair still damp from a shower and cap pressed over the curls. Seeing him on her doorstep, she clucked her tongue in suspicion. “You hate doing drop offs on weeknights. What’s going on?”

“I wanted to see your place.”

Her suspicion moved to her eyes, narrowing them. “You’ve seen it before.”

“Not for a while.”

“It hasn’t changed.”

Harry was beginning to think she had a body hidden in there. When he texted to say he could come over to save her a trip she’d replied with something about studying so whenever was good with her. Perhaps by studying she meant observing the occult. Maybe that fancy university she went to in the evenings after work was actually a school of the dark arts and Harry was just a little too pure to be let into that world of hers. The thought was laughable. When they met, it certainly wasn’t her corrupting him. He kicked the toe of his new Adidas against her door frame, wondering if she’d notice them. “I wanted to borrow a book.”

“What book?”

“I don’t know yet,” he huffed and folded his arms. “That’s why I came round. I can drop the weed off and go if I’m bothering you.”

“It’s a bit messy.” When she stepped to the side Harry beamed and shuffled over the doorway. In her room, Harry genuinely did peruse her shelves. He was nothing if not honest in his intentions, just not always one hundred per cent forthcoming. He picked at the spines of one’s that piqued his interest and held them up in front of him for further scrutiny, often seeking YN’s expert opinion.

“What’s this one about?”

“And this one?”

“Is this one like a sexy retelling of Of Mice and Men?”

YN cocked her head at him after the sixth book. “What the fuck are you on about? And why are you only choosing the books that you think might have sex in them? Are you paranoid that the government is tracking your porn habits again?”

Harry shrugged twice. The embarrassment of a bad trip always took a while to shake off. He wished he’d never rang her up that night, begging her to unplug her internet because They’re watching. Harry slotted the sexy time travel book back on the shelf as perfectly as he’d found it. “I just thought I could find out what you like, from the smutty books you read.”

YN laughed. “Are you serious?”

“Oh, deadly.” She could tell he was by the way his thumb and forefinger played with his bottom lip.

“I’ll show you one of my favourites.”

Harry hovered excitedly as she chose a book from the shelf. Perfect. She could get all worked up reading a sex scene to him and then he’d go down on her and finally they could put this behind them and go back to normal. He’d known all along in his heart of hearts all she needed was to relax and unwind and remind herself how good Harry was at this.

They got comfy with YN leaning against her headboard and Harry next to her. Next thing Harry knew, he was waking blearily from a heavy nap, eyelashes clumped together with watery sleep and his neck whining in protest at the angle it had been forced into for…how long exactly?

She must have a very soothing voice. Harry recalled at least thirty minutes spent listening to her reading entire chapters without even a kiss because, “back story is important, Harry” and, “the slow burn builds the tension”.

The slow burn put Harry to sleep. Although he did take the book home with him because he remembered the way the author described lingering eye contact like a toe on a tightrope and it had scratched a part of his brain he was keen to explore.

The next time they try, after a heavy make out on Harry’s sofa, Harry, who’d been bricking up since she first made eye contact with him (he’d finished the book in two sittings and discovered a whole new world of erotica in the form of YN’s bookshelf) went soft as soon as YN took him out of his joggers.

“We’re broken,” he whined with his hands over his face while YN used his kettle to make them cups of tea. “You’re my favourite hook up and we’re broken.”

“Aw, I’m your favourite. Is that why I get a discount?”

“You don’t get a discount. What?” She did get a discount.

She handed him his tea and plopped back on the sofa next to him. “Oh, you’re just super cheap then. Or the first guy I tried to buy from robbed me blind.”

“Yeah, he definitely did.” He didn't. “You shouldn’t go back to him.”

“I wasn’t planning on it. You keep me pretty stocked up.” She smiled as she brought the tea up to her perfectly-shaped lips. He wasn’t sure exactly what made them perfect, he just knew they were. He’d studied them from both an artistic point of view and a scientific approach. He was still a ways from figuring it out precisely, but he thinks it had something to do with the words they said and places they touched.

“Could he make you come?” Harry blurted out.

YN laughed and slapped his chest. “I didn’t sleep with him. Christ, Harry. You’re a right dick, you know?” He frowned. “An accidental dick, but it’s important you recognise that in yourself.”

“Oh, right.” Harry scratched his head. “Sorry. For assuming.”

“No big deal. Do you wanna play Mario Kart?”

“If you want to.”

The riddle remained unravelled, clogging up Harry’s brain like too many wires shoved into the tote bag he lugged around everywhere he went, just as her predicament went with him everywhere too, trailing after him, an attention-seeking puppy nipping at his ankles.

Sometimes Harry frequented the café she worked in. They never talked much there, but Harry liked to blink at her with a wide smile while she took his money (“You paying cash for everything doesn’t scream drug dealer at all, Harry.”) and deposited his change in his waiting palm. She passed him his drink and he found a space in the corner. He could see her eyeing him suspiciously because he never usually stayed, normally taking his to-go decaf tea – a sensible switch he’d made years ago – and heading back out to the streets on foot, places to go, people to see.

However, that afternoon he had a deal to complete and her café happened to be halfway between Harry’s and his friend’s. While he waited, he brought out his iPad and started sketching. He had a few tattoo commissions he was working on, merch design to finalise for his best mate’s band and Pleasing could do with a fresh idea or two, but he had one piece that he absolutely had to work on right then and his mind would allow nothing else. He was calling it ‘Pretty Girl Working in a Café’. It was a working title, along with ‘Sunbeam’ and ‘Mystery in a Northern Town’.

The friend Harry had arranged to meet was one he knew she’d met at a party before, and had already been granted the opportunity to form an opinion of him, so Harry probably shouldn’t have been surprised when she looked positively furious at his arrival. It didn’t help that he went straight up the counter and asked her, “is H about? I’ve got something for him.”

Harry winced as he watched them, as if he was observing a game show where he knew the participant had committed a grave error that would cost them the shiny prize at the end. Except Harry was the player and it wasn’t his error, and his prize shot glares of potent evil across the café when she jerked her head in Harry’s direction.

“You absolute dolt.” Harry shook his head at his friend as he slouched down into the chair opposite him. “I told you to come find me straight away.”

“Sorry. Your girl looks pissed off.”

“She’s not my girl. She’s not a possession. Where’s my stuff?” Harry strained to keep his voice cross, but couldn’t calm his twitchy gaze, desperate for a look at what his friend had brought him.

“Where’s my cash?” Harry passed over a carefully rolled bundle of notes, which the other man didn’t pause to count thanks to years of well-rooted trust, shoving the bag under the table by Harry’s feet. Harry’s fingers itched to pull the bag up onto the table and rake through the contents, eager to consume what was inside while knowing he needed to wait until he was somewhere private and with minimal distraction.

His primary distraction was watching the whole exchange, while Harry’s dealer patted his cheek goodnaturedly. “She looks too fancy for you, anyway.”

“Buzz off.”

“Sure, bro.”

The door to the café closed softly but not before YN had already stormed over in a hurricane of gorgeous fury. “What the hell, Harry,” she whisper-shouted. “I told you not to deal here. My boss knows I know you, thanks to you coming in every other day I work. I could get in trouble.”

“You know I wouldn’t bring drugs in here,” Harry said, while a tickle of heat licked his neck and collarbone. He didn’t come in every other day she worked. In fact, he tried very hard to limit it to once a week. It wasn’t his fault his feet fell into repetitive pathways that often led him past this door and its inviting window display.

“You have something,” she said, and darted her eyes down to Harry’s feet when they protectively closed around the bag. “Why do I feel like it’s worse?” Harry tried to school his features into something sheepish. “Oh god, it’s worse isn’t it?”

Harry tossed back and forth a few possibilities that could be rattling around in that pretty head of hers, before deciding he didn’t mind revealing it to her anyway. Perhaps she would be impressed enough that she’d spontaneously orgasm and he wouldn’t need what was in the bag after all. He knew that would be unlikely, but Harry was a hoper.

The bag wasn’t big, but bulky due to its contents, taking a bit of manoeuvring to get it to his lap and then onto the counter with a thud. YN’s face blended into a smoothie of confusion and horror, probably wondering what contraption he’d purchased and where exactly he planned to put it. Harry’s tummy surged with excitement when he reached in to pull out the contents, stacking the books neatly in front of him, carefully arranging the spines so they faced away from him, towards her.

She ticked her gaze over each title before grinning and then cackling buoyantly. “You’re a madman. You’re not going to read all those.”

He licked his lips and thumbed at the exposed pages of the first book in the stack, one with a artful silhouette of what hinted at a curvy body and if that didn’t give away the purpose of the book the word ‘come’ in the title and the phrase ‘award-winning sexologist’ did. The guide finished off a stack of scientific anatomy textbooks and feminist accounts. “Just watch me.”

She sank down into the chair adjacent to his, lifting up the first book to get a better peek at the second. “I don’t think I’ve seen you read before.”

“I’m usually doing other things when I’m with you,” he said, dropping his voice in that practised way.

“Yeah, like being a dork.” It thrilled him deeply to hear her laugh. She spent almost six whole minutes talking with him. Harry knew because it was instinct to clock the shift in time when her attention landed squarely on him. He loved that she saw his smudgy edges, the blurred lines between him and her and all the Harrys he showed her and didn’t seem to mind them.

“So, I read the sex books.”

It was with a patient and controlled motion that she capped one of her coloured highlighters and looked up from Harry’s tiny kitchen table to catch his eye. He’d hooked his chin over the back of the sofa so he could watch her study. She’d asked to come over while her flat had no heating, just for a few hours she said, “or maybe the night if you really don’t mind”, and Harry was worried his glee and saying yes would make her think he’d broken in and busted the boiler himself.

Watching her write her notes and carefully underline in one colour and highlight in another was transcendent. He was supposed to be pretending to work on his iPad, but he’d forgotten to even pretend, agog and entranced, spellbound as though she really was studying the occult. He hadn’t even smoked yet. “I think we shouldn’t worry about the orgasm thing anymore.”

“Oh, really?” Harry prided himself on being perceptive. His sister may disagree, assuming his string of bad relationships followed by longer strings, whole industrial cables, of casual hookups represented his poor judge of character. But Harry hooked up with YN and her character was just splendid. He could pick out the intricacies of her tone as if it were a tapestry and he held up a magnifying glass to spot the microtears. He could tell her ‘oh, really’ wasn’t a genuine question and maybe Harry had been missing something all along.

“I think we should just focus on the process, the journey. Sex is a rollercoaster and I’m gonna ride it. Is that what Ronan Keating sang? Anyway, we should just fuck around and stop when we get tired, not just when we come and then have a break and then fuck around some more? If it happens, it happens but I might have been putting too much pressure on.”

Harry panted after his spiel, gazing at her with wide, hopeful saucers for eyes.

“I’m pretty sure that’s what I’ve been trying to tell you, Harry.”

Oh. The lock clicked. “You could have told me.”

“You try so hard. I didn’t want to sound like I was complaining.”

“Nah, baby. You complain all you want. If I’m the reason you can’t come you can print off a formal complaint and post it through my fucking ears.”

“You’re not the reason…” she trailed off, because Harry had scaled the back of the sofa to pull her towards his bedroom and she wasn’t complaining when he proceeded to spend hours doing whatever he could purely to make her feel good, no end goal in sight.

Harry undressed her slowly, the gradual peeling of an orange, sucking each new bit of skin like revealing a new layer of a lollipop. When she was naked and exposed under him he marvelled at how his hands looked holding her waist, at the way her limbs followed the tiniest of cues from his body, a nudge of his thigh imploring her knees to fall to each side and her hips to open.

“Harry,” she shuddered and he responded with a gentle shush. He was busy. It had been so long since he’d taken his time like this with anyone. He had stamina, overflowing buckets full of energy, but he’d gotten into the habit of kicking them over in his race to the finish, forgetting the drawn out glory of scooping it out and pouring it over her until she was drowning in it. Drowning in his kisses and sensual circles of his tongue. Drowning in the expanse of his palms over every slope of her body. Drowning in all the good feeling he could give.

“You look like a goddess.” He never said what he didn’t mean, and plugged her protests from the cheesy compliment with his fingers inside her leaking pussy. At least she never had a problem getting wet for him.

He shook his head. There he went again, problem. Her wonderful body was not a problem to be fixed, or a Rubix cube to be thrown in frustration to the ground (unless she wanted it like that). It was a delightful collection of intricacies he was lucky to meet. His fingers squelched with her juices while he explored, rubbing the pads of two long digits on the spot he knew made her squeeze her grip into whatever was closest, that time being Harry’s hair.

The pain of uprooting hair follicles was beaten only by the joy of her gasp when he ran the thumb of his previously unoccupied hand along her slit and curiously petted it on the nub that had always proven to be an excellent comrade to Harry. He had spent too long wondering why YN’s anatomy had betrayed him like it had, and nowhere near long enough reacquainting himself with it.

“Why are you–”

“Shhh.” Harry stroked her thighs with his hands, smearing wetness on her skin while adjusting to lay between her legs. “Let me speak to her.”

“Speak to…oh, you’re such a nerd.” Harry didn’t miss that she’d smiled as she spoke – god forbid he ever miss one of her smiles in his presence. He cushioned his arms over her thighs and lay his hands on her tummy, creating a little shield for his private conversation.

“Hi,” he started, deliberately fanning breath over those delicious, glistening lips, licking his own before continuing. “‘M Harry and we’ve met before. Lots of times in fact.”

“You’re so stupid.” Her hands were over her face, but one eye peeked through her fingers.

He smirked, once more addressing the puffy, soaked treasure between her legs, allowing himself a deep inhale of the heady scent. “I have been a bit stupid. I’ve tried to make myself smart and only got dumber. I should’ve been learning from the source of knowledge. Should have gone straight to the sweet, sweet nectar of knowledge.” He was being a little silly on purpose, basking in the sound of her giggles and how it made her tits jostle. He’d caused his own mouth to water, and didn’t refrain from letting the tip of his tongue nudge between two hot, wet folds and meet that texture his body dreamed of almost every night.

The evening melted by, with YN finding all new ways to sigh his name and Harry pushing the limits of how long she’d let him lick her out. It turns out she may never have willingly asked him to stop, if Harry hadn’t got a jaw ache and started a maddening assault with his fingers instead. She had to beg him, eventually, to let her suck him off, and Harry almost came to the words that fell from her mouth, sweet ‘please’s and gratified ‘yes’s when he asked her if she wanted him, if she wanted ‘daddy’s cock’.

Harry had never used the term before. It knocked him a little silly and gave them plenty to play with going forward over the following weeks, just having a fun and delightful time. YN didn’t orgasm but the sounds she made when Harry called himself daddy and hit it from behind, or softly, softly rubbed his stubble on her tender thighs and played with her for longful hours, well, she sounded like she was having more fun than anytime he’d actually made her come. He couldn’t decide if that was a loss or a victory, but didn’t much care, especially by the time she was calling him the erotic name too, and ‘daddy’ in her voice, in that voice, felt like an electric shock to his balls and red hot poker to his loins. Maybe YN still hadn’t come, but Harry had never come harder. Lying in the sheets afterwards, his vision would split and his toes would numb. He’d feel like a piece of dough kneaded out by a rolling pin, with sweat cooling in every crevice and his fingers pruned.

The time spent in each other’s bedrooms stretched, and unlike dough, which would thin and break, they became thicker and stickier, expanding with every exalted breath into the other’s mouth. Harry would slap her thigh, or grasp her throat, or sharply snap her wrists together. And then he would inspect the tone of her skin, the furrow of her brow, the things she said afterwards when he asked her what he thought of it.

“‘S’good,” she’d mumble or something similarly sweet and simple and Harry would sniff the words right down into his lungs. He wouldn’t ask if it was enough to make her come, he just wanted to be enough.

Harry found her one brunch time on a Sunday. She’d unlocked her door and returned to lazing about in bed, an adorable dormouse nestled in a slipper. “Didn’t sleep very well,” she muttered as an explanation.

“Shall we not-sleep together?”

Brunch turned to lunch turned to early afternoon of rolling around in her sheets and leaking and laughing and fitting parts with other, squishier parts.

“I love it when you look in my eyes when we’re having sex,” Harry sighed happily, petting the skin under one of her pretty rows of bottom lashes.

“Harry,” she breathed, an instruction to carry on as much as a cry of exhalation when he rolled his hips in precise circles. His abs couldn’t keep that up for long, but he’d been going on extra long walks to build his stamina. An extra bucket full couldn’t hurt.

“I think I like you as more than a friend.” Harry couldn’t take pride in his ability to filter his thoughts, because he had none, and YN knew it, so he wasn’t quite sure what she meant when she writhed and called out, “Oh, my god.”

“What?”

“You are literally inside of me.” Her words shot out of her mouth into his ears and straight down to his dick in record time, eliciting a violent throb inside of her. “Fuck, don’t say that. I’ll come too soon and I’m trying to make this good for you.”

Her hands came to either side of his neck. “You always make it good for me. Do you know that? Do you know even when I don’t come, I’m having so much fun, and I’d always tell you if it were otherwise.”

“Oh, god.” He gave himself two heartbeats (which wasn’t very long, considering his heart was hammering at a rate to rival a hummingbird’s) to squeeze shut his eyes before feeling capable of looking in her feverish face again. “I’m trying so hard not to come and you keep talking like that. Like you like me.”

“I’ve always liked you, Harry.” She may as well have called him ‘daddy’ from the physical reaction he had, muscles tensing and squeezing. “Fuck, really?”

“Duh. I hate Lego. It’s boring.”

“Okay, that’s working. I’m definitely not close anymore.”

She used the leg hitched around his hip to kick a heel into his lower back. It was a little too close to his whole erotic zone to feel anything less than exquisite. “Dummy. I played with it because I like you.”

His front teeth were going to sear a hole in his bottom lip. “Holy shit, say it again.”

“I like you, Harry, a lot.”

He unhinged his jaw and moaned like a fucker. “Oh fuck, I like you too. I like you so much. I’m coming.” He tumbled through the high in several internal somersaults. The closest he’d ever be to a gymnast would be the ambitious positions he wrangled their two bodies into, or when he was coming so hard it became bodiless and spiritual. He wasn’t even high. Except maybe he was and she was his new, most favourite drug, and he’d been addicted long before he realised how deep in he’d gotten.

Harry hunted for her mouth with his, fighting through curtains of foggy rapture to catch her top lip between his own and suckle. She was still wet and sloshy and hot and sweet around him, encouraging him to work and work into her. When they prised apart, only to suction back together front to back, Harry didn’t ask her if she’d come. Nothing changed in how much he wanted her to, but he took solace in knowing he could make her feel good, and she liked him making her feel, and she liked him. He smiled, tucking her in as perfectly as he found her, before going to fetch them some snacks.

Happy Friday and 1st December! Nothing particular festive about this except the joy it brought me to write, and hopefully a little bit of fun to read. Sorry it’s not super proof read but I wanted to get it out ☺️

#oh my god #that was phenomenal #like absolutely unreal #fic rec

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