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can you pretty pls do a oneshot where yn and harry are in italy and harry tells yn again and again to put sun cream on and she waves him off every time saying that she’ll do it in a minute and by the time they head out she forgets. she burns badly and she’s trying to act like it’s not painful so he doesn’t say i told you so and so he doesn’t worry about her. he takes care of her and it’s all fluffy <333
Warnings: sunburn, mild pain, fluff, harry being a nurturing boyfriend
Prompt: You and Harry are enjoying a nice vacay in Italy and you decide sunscreen isn't on the list-- Harry begs to differ, but.... you learn the hard way regardless.
◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊
The Italian sun doesn’t mess around.
That’s the first thought Yn has when she steps out of the villa’s sliding glass doors, barefoot on the warm terracotta tiles, a cup of espresso in one hand and her sunglasses perched on top of her head. The sky is that specific shade of endless, aggressive blue that only exists in the Mediterranean—no clouds, no mercy, just golden light spilling over everything like honey.
It’s their third day in Positano. The third day of lemon trees, cobblestone streets, and Harry waking her up at an ungodly hour just to watch the sunrise from their balcony.
“Y’ready?”
His voice drifts from inside, low and still scratchy with sleep, even though they’ve been up for an hour. Yn turns, leaning against the doorframe, and watches him rummage through their shared suitcase. He’s already shirtless—because of course he is—wearing only a pair of loose linen shorts that sit low on his hips. His curls are a disaster, sticking up in seventeen different directions, and there’s a faint crease on his cheek from the pillow.
She’s so ridiculously in love with him it makes her chest ache.
“Almost,” she says, even though she’s fully dressed in a tiny white crochet cover-up over her bikini. “Just finishing my coffee.”
Harry looks up, squinting against the sunlight pouring in behind her. “Did you put on sun cream?”
Yn takes a slow, deliberate sip of her espresso. Doesn’t answer.
“Yn.”
“Harry.”
“Don’t ‘Harry’ me.” He abandons the suitcase and walks over, barefoot like her, and she has to tilt her chin up to keep looking at him because he’s close now. Close enough that she can smell his deodorant—something clean and warm, like sandalwood. “I’m serious. The sun here is different. It’s not like London.”
“I know what the sun is,” she says, amused. “I’ve been outside before.”
“Have you, though?” He raises an eyebrow, and his hand comes up to push a strand of hair off her forehead. The gesture is soft, automatic. “Because last time we were in Greece, you turned the color of a tomato and then cried when I tried to put aloe on you.”
“I didn’t cry.”
“You wept, love. Full tears. Said I was being too rough.”
“Because you were being too rough.”
Harry laughs—that warm, crinkly-eyed laugh that makes her stomach flip even after three years together—and presses a kiss to her temple. “Just put it on, yeah? I’ll wait.”
“In a minute,” she says, waving a hand. “Let me finish my coffee first.”
He gives her a look. The look. The one that says I know you, and I know you’re going to forget, and I’m going to end up being right, and you’re going to hate that.
“Yn.”
“In a minute, Harry.”
He sighs, but there’s no real frustration in it. Just resignation. He’s learned, over the years, that Yn is the kind of person who has to learn things the hard way. You can tell her the stove is hot a hundred times, but she’s still going to touch it. Not out of defiance—just out of a very specific kind of absent-minded stubbornness that she calls trusting the process and he calls driving me insane.
“Fine,” he says, stepping back. “But when you’re crispy and miserable later, don’t look at me.”
“I won’t.”
“You will. You always do. You get that little pout and you look at me like a sad kitten.”
“I do not pout.”
“You’re pouting right now.”
She is. She stops immediately.
Harry grins, kisses the tip of her nose, and disappears back inside to find his own sun cream. Yn finishes her espresso, licks the bitter foam off her lip, and thinks: I should probably put some on.
And then the moment passes.
Because the boat rental is at eleven, and they have to walk down to the marina, and Harry is already yelling something about forgetting the bag with the towels, and Yn gets distracted by the way the light hits the bougainvillea climbing up the villa’s walls, and then they’re locking the door behind them and the sun cream is still on the bathroom counter, untouched.
The boat is small and white, with blue cushions and a little canopy that Harry promised would provide “plenty of shade.” Yn stands at the bow as they putter out of the marina, the wind whipping her hair into a tangled mess, the salt spray catching on her skin. Behind her, Harry is steering with one hand, sunglasses on, looking disgustingly handsome.
“You’re staring,” he shouts over the engine.
“You’re pretty,” she shouts back.
He ducks his head, grinning, and she sees the tips of his ears go pink. Three years, and she can still make him blush. She considers that her greatest achievement.
They anchor in a small cove about twenty minutes later—turquoise water, cliffs covered in pine trees, not another boat in sight. It feels like something out of a movie. Like they’re the only two people in the world.
Harry cuts the engine, drops the anchor, and immediately starts setting up. He lays out towels on the bow, inflates a floating mat, arranges the cooler with sparkling water and peaches and prosciutto-wrapped melon. Yn watches him from where she’s perched on the edge of the boat, feet dangling in the water, and thinks, not for the first time, that she’s never met anyone who takes care of people the way he does. It’s in the small things. The way he remembers she hates cilantro. The way he always gives her the bigger half of the cookie. The way he’s currently holding up a bottle of SPF 50 and looking at her expectantly.
“Yn.”
“Harry.”
“Did you put any on before we left?”
She looks down at her shoulders. They’re already faintly pink. Just a little. Barely.
“...Yes?”
“You’re lying.”
“I’m not lying, I’m misremembering.”
Harry pinches the bridge of his nose. It’s such an exasperated gesture—so dad—that she has to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing. “Get over here.”
“I’m fine.”
“Yn. Now.”
She sighs dramatically, but she pushes herself up and pads over to where he’s standing on the towel. The deck is warm under her feet. Harry doesn’t wait for her to sit—he just squirts a generous amount of cream into his palm, rubs his hands together, and starts with her shoulders.
His hands are big and warm, and the sun cream is cool, and the combination makes her shiver. He works it into her skin slowly, methodically, like he’s painting a canvas. Across her shoulders, down her arms, over her collarbones.
“You’re supposed to do this before you start burning,” he murmurs, his thumbs pressing gently into the muscle where her neck meets her shoulder.
“I wasn’t burning.”
“You’re pink, sweetheart.”
“I’m rosy.”
He laughs under his breath. “Rosy. Right.” He taps her hip. “Turn around.”
She turns, and now she’s facing him, and his eyes drop to her chest—not in a weird way, just in a you missed a spot way. He squirts more cream into his palm and reaches for her sternum, and she watches his face as he does it. The concentration. The softness. He’s not trying to be sexy. He’s just taking care of her. That’s the thing about Harry. He could be doing anything—folding laundry, making tea, applying sun cream on a boat in Italy—and he’d do it like it mattered.
“There,” he says, finally, wiping his hands on his shorts. “You’re coated. You look like a glazed donut.”
“Romantic.”
“You know what I mean.” He cups her face, thumbs brushing her cheekbones. “Just reapply every hour, yeah? Especially after you swim.”
“Yes, Dad.”
He narrows his eyes, but he’s smiling. “I’m gonna remember this when you’re whining later.”
“I won’t whine.”
“You will.”
“I won’t.”
She does.
Of course she does.
It starts innocently enough. They swim, they float, they eat cold peaches and drink sparkling water straight from the bottle. Harry puts on a playlist—something soft and acoustic, all Fleet Foxes and Joni Mitchell—and Yn lies on her stomach on the floating mat, letting the water lap at her fingers. It’s perfect. The kind of perfect that feels dangerous, because you know it can’t last.
Around two o’clock, the sun is directly overhead, and Harry looks over at her from where he’s sprawled on the bow. His chest is tan already—he’s one of those annoyingly lucky people who just gets golden instead of burnt—but his eyes are fixed on her back.
“Yn.”
“Hmm?”
“You’re getting red.”
She twists to look over her shoulder, but she can’t really see. “I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine. Come here. Let me put more on you.”
“In a minute,” she says, turning back to face the sun. It feels so good. Warm and heavy, like a blanket. She closes her eyes.
“Yn.”
“Harry. I’ll do it in a minute. I’m relaxing.”
A pause. She can feel him looking at her. Then: “You said that two hours ago.”
“And I’ll say it again in two more hours. I’m a woman of consistency.”
He doesn’t laugh. Which means he’s actually annoyed. But he doesn’t push it—because that’s not who he is. He’s not the kind of person who forces. He suggests, he reminds, he nudges. But at the end of the day, he lets her make her own choices, even when those choices are monumentally stupid.
So he lies back down, and she lies on the mat, and the sun beats down on both of them, and Yn thinks: I’ll put some on when we get back to shore.
They don’t get back to shore until five.
The ride back is slower. The wind has died down, and the sun is lower but somehow more intense, bouncing off the water and hitting her from every angle. Yn sits in the back this time, facing away from Harry, and she notices that her shoulders feel... tight. Like someone is pulling the skin too thin.
She doesn’t say anything.
By the time they dock, her arms are stinging. Just a little. Just a warning. She keeps her cover-up on, even though it’s hot, and she doesn’t meet Harry’s eyes when he reaches for her hand to help her off the boat.
“You okay?” he asks.
“Perfect,” she says, and she smiles, and she hopes it looks real.
The walk back up to the villa is a special kind of hell.
Positano is built on a cliff, which means every street is a staircase. And every step sends a fresh wave of heat radiating off her skin. Her shoulders are throbbing. The backs of her legs—the parts she didn’t even think to put cream on—feel like they’re on fire. Her nose is so tight it hurts to scrunch it.
She keeps pace with Harry, though. Doesn’t limp. Doesn’t complain. Doesn’t even wince when he brushes his hand against her lower back.
“Dinner at that place with the lemon pasta?” he asks, scrolling through his phone. “The one we walked past yesterday?”
“Sure,” she says, and her voice comes out normal. She’s proud of herself.
“You want to shower first?”
“You go ahead.”
He looks at her. Just for a second. Just long enough for her to smile wider.
“Okay,” he says slowly. “I’ll be quick.”
He jogs up the stairs ahead of her, and the moment his back is turned, Yn lets her face crumple. Just for a second. Just long enough to mouth ow ow ow to herself.
She’s fine. She’s fine.
The villa has a massive bathtub and a rainfall shower and a bidet that neither of them knows how to use, but right now, YN would trade all of it for a bag of frozen peas. She closes the bathroom door behind her—locks it, even though Harry never walks in without knocking—and peels off her cover-up.
And then she looks in the mirror.
Oh no.
Oh no.
She’s not pink. She’s not even red. She’s the color of a fire engine. The color of a Ferrari. The color of that one lobster she saw at the aquarium when she was seven. Her shoulders are two perfect circles of violent crimson, and her chest is blotchy, and her nose looks like Rudolf got into a fight with a blowtorch.
There’s a distinct line where her bikini top was. The rest of her is... angry.
She touches her shoulder gently. Just with one finger.
She actually yelps.
“Yn?” Harry’s voice through the door. “You alright?”
“Fine!” she calls back, too fast. “Just—dropped something. Dropped the—soap. Dropped the soap. All good.”
A pause. “You don’t use bar soap.”
“...The body wash, then. Dropped the body wash. Very slippery. Anyway.”
She turns the shower on as cold as it will go and steps under the spray, and the second the water hits her skin, she lets out a sound that is absolutely not a sob. It’s a shudder. A controlled exhale. She is a grown woman, and she is in Italy with her gorgeous boyfriend, and she is not going to let a little sunburn ruin anything.
The cold water helps. A little. Long enough for her to wash her hair (painful, her arms don’t want to lift) and shave her legs (more painful, bending over compresses her chest) and convince herself that she’s being dramatic.
She towels off carefully—so carefully—and puts on the loosest, softest thing she owns: an oversized linen shirt that Harry bought her in Florence last year. It buttons up the front, which is good, because lifting her arms over her head is officially not an option.
When she comes out, Harry is sitting on the edge of the bed, scrolling through his phone. He looks up.
And he stops.
His eyes move from her face to her shoulders to her chest to the way she’s holding her arms slightly away from her body, like a T-Rex.
“Yn.”
“Don’t.”
“What happened to ‘I’ll put it on in a minute’?”
“Don’t say it.”
“You’re burned.”
“Don’t say I told you so.”
He stands up. He crosses the room. He stops in front of her, close enough that she can see the sunburn on her own face reflected in his eyes. His expression isn’t smug. It isn’t triumphant. It’s worried.
“How bad is it?” he asks softly.
“It’s fine.”
“Yn.”
“It’s fine, Harry. I’m fine. It’s just a little pink.”
He reaches out, very slowly, and touches the inside of her wrist. The one place that isn’t burned. His thumb presses gently against her pulse point, and she knows he can feel how fast her heart is beating. Because it hurts. It hurts so much, and she’s trying so hard to pretend it doesn’t, and the effort of pretending is almost worse than the pain.
“You don’t have to be brave,” he says. “Not with me.”
And that—that’s what breaks her.
Her chin wobbles. Just once. Just enough for him to see.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I should have listened. You told me like a million times.”
“I know.”
“And I was so annoying about it. I kept saying ‘in a minute’ like I was being cute, and I wasn’t being cute, I was being an idiot.”
“You were being a bit of an idiot, yeah.”
She laughs wetly. “Don’t agree with me. You’re supposed to say ‘no, you weren’t.’”
“You want me to lie?”
“Yes.”
He smiles—that soft, lopsided smile that she fell in love with—and pulls her into a hug so gentle it almost doesn’t count as a hug. His arms go around her loosely, carefully, not touching her shoulders at all. He rests his chin on top of her head.
“I’m not going to say I told you so,” he murmurs into her hair. “Because you already know. And because you’re in pain, and I don’t want to make it worse.”
“You’re too nice to me.”
“Someone has to be.”
The rest of the evening is a blur of cool compresses and aloe vera.
Harry takes over completely. He makes her sit on the couch with a glass of ice water while he goes through the villa’s cabinets, looking for anything that might help. He finds a half-empty bottle of aloe gel in the bathroom, a box of ibuprofen in a drawer, and a bag of frozen peas in the freezer.
“These are for emergencies,” he says, holding up the peas.
“This is an emergency.”
“It really is.”
He sits behind her on the couch, her back to his chest, and he starts with her shoulders. The aloe is cold—shockingly cold—and she hisses when it first touches her skin.
“I know,” he says softly. “I know. Just breathe.”
He works in small circles, patient and slow, avoiding the worst spots and coming back to them later. His hands are so gentle. He treats her like she’s made of glass, like she might shatter if he presses too hard, and the truth is—she might. Not because of the sunburn. Because of him. Because of the way he’s taking care of her without a single I told you so, without a single ounce of smugness, just quiet focus and the occasional kiss pressed to the back of her head.
“You don’t have to do this,” she says, after a while. “You could be getting ready for dinner.”
“We’re not going to dinner.”
“What? Harry—”
“You’re not putting on a bra with that burn.” His voice is final. “And you’re not sitting in a restaurant for two hours while your shoulders rub against the back of a chair. We’ll order in.”
“But the lemon pasta—”
“Will still be there tomorrow.” He kisses her hair again. “You’re more important than pasta.”
She wants to argue. She wants to say don’t change your plans for me, I’m fine, really, but the truth is, the thought of putting on actual clothes makes her want to cry. So she leans back against his chest—slowly, carefully—and lets him wrap his arms around her middle.
“I’m sorry,” she says again.
“Stop apologizing.”
“I’m not good at being taken care of.”
“I know.” He presses his lips to her temple. “But you’re going to have to get good at it, because I’m not going anywhere.”
He orders pizza from the place down the street. Not because it’s the best in Italy—it’s not, it’s fine, the crust is a little thick—but because they deliver, and Harry doesn’t want to leave her alone.
They eat on the couch, cross-legged, the pizza box balanced on the coffee table between them. YN is wearing the linen shirt unbuttoned (because buttons pressing against her chest hurt) and nothing else (because elastic waistbands are the devil’s invention). Harry keeps looking at her and smiling, and she keeps asking “what?” and he keeps saying “nothing,” and it’s not nothing, but she doesn’t push.
After dinner, he makes her take more ibuprofen. He fills a water bottle and puts it on the nightstand. He finds the softest sheets in the closet—an old set of cotton that feels like butter—and changes the bed while she watches from the doorway, leaning against the frame.
“You’re doing too much,” she says.
“I’m not doing enough.” He pulls the duvet back, fluffs the pillows, and turns to her with his hands on his hips. “Okay. You’re going to sleep on your stomach.”
“I’m a side sleeper.”
“Not tonight you’re not.”
She wants to argue, but he’s right. The thought of lying on her side, her shoulders pressing into the mattress, makes her wince just thinking about it. So she shuffles to the bed and lowers herself onto her stomach with all the grace of a beached whale.
Harry gets in next to her, on his side, facing her. He props his head on his hand and just... looks at her. Traces a finger down her spine, light as a feather, careful to stay on the parts that aren't burned.
“You’re staring again,” she mumbles into the pillow.
“You’re pretty.”
“I look like a tomato.”
“A pretty tomato.” He leans over and kisses the back of her neck, right where her hairline meets her skin. The only part of her shoulders that isn’t red. “The prettiest tomato in all of Italy.”
She laughs, and it hurts a little—her chest moves, and the skin pulls—but it’s worth it. “I love you.”
“I love you too.” He settles in beside her, his hand finding hers under the pillow. “Even when you’re stubborn.”
“Especially when I’m stubborn.”
“Especially then.”
She wakes up in the middle of the night.
It’s the heat. Her skin is radiating warmth like a radiator, and the sheets feel too hot, and her shoulders are throbbing in a way that ibuprofen can’t quite touch. She tries to roll over—forgets, for just a second, that she’s not supposed to—and the friction makes her gasp.
Harry stirs beside her.
“Yn?”
“Go back to sleep.”
“Are you hurting?”
“No.”
“You’re lying.”
He’s already sitting up, blinking in the dark, reaching for the lamp on the nightstand. The light clicks on, soft and yellow, and he looks at her. Really looks. She must look as bad as she feels, because his face does something complicated—concern and tenderness and a little bit of I told you so that he’s too polite to say out loud.
“Stay there,” he says.
He gets up. He disappears into the bathroom. She hears water running, the cabinet opening and closing, and then he’s back with a cold, damp towel and the aloe vera.
“This is gonna be cold,” he warns.
“I know.”
He lays the towel across her shoulders first—just lays it there, doesn’t rub—and the relief is so immediate, so profound, that she actually moans. A real, honest-to-god moan. Harry laughs quietly.
“Better?”
“Don’t ever stop.”
He doesn’t. He sits on the edge of the bed and lets the towel sit for a few minutes, then replaces it with another cold one. He dabs aloe on the worst spots—the backs of her arms, the tops of her thighs, the angry red stripe across her chest where her cover-up gaped open. He works in silence, and she watches him through half-closed eyes, and she thinks: I don’t deserve him.
But also: He chose me. He keeps choosing me.
“Thank you,” she whispers, when he’s done.
“Don’t thank me.” He sets the aloe aside and lies back down, this time on his stomach too, so they’re face to face on their pillows. “Just... next time I tell you to put on sun cream, maybe don’t wave me off?”
“I won’t.”
“You said that last time.”
“I mean it this time.”
He looks at her for a long moment. Then he reaches across the small space between them and tucks a piece of hair behind her ear. “You’re impossible.”
“You like it.”
“I love it,” he corrects. “But I also love you not being in pain. So. Compromise?”
“Compromise,” she agrees. “I’ll let you put the sun cream on me. Every time. You can even do the commentary.”
“What commentary?”
“You know. ‘You’re missing a spot, love. Turn around, sweetheart. You look like a glazed donut.’”
He grins. “That’s not commentary, that’s affection.”
“It’s both.”
“It’s both,” he admits.
She closes her eyes. The cold towel has faded to lukewarm, but the aloe is doing its work, and the ibuprofen has finally kicked in, and Harry’s hand is on her wrist again, thumb brushing her pulse point.
“Harry?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m glad you’re here.”
He doesn’t say anything for a moment. When she opens her eyes, he’s looking at her like she hung the moon.
“I’m glad you’re here too,” he says. “Even when you’re burned. Especially then. You get very honest when you’re burned.”
“I do not.”
“You told me I was ‘aggressively handsome’ earlier.”
“...You are.”
He laughs, soft and low, and leans over to kiss her forehead. “Go to sleep, tomato.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“Sleep well, my little Italian produce.”
“Harry.”
He turns off the light, and in the dark, she feels him shift closer. Not touching—he’s careful not to touch—but close. Close enough that she can feel his breath on her cheek. Close enough that when she falls asleep, she’s not alone.
The sun will rise over Positano tomorrow, golden and relentless, and YN will still be red. She’ll peel in about four days, and Harry will help her with the pieces that are hard to reach, and he won’t say I told you so even once.
Because he doesn’t need to.
She already knows.
And more importantly—she already knows she’s loved.
end notes: soft boyfriend harry owns my entire heart. please reapply your suncreen. x
i just read this and now i’m wondering, could you write something about reader losing virginity to harry? like just something soft and gentle i think it would be cute since there aren’t many fics like this here😭😭😭
———————going all the way———————
I’m back!! To anyone who cares😛
Thankyou anon for your req- been having real trouble with this account and getting into my inboxes etc so thankyou all for the patience!!🤍
Warnings: y/n losing her virginity, sexual themes!! 18+ pls!!, swearing, Harry being lovely (what’s new?) and fem user!!
wanted to feature 2026 kissco era bc omg🤤
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“You call the shots”
he softly hummed against her skin. Trailing gentle yet meaningful kisses from her jaw to just where neck met her shoulder. The girl in question sat up, breath hitching and body goosebumping all over. Gosh it was all so new, but Harry knew this was a lot, and he respected that. Y/n wasn’t some fling, some cheap shot, he had fell for her, and despite being 6 months in the most they had done is grind against each other. Of course Harry didn’t wanna scare her. Or rush anything, he just wanted to make sure there wasn’t a deeper issue lurking in the pits of her mind that he wasn’t aware of. So after a fancy dinner, kisses here and there, the usual foreplay. He wanted to make this moment special.
“Always. We can stop now”
He added out, stoping his ministrations to catch her eyes, thumb gently tracing down her jaw.
“No- I want to- I do, it’s just- wanna be good”
She softly admitted out, softly adjusting against the mattress, but Harry? His eyes remained on hers, wanting to see any form of discomfort, nerves or hesitation, sure he was a horny individual but he could hold back, for this girl, he’d do anything.
“Good? Fuck- baby, being close is good- more than good”
He softly murmured out, looking at her with that sincere yet dopey look the fans had labelled as ‘cute’ and ‘cheeky’, hands soon dropping to rest over her fiddling ones, no more picking at that pretty skin on his watch.
“If halfway you want me to stop- we stop, if you wanna get cleaned up and cuddle, we can”
He softly hummed out as he nuzzled his nose into the crook of her neck, placing gentle kisses as he did so. This wasn’t about lust, or rush, it was about her feeling safe. Secure and damn loved, gently adjusting himself so he could relax fully without crushing her under his 6ft frame, ringed hands gently smoothing up and down her arms.
“I love you either way, sex isn’t something you owe me”
and in that raspy accent that made interviewers blush and fans scream for, hearing it just for y/n’s ears made her flush. Sure he had said them three words early on. But right now it only made her skin prickle and heart electricity, he was never the sex greedy womaniser that tabloids and TMZ slammed onto his name. He was just Harry, and y/n was sure her toes curled just at that statement on its own.
“No but- I trust you, and I want it”
She softly hummed out, with a sure nod, a confirmation she was certain on, sure she was paranoid it would hurt, scared of the logical factors of ‘would he even fit?’ ‘Am I too tight?’ The usual overthinking palaces her mind drifted too. But this wasn’t a moment, and her body felt that.
“Please?”
And with that, Harry knew what his next actions would be, he could feel her wetness from where his fingers had been previously, and of course he too was wanting some relief, he silently thanked the lords for the fact she was on birth control (and he could skip the fumbling of a condom or awkward conversation about protection). He left reverent kisses along the skin of her neck, trailing up to her jawline, before catching her lips in a messy yet favourable kiss, his tache gently tickling her skin in its own form of a kiss, gently allowing himself to be braced up above her.
“Tell me everything. Don’t be uncomfortable for my sake, i mean that baby”
He softly babbled out against her lips, before pressing his against hers as if to get that message abundantly clear, when it came to y/n he didn’t play.
“You want me off- I’m off, want a new position we move-”
“Harryyy-”
She managed out inbetween kisses, her own bashful smile coming up to her lips, yet getting butterflies at each word, feeling herself throb beneath him once again. He was already doing things to her by being this protective and attentive.
“I’m sure- just don’t roughhouse me”
She smiled out, smiling like a fool against his lips, earning a playful eyeroll from him, ‘roughhousing?’ The most that man did was playfully wrestle her on the bed when she was reading some droll book and he wanted attention. But the safe and shared banter between them? Safe, familiar, and easy.
“Shut up you, I can’t win”
He huffed out as if totally inconvenienced (he was exactly where he wanted to be) letting himself gently brace himself above her, toned arms and body on full show, tattoos glistening and extra beautiful today, using one hand to gently hike her thigh up to his hip, guiding her movements so she didn’t feel awkward or uncomfortable, eyes on her- and yeah occasionally on her tits or somewhere equally promiscuous, but she was gorgeous what could he do?
“See how this feels- then tell me when your ready”
He softly hummed out as he let myself gently align with her heat, and nudging his length against hers, no rushing, no need for force, just allowing her to understand and get used to what they were working with. His free hand gently coming down to rub at her clit. Making sure she was feeling good and relaxed. A soft whine leaving her lips told him something was going well
“Oh- yeah- that does feel nice H”
She softly hummed out, breath hitching and muscles relaxing as she let him takeover like this, yeah, this, this was nice, her eyes gently fluttering shut as another faint wave of pleasure ran over her. He was hard, she was wet, it was a good mix. It didn’t stop H from applying a little bit of lube to his hardened length, just to ensure everything would be good, no burn, no stretch
“I think I’m- think I’m ready”
She softly hummed out, a little whispy and nervous compared to anything else she had said tonight. It was becoming real now, and she knew it. With that Harry gently let his hands smooth down her thighs, soothingly and teasingly, mentally planning how to make this as easy as possible, he softly nodded at her words, and got himself aligned, this time properly not moving until she confirmed, letting himself hike up her thigh a little further, pressing a small trail of kisses to just the side of her knee
“Whenever you’re ready gorgeous, we have all the time in the world. God your beautiful”
He softly hummed out against her skin, before allowing her to relax, gently nudging himself more and more into her. With a final nod and babbled words of ‘please’ and ‘I want you- this’ he began to gently thrust into that heat. Teeth sinking into his bottom lip, wanting to hold back movements and moans- god already he was melting.
Y/n softly gasps as she felt him fully inside, her eyes on him only as if afraid to look away, it was new- wasn’t too pleasurable yet, but she trusted the process and was sure she’d love this.
“Speak to me lovie, you good? Your doing so good, that’s the worst part out the way”
He softly hummed out, as he stayed there for a secound, feeling himself throb inside of her was a sensation he wanted more of- but no, snap out of it styles, she came first right now, not his dick.
“It’s okay- it’s okay- I’m okay- you can move”
She softly hummed out, absently kindly letting her hand drift to where they were joined- as if checking it was real, happening and yes, yes it was, and mentally it wasn’t as bad as she assumed. the touch not going unnoticed by Harry, but it was adorable to him, smiling like a dope as he picked up that hand kissed it, unable to help himself.
“I’m really there love, your fine, it’s safe”
He softly smiled out, catching her bashful and flushed smile, which was so stupidly stunning, but as she requested he began to move. Gently, almost methodically, calculating what would feel good, but once he heard them beautiful whines slip her lips, he knew he was there, and so was he, but tonight was about her. Letting this thumbs go down to catch her clit, softly drawing lazy circling around the bundle of nerves, dragging out and easing any pain to pleasure.
“Yeah- that’s- that’s really good, holy shit”
She softly moaned out, one hand fisting the sheets as pleasure began to thrum in her nerves, and god did he look good, too good to be real. He took the noise and whines as not only an ego boost but encouragement to continue what was going on. Absolutely he would, and he could feel an edge to begin pushing himself over.
“Your doing so well baby- god- yeah, your perfect, perfect little pussy”
He softly panted out as he too lost himself in her, eyes fluttering open as each gentle thrust made him see stars almost, no other woman had him apart like this, this quick, it was maddening.
“Just like that angel girl- your perfect”
And safe to say the encouragement was her thing. It wasn’t long before that edge was coming up, he didn’t want to scare her with noise or anything too much, but the faint sound of there skin together, the bed creaking very faintly beneath them, it only egged the pair of them on. It soon wasn’t long before the felt himself twitch and her tummy became knotted.
“Y’gonna cum for me sweet girl? Show me how much you liked this?”
He softly hummed out between breaths and heavy pants, holding on for her, and her only, because god help him he was close, his head thrown back in pleasure as he felt her clench around him, he knew she was close
“Yeah- Harry- I’m- god I’m gonna cum-”
She breathlessly moaned out, his name leaving her lips like a prayer, this was beyond any expectation she had made before, sure it was a new feeling, a new orgasm, but not any less valid or pleasurable. As her moans and whines became repetitive he knew it was coming, he let his fingertips continue on her puffy clit, making sure she had pleasure to indulge in. And just was she was coming undone. He played the responsible one and pulled out (so she didn’t freak after about any cum being in her- which he knew she would’ve with her overthinking mind, that was for another day) letting myself continue hard strokes just over her pelvis as she crashed and indeed definitely showed how she liked that, Harry soon following ahead, practically seeing stars and hot white flashes as he came undone, painting her pretty skin. And collapsing beside her, catching her lips in kiss before she could overthink it stress anything, taking her shaky and flushed body into his arms.
“Fuck baby- oh look at you, you did so well f’me you did, my best, best girl, fuck- my angel”
He relative solemnly into her hairline as he held her tightly, pressing his lips to the crown of her slightly disheveled hair now, gently smoothing his hand down the expanse of her back and skin, savouring every inch of exposed flesh and nerves. Y/n merely in awe and lost in a pleasure wave against him.
“My beautiful girl- you all good? Sore? Happy?”
He softly panted out against her, cupping her face just enough to look at her, blissed and pleasured. But regardless he’d ask, he’d ask a hundred times over if it meant making sure she was okay.
“Really happy- mhm- you fit”
She innocently babbled out against him, face smushed into his bare chest, yet he understood every word with no quarrel. Taking a moment to catch his breath before catching onto her words, leaving a playful kiss onto her scalp as he smiled like a messy dope.
“I did fit- oi I’m not that small- or big if that’s what you’re inferring?”
He playfully huffed out, keeping her tightly to his chest. His banter unfortunately making a return way too quickly after that. The man was a bastard, but so damn loveable, especially now. The sleepy blissed out girl had half a mind to whack him for that. But instead she smiled against him, only leaning on him more with a weak sleepy giggle. He was the perfect size, sure maybe tomorrow she’d feel it. But right now it went better than ever imagined.
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Long time no speak, but I’m feeling a spark of motivation, and I have a few ideas round in my head. If any of you have any ideas please let me know!!🤩
For those in my inboxes I have had some issues opening them up😫 so I’m trying to hopefully get in there and see what recs you lovelies have sent over!!
Thankyou for your patience and kindness!! Please let me know if anyone has ideas or recs, especially with this new era of Harry!!
Hello everyone!!! Feels so nice to be posting and active again, But I figured what better way to kickstart the posts by getting into the cosy winter spirit!!❄️
So here’s my list of amazing fics/oneshots to cosy down too this holiday season, when I find more they’ll be added to the list🎄💚
As always if anyone wants to be removed/ added let me know!!
The festive Harry dividers are made by the wonderful @zclhs so thankyou so much 🩵
Christmas morning - @finelinevogue
First Christmas as a couple - @hazzashouse
Gingerbread at midnight - @lilystyles
Snowed in - @heyydolly
Christmas jammies - @chrisevansonly
The house with the yellow door - @twostepstyless
Friday night - @harrygoeswest
I gave you my heart - @suchalonelysunflower
The Christmas gift - @hesmygolden
First Christmas as a couple - @hazzashouse
You make it feel like Christmas - @adore-laur
Sugar cookies and Santa hats - @violetsandfluff
12 days of Christmas blurbs - @watermelonlovershigh
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thinking about that zane lowe interview where harry said it made him sad to miss so many birthdays and family things because of work and how he really wanted to start prioritizing those moments again. like, at some point it was almost a given that he wouldn’t be there for that stuff because of his job. and now… seeing him at his childhood friends’ weddings, going on family trips where they all brush their teeth together, taking walks with his sister, showing up at festivals with friends - it just makes me so happy for him. 🥹those are the moments where he gets to just be harry: the son, the brother, the best man, the friend, the uncle. the version of him that belongs to the people who love him most. he deserves it so much 🥹
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