#inkedferns

You’re humming a soft tune, sitting on the couch and folding some of Harry’s clothes. On the screen in front of you, a very frazzled bride is trying to pick out the ideal wedding dress. Every so often, a bridesmaid will coo or gasp, and your eyes flick up to the screen to see what all the fuss is about. You’ve already nodded along in acceptance of some dresses, but others have been downright revolting.

Like the one that she’s trying on now.

“Too fluffy,” you say to no one in particular, grimacing as the bride arranges the petticoat of the dress. “It makes her look like a chicken.”

But the bridesmaids are squealing and the bride is grinning maniacally, and your heart plummets when you realize that she’s going to wear that monstrosity as she walks down the aisle. You shake your head, dropping your gaze back down to where you’re folding a pair of Harry’s boxers. “Oh, no…”

You hear the rest of the women fawning over the dress and close your eyes. The garment just isn’t your cup of tea—if it were your wedding, you’d have a beautiful number, nothing too fancy, just enough to please you and to compliment all of your assets…

You swallow down the lump in your throat, sighing quietly. As if it can sense the plummeting of your mood, the small creature inside of you doles out a blunt kick, and you gasp, clutching the underside of your bump. “What’re you doing in there, hmm?” you murmur, rubbing the spot.

In response, your unborn baby shifts again, and you groan lightly. “What’s wrong? Why aren’t you being good for Mummy?” You pause, tenderly patting your bump. “Missing your daddy, huh? Don’t worry, he’ll be back soon. He just went to go get us some food so that we can make sure you become big and strong.”

For a few moments you stay like that, rubbing your swollen belly and smiling softly, the thought of weddings fleeing from your mind. Eventually though, you’re snapped out of your blissful stupor when the bride erupts into squeals, declaring that she’s going to buy that absolute miscreation of a dress. You grumble in disappointment, muttering something about having had “high hopes” for her.

“Let’s go,” you tell your bump, reaching for the remote. A moment later, the television screen goes dark, and you stand slowly, collecting all of Harry’s underwear and bunching them up in your arms (but careful as not to wrinkle them, of course).

You trudge out of the living room and make your way to the base of the steps. It’s still early enough into your pregnancy that you’re not waddling around and needing help to climb staircases, so you conquer the steps with ease (though you’re panting a bit more than usual when you reach the top). You enter the bedroom that you share with Harry, walking over to his nightstand to put away the many pairs of boxers that are still clutched in your arms.

A few of his rings lay scattered haphazardly on the small table. Your eyes are drawn to the way they glint in the sunlight, and all of your worries and doubts come flooding back. You sigh, chancing a glance at your left hand; your fourth finger remains barren and simple.

Was he ever going to ask?

The question has been gnawing at you for months now.

It started when you’d found out you were pregnant. Harry had been ecstatic—his smile had seemed permanently etched into his face. He had been all over you for the first few months…in fact, he still is. “Just so beautiful carrying my child, love,” he always tells you earnestly, “Makes me wanna lay in bed and love on you all day.”

You definitely wouldn’t object.

You’re carrying his child, for Christ’s sake. You’re practically married already, living a domestic life and doing domestic things, like going out and fetching fast food, or folding each other’s laundry. But for you, something feels incomplete without that small piece of jewellery on your left hand. You’re scared that he doesn’t share your desires, and that he doesn’t want to take that next step. You’re happy with him—so fucking happy—but you just want to be…his.

Irrevocably and irreplaceably his.

You frown gently, reaching for the handle on his nightstand. You’ve pulled the drawer halfway out when two firm arms wrap around your midsection, the hands attached settling nicely onto your stomach. You nearly drop the folded clothing, twitching in surprise.

“You scared me!” you say breathlessly, and you’d put your hand on your heart if it weren’t for all of the fabric tucked into your arms. 

Harry chuckles, pressing a gently kiss to your cheek before following it with several playful pecks to the column of your neck. For a moment you stand there, closing your eyes and swaying slightly as he rubs his palms over your belly in a greeting to your unborn child.

“She was kicking before,” you say airily, distracted by the way Harry ghosts his lips along your skin.

He hums in surprise. “Was she now? Always waits ‘til her daddy is gone, the little rascal.”

“She can hear you,” you tell him matter-of-factly. Harry smiles.

“Well, in that case…”

He circles around you, nudging his underwear drawer shut and reaching for the laundry that is still clutching tightly in your arms. You hand it over to him, and he merely sets it all down on the bed before dropping to his knees with a quiet thud. Your heart somersaults in excitement—you love it when he does this.

“Hi there, tiny fairy,” Harry murmurs, putting both of his palms back on your stomach, “Hope you’re not giving your mummy a rough time. She’s doing the best she can.” He grins up at you teasingly, and you scoff in mock-offense.

“Shut up,” you laugh, but one of your hands twines into his hair, fingers braiding through the soft curls and nails scratching his scalp gently. Harry closes his eyes happily, making a satisfied grunt in the base of his throat. He presses his forehead against your bump before kissing softly at the skin of your stomach.

“Daddy loves you so much,” he stresses, “Just a few more months, and then we’ll get to meet you. Hope you’re excited, because your mum and I? We’re over the fucking moon.”

“Harry!” you scold, pulling at his hair in admonishment.

“Oh, come off it!” he says, shrugging in protest, “She’s never awake whenever I’m around anyways. It’s not like she heard—”

He’s cut off by your gasp of pain when your baby delivers a powerful kick to the spot right where Harry’s palm is covering your stomach. Harry’s eyes widen, and his mouth pops open in surprise. He looks up at you, almost as though to ask if you’d felt that too (which you had, of course). You let out a small, disbelieving laugh in response, and immediately his forehead is back against your belly.

“I’m sorry for swearing at you,” he says quickly, “Didn’t know you were up, you’re never usually moving when daddy’s here. Thank you, my tiny fairy.”

For a long moment, there’s only silence. And then you sniffle, and Harry looks up, finding your eyes wet with tears.

“Hey,” he says, “Stop that.”

“I can’t help it!” you say, laughing and crying at the same time, “It’s the hormones!”

Harry chuckles—you’ve come to blame everything on the hormones. It’s become a running joke between the two of you. Once, when you’d been upset with him for not washing the dishes, he’d claimed that he hadn’t done in because of the hormones; you’d both been so caught off guard with his rebuttal that you couldn’t stop laughing (he’d apologized afterwards, of course, and you hadn’t had an issue with the dishes since).

“Always babbling on about the bloody hormones,” Harry rolls his eyes but smiles nonetheless. 

You tuck a short curl behind his ear before cupping his jaw gently. He grunts as he stands, his hands finding your hips and his mouth seeking yours as soon as he’s close enough. You humour him and sigh happily against his lips, and for the moment, all your doubts are forgotten.

“Better get your cute bum downstairs,” Harry mumbles once you finally pull back, “Brought you food, didn’t I?”

“As if I need to gain more weight,” you groan. The spot between Harry’s brows crinkles as he frowns at you, his lips settling into a faint scowl. He wraps his arms around you, tilting his head to the side and giving you a fleeting yet disapproving look.

“Carrying my child,” he reminds you, “And you’ve never been sexier. You know how hard it is for me to not just throw you down on this bed and lick—,” he kisses your neck, “—every inch of your body?”

Your eyes flutter shut when he sucks softly on your collarbone, and your hands tangle in his hair. “I wouldn’t complain,” you breathe out airily, and his chuckle makes his lips vibrate against your throat.

“Eat first,” he says firmly, pulling back and smirking as you pout. “Gotta keep your energy up if you wanna go all night.”

~*~

It’s a few days later when you let it slip.

You don’t mean to, really. It’s just that Harry’s head is on your lap, and your fingers are running mindlessly through his hair, and you’re watching yet another anxious bride search tirelessly for her perfect wedding dress. The show makes Harry perk up, and he turns so that he’s facing the ceiling and starts telling you all about how one of his good mates is getting married soon and that you’ve both been invited to the wedding, and hopefully your tiny fairy doesn’t decide to make a guest appearance at the ceremony.

“They’re getting married?” you say, your mouth twisting into a wry smile. The next words that leave your mouth haven’t been thought through, and they slide out before you can stop them. “Guess we’re gonna be the last ones then, huh?”

Harry’s good-natured smirk slips from his face, leaving behind an expression of shock. You mimic the look, gasping and clapping your hands over your mouth. It’s futile, though—the damage has been done. Your eyes go wide, and your heart starts beating rapidly, thumping against your chest in panic. For a moment, everything is silent.

And then Harry swallows convulsively and asks with a quiet, hoarse voice, “What?”

“I—I’m sorry,” you breathe, afraid to pull your hands away from your mouth for fear that you might make things worse. “Just—oh God—just forget I said anything, it’s not—”

“No,” Harry cuts you off, grunting faintly as he sits up. He peers at you from over his right shoulder, and you can see him closing up; he’s curling into himself, his brows are knitting together, and he’s looking at you with a wary, cautious expression.

“You said it,” he says slowly. “I’m not about to fuckin’ forget that.”

You usually brush off the curses that leave his lips, but the swear is so much more frightening given the tension that you’ve created. Your body floods with panic and your cheeks begin to burn as your eyes suddenly well up with tears.

“I’m sorry,” you repeat, sniffling quietly. You hate yourself for crying—it’s the fucking hormones, it always is.

“Shit, what’re you doing?” Harry grits out. He shifts so that his body is now facing you and wraps you up in a tight hug. You cling to the material of his t-shirt and bury your face into his neck, inhaling deeply in hopes of calming yourself down. Harry shushes you softly, pressing gentle kisses to the crown of your head.

“I’m not upset with you,” he tells you, his large palms sweeping up and down your arms, “Christ, love, breathe for me.”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” Apparently, those are the only words you’re capable of saying. “I don’t—it just slipped out, I’m so—”

“It’s okay, it’s alright,” Harry says. His words are comforting, but you can still hear the strain in his voice. It makes you recognize just how badly you’ve messed up. Your lips had acted before you’d had a chance to filter through your thoughts, and now you’re afraid that a wedge has been driven between the two of you. Any hope that he may share your desires is slowly fizzling out, squashed by his initial, alarmed reaction.

“Are you gonna leave me now?” you blubber. You’re being idiotic, but you can’t help it. “Did I scare you off? Are we over?”

“What?” Harry’s voice rises with incredulity. He pulls back, gripping your arms tightly and giving you a stern glare. “What the hell are you going on about? Scaring me off? Fuckin’ rubbish, that is.”

He cradles your cheeks in his large hands, thumbs wiping away at the few tears that have streaked down your face. Your eyes are red and puffy, but they’re watching him intently, trying to figure him out. Harry knows how you get when you can’t read him—you overreact and jump to conclusions and lose control.

“I love you,” he stresses, leaning in so that he can sear the words into your brain. His right hand drops to spread over your swollen stomach. “And I love her. I’m not going anywhere.”

“But I—,” you start, but he cuts you off before you can finish, giving you a stern look that tells you he won’t endure any more of your nonsense. You bite your lip, looking up at him through your wet eyelashes; his hand is still resting comfortably on your belly, and his gaze softens when your eyes meet. You reach forward with shaky hands, your fingers gripping the hem of his cotton t-shirt and keeping him close.

“Don’t cry,” Harry murmurs, pulling you in. You nestle your face into the column of his throat, curling up against him. It’s clumsy and difficult, but you manage. Somehow, you always manage.

He holds you in silence for a good ten minutes, waiting until your heartbeat has slowed and the tear tracks on your cheeks have dried. You’re breathing evenly now, eyelids heavy as sleep threatens to overtake you. It seems that Harry can sense this, though, because he’s suddenly shifting and rubbing your thigh gently to rouse you.

“C’mon, up you get,” he says quietly. You make a surprised sound low in your throat but allow him to pull you up. He intertwines both of your hands with his and tugs you along to the base of the staircase.

“Where are we going?” you mumble as he positions you in front of him and holds onto your hips, nudging you forward. You climb the steps, his large hands warm on your sides and squeezing appreciatively every few seconds.

“Upstairs,” Harry says, amusement palpable in his voice. You roll your eyes and shake your head, but a small, shy chuckle leaves your lips anyways.

He leads you to your shared bedroom once you reach the top of the staircase. Your brows are furrowed and you have no idea what’s going on, but Harry seems set in his plan. You wish more than anything he’d just tell you what he’s got hidden up his sleeve.

“Was gonna wait,” he tells you, sitting you down at the edge of your king-sized bed. He pushes your thighs apart, crouching between them and delivering a smacking kiss to your bump. You fix him with a confused stare, your lips curving down into a puzzled frown.

“What are you going on about?”

“Shh,” he soothes, leaning forward so that he can plant a soft yet enthusiastic kiss to your lips. He cups your face in his hands and you swear you can feel your body going lax. His affection pacifies you, steals the tension from your body before you have a chance to stiffen in surprise.

“Was gonna wait,” he repeats, pulling back and grunting quietly as he pushes himself to his feet. He walks over to his bedside table, pulling open the top drawer and rifling through it. After a few seconds, he seems to find what he’s looking for, and he holds the object behind his back as he nudges the drawer shut and turns to face you.

“Wait for what?” you ask.

“Next month,” he hums, “On our five-year mark. Wanted it to be special, y’know?”

He resumes his previous position between your thighs, but this time, he’s on one knee.

“Harry…,” you say, your eyes widening—the rest of your sentence is non-existent.

“Just let me do this, will you?” he chuckles, and you clamp your mouth shut. Truthfully, you’re grateful—you don’t know what you would have said anyways.

“So, yeah,” he continues, clearing his throat and shrugging out the tension in his shoulders. You smile, looking down as he produces a small, black box from behind his back. The item looks so tiny nestled in his right hand, and you can’t help the small laugh that bubbles up in your throat. Harry chuckles, shooting you a mock-glare. “I’m trying to be serious here!”

“I know, I know, I’m sorry!” you say, covering your face with your hands. Harry grins, leaning in and brushing his nose against your forearms imploringly. You drop your hands, your right palm falling subconsciously to the swell of your stomach. Harry’s eyes are bright and hopeful when you meet his gaze, and you nod at him encouragingly.

“Christ, I love you,” he says, sighing happily, “I love you so goddamn much, and I wanna make you my wife. I don’t have a speech prepared, ‘cause I thought I’d have at least a month left to think of something.” He gives you a pointed glare, but his lips twitch upwards and you giggle.

“So I’m sorry if this isn’t the best proposal…or if it’s not what you had cooked up in that stubborn head of yours,” he chuckles, “Plus, I know it might not be the best time, what with our tiny fairy on the way, but…I wanna marry you. And I think you wanna marry me too.”

You both laugh.

“So…,” Harry trails off, sucking his bottom lip into his mouth and glancing down as he opens the tiny velvet box. Your breathing hitches in your throat when you catch sight of the beautiful diamond ring resting snugly inside. You look up at him with shining eyes, a beaming smile carved into your face. Harry swallows, his eyes flicking up to glance at your face.

“Will you marry me?”

~*~

You can’t stop staring at the jewel that’s sparkling prettily on your finger. Every time Harry catches you peeking down at the ring, he teases you (“Wanted something bigger, didn’t you?”) and dodges the half-hearted swats that you deliver to his shoulder. It’s mindless banter, though, and truthfully, you can’t think of a better man to marry.

You tell him this a few days after his proposal. He’s in front of you, crouched down and sorting through several discs as you decide which movie you should watch (you had turned down his offer of The Notebook, because really, how has he not gotten bored of it yet?). Harry’s mumbling quietly, listing a few of the choices, and you’re staring at the way his back muscles move fluidly under the material of his white button-up. You bite your lip when he yawns and stretches, and your thighs tense.

“I’m really happy I’m marrying you,” you say absentmindedly, the thought slipping out. Harry freezes, setting down a copy of Notting Hill and turning to look at you with a raised eyebrow.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you nod firmly, and he chuckles, abandoning his search for a film in favour of crawling over to where you’re sitting comfortably on the couch.

“What prompted this?” he asks, placing his forearms on your thighs and gazing up at you with twinkling eyes. You shrug, tucking a brown curl behind his ear and proceeding to run your fingers through his hair, nails scratching gently along his scalp. He closes his eyes for a moment, humming happily.

“Dunno,” you say, “I’m just…I’m gonna have the most caring, most genuine, sweetest, sexiest husband in the world.”

“‘Sexiest husband in the world’?” he asks, grinning up at you (because of course that’s the only part that he would catch). You don’t reprimand him for his cheekiness, though, instead choosing to play along and nod with a smirk on your face.

“In the world,” you stress, fingers tugging lightly on the hair at the nape of his neck. Harry snickers. “I like the sound o’ that. ‘S quite the title to live up to, though.”

“Guess you’ll have to practice, then,” you say, spreading your legs invitingly. Harry’s eyes widen, and his jaw drops when he finally catches on.

“You little minx!” he accuses, a loud laugh falling from his mouth, “So, this all just a plan to seduce me? Hmm?”

“I meant it!” you tell him, snickering into your palms, “But, like…I just need you to fuck me,” you pause and smile before adding, “It’s the hormones.”

“Well then,” Harry chuckles, lifting himself up so that he can plop down next to you on the couch, “Can’t say no to the hormones, can I?”

“No, you can’t,” you hum, leaning in happily to meet him for a kiss. 

It starts off slow, with gentle movements and soft pecks that make you both giggle, and hands that rest sweetly on your cheeks, like how they had when he kissed you after your second date (“Who kisses on the first date? Fuckin’ wankers, that’s who.”)

After a few minutes, though, Harry’s got you panting, chasing his lips desperately when he pulls away to gulp in air because in his haste to love on you, he sometimes forgets to breathe. You whine when one of his hands sneaks up your baggy t-shirt, skirting past the swell of your stomach and gently cupping your left breast in his hand.

“S-sensitive,” you remind him, and he nods. His other hand veers off in the opposite direction, fitting snugly against your cunt over the comfy legging that you’re sporting. Harry swears when he feels a slightly damp patch, looking at you incredulously.

“Soaked through?” he asks, and you whimper in response. He sighs, closing his eyes. “Oh, pet. Been neglecting you. I’m sorry.”

You shake your head before he kisses you again, because how could he ever neglect you? He treats you so well, always putting your needs before his own, sometimes to the point of you telling him off for it. You gasp against his lips and he smiles softly, fingers hooking underneath the cup of your bra so that he can run his thumb over your nipple.

“What do you reckon?” he pants, smirking, “Should we do it on the couch? It’s got a bit of a juvenile element to it, dunnit? Necking like teenagers who’re alone for the first time?”

“’S dirty,” you moan out, and Harry chuckles, kissing your jawline hard.

“You like it dirty,” he mocks, “Remember the patio? It’s where she was conceived, innit?” His hand falls to curve over your belly as the other one hooks into the hem of your leggings, beginning to pull them down your hips.

“We—we don’t know that for sure,” you mumble as you try to help him pull off your pants. Finally, the fabric is bunched up at your ankles, and Harry pulls it off with a dramatic flourish that makes you giggle. He swears quietly when he sees the cute panties you’re wearing—baby pink with a white lace trim.

“Gonna be the death of me, I swear,” Harry mutters, “You know how much I love pink.”

You laugh.

He leans forward, rucking up your t-shirt over your stomach and chest before pulling it off swiftly, and then carefully undoing the clasp of your bra. You let the straps fall down your shoulders before removing the undergarment, hissing slightly at how sore your breasts feel. They’ve become far more tender, obviously, but watching the way Harry’s eyes light up when he sees them makes your self-confidence skyrocket (not that he didn’t love them before your pregnancy. Now, he just pays them a little extra attention every time you get naked.)

“These are gonna feed our child,” Harry mumbles, cupping your breasts and rubbing circles against the soft skin, “Gonna make her big and strong, they are.”

“What’re you gonna do with them in the meantime?” you tease, lifting an eyebrow. Harry chuckles, leaning down.

“’M gonna kiss every inch of them,” he says firmly, before he gets to work and does just that. His lips are soft as they sponge kisses along your skin, your previous warning about being sensitive still echoing in his ears. He’s gentle and graceful, and you gasp when he takes your left nipple into his mouth, swirling his tongue around the bud. Usually, he’d suck, but you’re at the peak of receptiveness and he doesn’t want to do anything that might hurt you.

“Can you please—,” the rest of your sentence dissolves into a blissful sigh. Harry pulls his mouth away—much to your dismay—and looks at you with inquiring eyes.

“Need you inside,” you whimper quietly, placing your right palm on his cheek. Your other hand plays with his hair, sweeping it back and out of his face, twirling strands around your index finger, dancing your nails along the shell of his ear. Harry angles himself forward so that he can kiss you, his lips colliding with yours messily.

When you manage to shimmy off your underwear, Harry tosses them behind him, shrugging his shoulders and making you laugh. He grins sheepishly, and you reach for the buttons that clasp the material of his shirt together. You undo each one quickly while Harry works at thumbing open the button on his jeans.

“Bloody…fuckin’ thing—,” he mutters as you desperately push his button-up off his shoulders. He discards the shirt before standing and wrestling his pants down his thighs.

“Hurry up,” you whine, closing your eyes and tilting your head back. Harry tuts at you, but you can see that he’s becoming just as frustrated, his brow furrowed and his lips pursed in concentration. You both breathe out sighs of relief when he’s finally naked, and he climbs back onto the sofa, hovering over you and pausing.

“You wanna be on top?”

You turn the offer over in your head before nodding. “Yeah, that’d probably be best.”

Harry lets out a breathless laugh, and after a few seconds and awkward, clumsy shuffles, you’re straddling his waist. You shiver and close your eyes when your cunt brushes up against him, stimulating your clit and giving you the pressure that you crave. Harry holds onto your hips, his fingers dimpling your skin as he tries to arrange you above him.

“C’mon, love,” his voice has taken on a slightly pleading quality, “Want you to ride me. Can you do that for me?”

“Yes,” you breathe, shifting down his body slightly so that your bodies are aligned. With delicate fingers, you pick up his cock, rubbing your thumb over the tip and reveling in the hiss that leaves his mouth. You run your index finger along a prominent vein, glancing up to watch his reaction. His eyes are closed, head slanted back and lips forming around silent words. He groans when you make a firm fist around his shaft, lifting your body so that you can angle him beneath you.

Twin sighs escape your mouths when you finally sink down onto him. You’re soaked, making the transition easy and graceful. There’s a slight pinch as he stretches you, but you’ve always chalked that up to his size—he’s long and thick, and you always feel undeniably full whenever he takes you in this position.

“Oh, God,” you murmur, more so to yourself than to him. Chewing on your bottom lip, you give an experimental roll of your hips. Harry hisses, his fingers digging into the excess skin at your sides, and his eyes shoot open, a look of panic on his face.

“Don’t!” he exclaims, his voice cracking pathetically, “Don’t, I’m—fuck, gimme a minute.”

“Okay,” you concede breathlessly, pausing on top of him. Your hands fall to his abdomen, and you can feel where his muscles clench spastically. He’s practically pulsing inside of you, and he has yet to relinquish your waist from his unforgiving hold. A burst of pride flares up inside of you, warming your chest as you realize that you’re the reason for which he’s been rendered so helpless.

“Okay, love,” Harry grits out, and you want to pout when he releases your hips; but then his hands fall to your thighs, and you decide that you’re okay with the action. “Be a good girl and ride me.”

You don’t need to be told twice.

It’s messy and sloppy and quick and passionate, but Harry’s eyes never leave your own. How could you possibly force yourself to look away when he’s staring at you like that, with determination and lust and fervour brewing just beneath the surface? When his hands roam up and down your thighs until he ultimately can’t handle how far you are from him? When he finally sits up, spreading his palms across your ass and pressing his forehead to yours as you wind your arms around his neck? How could you possibly tear your eyes from him?

You let out a frail whimper when Harry kneads your backside and begins to shallowly force his hips up into yours. He’s stretching you deliciously, blunt nails digging small crescents into the plump skin of your bum, and you can’t help but to tilt your head back as you gasp. Harry takes the opportunity to lean in, nipping and sucking at your neck, careful not to bite too hard. He kisses up your throat and moves along your jawline, pressing his lips to the shell of your ear and whispering words that are tainted with pure, unadulterated filth.

“Feel me deep, yeah, love?” his breath is hot against your skin, and you can feel how your nipples pebble in reaction to each syllable that leaves his sinful lips, “Got every inch of me inside, didn’t you? Always take me so well, ever since the first time.”

“C-Can feel you,” you mumble, eyes rolling up in your head when the head of his cock brushes against a sensitive spot inside of you.

Harry chuckles, nosing a strand of your hair out of the way before pressing his lips firmly to your temple, speaking quietly but fiercely against your skin. “Doing so good for me. Just wanna stay inside you all day. Can I do that? Can I keep you on me ‘til tomorrow?”

The thought, as absurd as it is, makes you moan wantonly. Harry’s mouth has always been—for lack of a better word—obscene, and often, he’s able to fluster you and make you cum with just his words. It’s a skill that he alone possesses, and he takes pride in knowing that you’re so easy for it whenever his vivid imagination and throaty rasp present themselves in the bedroom (or any other room where he decides that he needs you right now).

“Harry,” you say softly, falling forward and pressing your forehead against his shoulder. He takes full control, then, hands resuming their original position on your hips as he guides you up and down and helps you circle on his cock. You’re limp in his arms, a tight knot curling hotly in the pit of your stomach, and everything is heightened. You’ve always been especially quick to cum whenever Harry’s involved, and your pregnancy has only helped you reach your high at an alarmingly rapid rate.

Harry can feel when you’re teetering on the edge, based on the way you shiver in anticipation and how your shoulders tense. His right hand snakes around your torso before he’s pressing a gentle thumb to where your clit is throbbing and begging for attention. The simple nudge is enough, and he wraps his arms around you when you cry out and begin to tremble in his lap.

“You’re there, you’ve got it,” he whispers the encouragements into your ear, a palpable warmth spreading from his groin to his thighs, and before he knows it, he’s letting out a guttural groan and slumping forward, burying his face into your hair. He inhales deeply, smelling the sweet, fruity scent of your shampoo and clamps his eyes shut as his cock jerks within you before he cums, twitching and pulsing and squeezing you tight.

He whines when you try to dismount him a few minutes later, shaking his head and burrowing into your neck. “Not yet,” he slurs, blinking lethargically, “Wanna—wanna keep you close.”

You smile tiredly, humouring him and staying in that position for a little while longer, until he’s gone completely soft inside of you and you can feel a bit of him leaking out and trailing down your inner thighs.

“Harry,” you whine, “I gotta get cleaned up.”

“I know, I’m sorry,” he says, pulling back and letting out a sigh, “Let’s go.”

~*~

Later that night, when you’re toeing the line between sleep and consciousness, you feel Harry shift beside you and nudge his way down the bed. Your eyes flutter open only slightly, and in your groggy state, it’s hard to decipher exactly what he’s trying to do. You’re still breathing evenly, but somewhere in your conscious mind, your heart somersaults when he lays his head onto your stomach.

“’M marrying your mum,” Harry murmurs, his fingers tapping idly along the swell of your stomach, like he’s trying to communicate with your baby using some kind of secret sequence. “Dunno when, obviously. It’s probably gonna be after you come along, ‘cause then we’re gonna have to take care of you.” He chuckles to himself. “But I’m gonna marry her.”

And with that, he presses a soft kiss to your belly before sighing quietly, nuzzling his head against your thighs and settling down for the night.

~*~