“I think we can ask Danyal for a lot of things, but I don’t know if ‘Send your prettiest lesbian waitress’ is on the list,” Dilan said while she unbuttoned two buttons of her shirt.
Omar and Timothea laughed, Havva chuckled and Sadık broke into a laughing fit. He leant back and crossed his arms in front of his chest as it shook.
Herakles was laughing from deep within his belly as he watched him, his own mouth closed but a sparkle in his eyes.
“Maybe you should also undo a button or two before you rip your shirt,” he told Sadık after he had calmed down and pushed his chair closer to the table, and Sadık grinned at him with a cocked eyebrow.
“She’s right for calling you a randy tomcat, lord,” he said, but already fumbled with one of his buttons.
Irish Problems, Chapter 12 Scene 2:
Harry hadn’t set foot on the stairs yet when there were echoing steps from inside the house and a moment later, the front door opened.
“Buonasera, Signori! Benvenuto!” Michele greeted them. “I apologise for the wait, I hope it didn’t feel too long.”
A pair of dark brown slacks, unremarkable brown dress shoes that matched the suspenders he wore over his roughly textured, white shirt – open to the second button. With their difference in elevation, Harry couldn’t help but stare straight at the dark and curly chest hair that poked out of the shirt.
Jesus loves her – she wants more! Oh, bad girls get you down!
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Tbh, I think part of why I am so agonizing about Harry and Michele and like. Their chemistry is because in the old version of IP, everything became subservient to the romance plot. It wrecked everything else. And it feels self-indulgent to give it that much time of day, to give it any time of day at all, when it shouldn't matter.
But it does. Not in a Romance Genre way, it simply matters for the characters and I need to accept that more. It is not diminishing the story I want to tell if Harry coming into his own, overcoming his self-doubt is explicitly tied to his sexuality. He's allowed to give that space, not for the sake of wanting to pursue Michele actively, but because it makes the world less confusing to him.
Michele gets to keep being as horny as he ever was and ever will be, because he's a whore.
The coffee was just alright, but that was fine. He had brought his caffettiera for the Irish office.
What really bugged him, aside from trading a morning cornetto for a croissant, which wasn't the same, was how Harry did not leave his mind.
Marco hadn't shown up for breakfast yet, little surprise when he had been out on the town last night. Perhaps hungover or talking to his brother on the phone. Perhaps both.
All the better. More time for him to stare out the window and see nothing. For him to linger of the feeling of Harry's hands on his hips when he was manhandled, when the other wanted to keep him steady while they grinded against each other.
The pale skin, the countless freckles, the way the moonlight through the window made him shine ... it all felt a little too good to be true. Like a forbidden fruit. The warmth of his arms and legs, his entire body, too real to be illusion though.
He picked up the croissaint and took a bite, tried to ground himself, but no luck. Everything had gone so well, he had fallen asleep, sated. With a smile on his face, knowing from Harry's last look that the other would think of him all night. But then he'd awoken to no one else in the bed and it seemed like the tables had turned. Exiled from the dreamworld, where he surely had been in Harry's arms. Left all alone in the real one.
The silhouette haunted him and the way the thick, scraggly hair felt underneath his fingers, the way he tasted and how soft the thin lips were - God, how he loved the man's soft kisses! How he longed for more than just frotting, bodies too far apart despite the ghost of kisses everpresent on his skin.
He was worth the wait, he was so entirely worth the wait and the not-quite-there freshly squeezed orange juice of the bar and the way how Dublin summer did not feel like summer, everything was worth the high he was chasing. He carved out a special place in his heart already for once it was over, as it always would be, but he hoped the butterflies would at least survive the winter.
He wanted plenty of opportunities to dig his fingers in his ass, to run his hands over his strong back, to straddle him and feel him gasp into his mouth during a kiss. That cheeky grin, the missing tooth, the whispered words of poetry and curses -
He choked on his bite, just when Marco came into the room. He was at the table within the blink of an eye.
"Michè, you're alright?!"
"Yes." Michele coughed again. The last remnants of pastry seemed to have exited his lungs. "Just ..." A deep breath. "Just infatuated."
He smiled at Marco, who had a confused frown between his brows while his mouth hung up open.
The dark of the staircase, no light in the terraced house's corridor, all doors closed as he left them. Outside, he could hear Colin drive off.
"I'm sorry you have to do this," he had told him, embarassed, as he sat on the backseat. "You have better things to do."
"Oh, it's no bother," he had told him, Antrim accent thick. "I'll gladly keep you safe."
Keep him safe while he fooled around. Aye, that's all this was. Fooling around. Feeling alive. Make the seconds left on this earth actually precious.
It was burnt into his mind, Michele lascivous among the sheets, on his side, so deliberately covering his lower half while he showed off his chest. Sweaty and ruffled from their frotting, shifting, bodies never close enough to satisfy the ache.
A shudder ran through him. Thank God, Soph was in Armagh.
"I'm going to be cold here," Michele said. "Wither like the trees outside."
"It's not September yet," Harry had replied while he buckled his belt.
Only the rustle of sheets. "I am gonna miss you."
"Only for a few hours," Harry found himself reassuring what had to be described as his lover.
"Already too much. I'll lie here in the morning and still remember your body next to me, only to find a cold and empty spot." All said in a tone that did not betray true, deep sadness. All a ploy to get him out of his clothes again and under the covers. A Siren call.
"I don't want to cause trouble, that's all, Michele." He did walk over to the bed again, crawled onto it to kiss the man. And by god, what a kiss, what a sweet experience to have the other linger on his lips, suck in the bottom one, taste him with the tip of his tongue and oh so gently release him. "Your hotel's too fancy for that."
Michele made a sound of disbelief at that, something between a purr and a tut as he ran his fingers through Harry's hair, oh so slowly and deliberate. "You don't care for trouble to get what you want, Signor O'Connel."
"Aye, I do a bit," he lied. "I've also got other stuff to do tomorrow before our meeting. You know that, Darling."
"I do." Michele breathed against his lips, Harry's heart pounded in his ears. But Michele only sighed and Harry swallowed, able to rip himself away. Only then Michele said: "One last kiss goodnight, per piacere, carinu."
Could not deny him that. Of course not. Head tilted, their lips matched perfectly, as he pushed his tongue into Michele's mouth to let it linger, let it flick against the other's, let it be some all too temporary unity.
Finally off the bed and almost at the door, he heard: "Buonanotte, Beddu. Sogni d'Oro. Dream of me."
Harry was weak in his knees as he leant against his front door, eyelashes fluttering and heart hammering worse against his ribcage than a rival during a Hurling match.
Michele huddled into the sheets, the dull golden eyes half-open, deep and perfectly tanned skin glowing against the white sheets. The curve of his body underneath them, outline of flesh and bone, soft skin, a beautiful soft, giving, round arse, those supple thighs, the waist he just wanted to lay hands on --
He sucked in air through his nose and tried to ground himself, deep and irregular breaths through his mouth. God, when was the last time he'd been so alive? The last time someone had been so burnt into his mind's eye? Hannah, perhaps, but he had not once allowed himself to indulge in that. Forbidden, wrong, pointless it had felt.
He stumbled up the stairs and clung to the railing. Doing shit, his hole. He hoped he would catch any sleep at all, his bed so empty and cold. It was the end of August.
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I wonder if younger me would have been afraid Michele dating the entire continent would make him a Mary Sue. Thinking again about a beautiful SicIre scenario that ends with Harry thinking "Wow, so many had a chance with him but now he's mine ... I'm the one he loves ... How lucky I am." And it just fuuuucks.
I hate being the only one who produces OC content, can't somebody else write Harry and Michele rawing each other so that I can just read it pleaseeeee.
Enarmoured with the idea of Michele telling Harry to dream of him when Harry leaves him in his hotel room. Like darling, I'm infatuated, quite in love even, and I want this to last as long as possible before it inevitably fizzles out, so you're pulling double shifts. If you won't grant me waking up in your arms, you better be haunted by me.
