Guy with the Pie: Part 1 (Patreon)

Some Thanksgiving goodies :) 

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i.

Pie is a delicacy. 

They can be sweet, they could be savory, warm or cold, topped with cream either iced or whipped. Sitting warm and satisfying in the lower belly, lulling eyelids heavy and low on the couch after dinner. Best on holidays - big family gatherings where there is too little pie so the foil tins are nothing but crumbs and little bits of filling or too much pie that whoever’s hosting is giving everyone a slice on their way out (if not the whole bloody pie). 

Harry could write an entire dissertation about pie now that he thinks about it. 

So it is safe to say that Harry is quite serious when it comes to pie. If he is tasked with the pie making in any sort of gathering whether it be business, friendly, or family, then he is putting every ounce of effort that he has into making them. He goes out of his way to message as many people he can who would be attending to see what kind of pies they might be into; this aids him in planning accordingly. Harry knows that his pies are good and there is much gratification to be felt when he sees that the tins are empty. And you can’t get an empty tin when you bring a meat pie to a party with attendees that have “sweet teeth” so to speak.

He knows he’s a bit anal about it which is why he sections off an entire day where nobody is to bother him, attempt to contact him unless it is absolutely urgent, or even so much as think about him. The day before a party where he is the pie guy, then he’s spending that whole day making pies and that’s the extent of it. For the particular party he had been invited to tonight, it was his friend Michael’s housewarming, and he knew that if he wanted good pie (especially around Thanksgiving) Harry was the person to contact. 

Seven in the morning, when he woke up bright and early, showered quickly, and brushed his teeth, he went straight to work. From what Michael had described to him, there would be about forty to fifty people attending, one standard pie could cut a decent 8 pieces, which means he would need seven pies for everyone to have at least one, however Harry believes in seconds so he would want to bring 14. That’s at least two of each seven of the types of pie which was doable. He had settled on making sweet potato, pumpkin, key lime, chocolate, apple, blueberry, banoffee, and in total it had taken until about 5PM that night. The party started at 6PM, he rolled in fifteen minutes till with more than a dozen pies and a big grin on his face when he was greeted like a dessert king. 

Harry was on a pie high - he was full of pie, everyone was enjoying his pie and knew that it was his that they were enjoying. It was a lovely stroke to the ego and when he would be chatting with someone and they would mention his pie, he just about came on the spot. Was it possible to get a stiffy from compliments about the chocolate pie he burnt the side of his pinky making? Harry could tell you that at least brings one to half mass.

He figures he’s always been a bit of a narcissist, though. Harry liked when the attention was on him; he liked knowing when he’d done good in something. All of his mates hate being in courses with him considering he goes above and beyond with the hope that the professor might tend to his self esteem, which meant projects with him were like projects with a dictator. And if he was at work, one could bet their arse he’s staying after to scrub the bakery floor clean if it meant that the manager Miss. Marie would give him a pinch on his bum and tell him he was a doll. Don’t even get him started when it comes to the bedroom. 

It just feels good and Harry likes feeling good. Why wouldn’t he chase what makes him feel nice? 

That’s why it is safe to say he was thrown into an almost immediate panic when a girl with furrowed brows was walking around looking disgruntled, holding a plate that held a slice of his chocolate pie about halfway eaten. She was demanding to see the boy who made the pies and she didn’t seem too happy with him. It actually made Harry want to curl in a little ball, hide himself away, and he never wants to do that when someone is asking him about his desserts, especially his pie. 

However when someone pointed towards him at her question, her gaze set on Harry, and she was headed towards him, he was holding his breath. She didn’t look mad per say, but she didn’t necessarily look happy with him either. Standing right up towards him, she’s clutching the pie in her hands and motions towards him with the fork, “You’re the guy who made the pies?” She questions and Harry is hesitant in his nod, but it does eventually follow through. 

Then, very suddenly, her face blooms into the biggest grin, eyes lighting up considerably from what they had been, “They’re absolutely fantastic!” She exclaimed brightly, nodding her head, looking jazzed and Harry feels an ocean of relief flushed through him in a wave, sighing happily as she continued, “Like amazing actually, I’ve never had anything like it. It tastes like. . .hell, it’s just amazing. How do you do it?” 

“Well, I couldn’t tell you my secrets,” he told her, half serious but enough teasing in his tone that she chuckles, “I’m happy to hear that you like it though, it’s what I do best.” 

“No kidding,” she gushes, cutting another piece with the side of the fork, “I’m a huge pie enthusiast, especially around Thanksgiving, and when Michael said there would be a fuck ton of homemade pies I had to know who was making them.” Slipping the piece into her mouth, she hums around it happily and Harry. . .well, Harry feels his prick twitch some. It was disconcerting to some degree — he loved when people loved his food, however, he had never particularly gotten this worked up about it. He was thoroughly confused, because while she by no means wasn’t a pretty girl, plenty of beautiful people have enjoyed his cooking. 

Instead of the thoughts that usually fill his head, like if they’ll reflect on their meal later (pie or not) with a fully belly and desire to go back and eat more - his mind takes a much filthier approach. For some reason, unbeknownst to him, his brain was delighted to conjure images of his face between her thighs. He imagined licking the whipped cream slathered over the top of the slice she ate off the small lining at the cradle of her thigh and mound. The idea of spreading her open and keeping her that way makes his mouth water. . .he reckons he could stay there for hours, days, weeks and be content. Such smut to feel his brain when he barely so much as knows the girl - Harry doesn’t like to objectify people but it is where his thoughts stop and lull immediately. Was there something in the air? Had she cast a spell on him? 

“I need your opinion though,” she begins, “‘cos I think you might just possibly be the only person who won’t bullshit an answer with me to get me off their back. What is your favorite kind of pie?” 

Harry shuffles, ignoring the little twitch of interest his cock had been giving, “Well that gravely depends on what season.” 

“I love how you think.” 

From there on they are thrown into a deep discussion about the baked dish, one so in depth that Harry thinks an onlooker might think they were tripping on something. Though from what he could tell, She was sober, and he had just barely begun feeling a buzz before she had sought him out. By the end of their hour and a half long conversation just concerning which pie is the best for what season and why it is a year long treat opposed to strictly holidays — Harry hadn’t even learned her name. He didn’t know if she was still in school, what major she had if she was nor what she did for a living, but he did know that she believed someone saying their favorite pie was pumpkin was a copout (which he agreed with a hundred percent). He also knew that he would be incredibly gratified if he were to fuck into her, but he was okay with this too. 

Originally Harry had planned on popping in, making a friendly appearance with his pies, before tucking out and going back to study for his quiz on Monday. Instead he ended up being one of the last few people there, sat on the couch, still not drunk but discussing other delicacies passed just pie. He finds that Y/N loves sweets, fruit pastries being up there on her list, and he wonders if she tastes sweet because of them. Harry tells her all the dishes he can make or has since perfected since working in a bakery, and she all but squeezes her thighs with delight. 

Once they realized that they were the last group of five and Michael had promptly passed out on his new couch, they knew it was time to depart, but neither were quite ready to part ways. Harry suckled his bottom lip into his mouth, gnawing at it worriedly as he contemplated inviting her somewhere. It was around twelve in the morning, the only places that would be open are a few fast food restaurants and a cafe or two. He wouldn’t dare invite her over. . .that would be too much, right? He doesn’t want to make her uncomfortable in the slightest, but he is just so intrigued by this girl. Harry wants to know more about her. 

Starting with her name. 

He opens his mouth but Y/N beats him to it, “I’m Y/N, by the way,” she tells him as they step outside the front door, “I don’t think I told you.” 

“M’Harry,” he smiles and she mirrors it. 

“Well Harry, I don’t really want the night to be over yet - at least for us,” she pushes her hair from her face, “Do you reckon we might stay together a little longer? You can come to my place.” 

Harry couldn’t say yes fast enough.