Harry is just mushy gushy (Patreon)

how couldn't he be when you're just amazing? 

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i.

Harry is melting. 

He would think that this would have settled some after the five month honeymoon phase he always has with his relationships; there is a solid 21 week period were he is melty and mushy and overly enamored with them. Then it begins to fade some and he either continues on with them because he likes them and it will tail off a little while later, or he would gently call it off after realizing that they weren’t as good of a match as he had originally thought. Or maybe they hurt him in some way before the duration of the honeymoon phase could end and he’s frozen. 

But with Y/N -- god, he just keeps melting. 

There could be several reasons as to why. When Harry met Y/N, he was at a weird status relationship wise -- the girl he had been with had hurt him, actions having sliced through him so deeply he was hesitant to let anybody get close. He was hurt by what happened, hurt by his misjudge of character, hurt by the way he felt afterward. Love songs made his heart tug and yearn, if he thought too deeply on the moment all those emotions were surging through him then he felt that slow burn of tears crawl from beneath his cheeks. And he was angry with himself for caring so much. 

He was closed off; slid those doors that he had let open, shut, locked them, and dabbled with the idea of burying the key. It was the kind of pain that stuck with him, seeped into his bath with him, cuddled against him in his bed, whispered into his ear. Why let anyone get as close as he had let them? Why set himself up to ultimately be unhappy? Why would he want to go from all gooey and soft, to a stony shell? 

And he wasn’t like that! No matter the hurt, he could reign in a calm and sense of self that left him feeling at least whole. It just felt different this time. . .more real. . .more sore. 

His meeting with Y/N had not been grandiose, something spectacular, or found in a book. Hell, it was rather mundane in the beginning when she had appeared at a party he’d been attending for a friend of a friend. In what Harry had presumed was a drunken haze (he later found that she had jokingly whipped her head around in circles before skipping off to the kitchen for cheese crackers), she had accidentally stumbled into him, and reached out for the closest sturdy thing to ground her. Her fingers had looped around his wrist, in such a firm, unshakeable grip had Harry bruised easy there would be tiny little grape like spots dotting his skin. “Woop!” She had given one of those fear stricken chuckles that somebody only has when they feel as if they just dodged a bullet, “Sorry, you think having two decades with this body I’d have learned to maneuver it by now.” 

There was a pang in his chest -- the familiar one he gets when his interest in someone has been peaked. He wondered if her heart was slamming against her chest, or if she knew just how tightly she was holding onto his wrist, or the fact that she had not let go in a good twenty seconds as she got resettled. Harry would have ignored it, as he had been since his last relationship which had been a year or so prior, but it had been coupled with something different. He couldn’t pinpoint what it had been at the time, but he’d known it was something when he opened his mouth and felt like he might be at a loss for words. 

“I -- you’re, um, you alright?” He questioned her and when she nodded, he added lamely, “You’ve got the grip of a gymnast.” 

“My third grade lessons have finally paid off then,” she grinned, “I’m g’na go get some cheese crackers and grab you ice for your wrist, ‘cos my hand cramped up from how hard I held on and I feel bad.” 

Harry raised his hand, “No need for the ice, but some direction toward the cheese crackers would be useful.” 

Maybe it was the easy way she spoke, or the trust he felt for her so immediately. Y/N had a way about her, where speaking to her was like speaking to an old friend. . .like slipping on an old pair of shoes. . .he felt at ease, comfortable enough to be sat outside with her alone on the deck, where they sat beside each other on the pastel rainbow cushions. Harry was slouched and snug in the corner of the couch while Y/N sat half on her knees and half on her bum, facing him. Harry can remember little about the conversation, because he only remembers how he felt. How the tips of his fingers began to melt. 

Maybe it was meeting up with her afterward, and how unreasonably nervous he felt. No manner of meeting a celebrity could beat the way his heart thudded when he pulled up outside of Y/N’s place and he watched her stumble over a dip in the sidewalk as she came to his car. Harry doesn’t usually feel nervous anymore. . .something big has to be happening for that sizzle of anxiety to tickle through his body. Or maybe it was because as soon as she climbed into the car, Harry remembered why he had invited her out in the first place -- she managed to bring a sense of calm. It made him relax into his seat, she requested a song that he had a distant yet fond childhood memory of, and they both jammed out in the front of the car on their way to the bookstore. 

Was it that first date? When Y/N dropped about five different books in front of him and told him it was necessary that he not only read them to completion but to call her and tell her his opinions no matter the time he’s finished. Instead of the normal eye opening, reflective, poetic think pieces that he usually reads, Y/N had presented to him these emotional, moral questioning, heart thumping thrillers that she admits made her rethink her ethics. And so greedily did she read his recommendations like they might disappear if she doesn’t read them quick enough, or so he thinks as much when they met up for something short of a reading date (where they both sat a coffee shop till closed and read from across one another, commenting on things they think about the characters, the situation, the setting) and Y/N is already halfway through the second book with little noteslips on pages for the things she wanted to discuss. 

It could have been their first kiss, after Y/N invited him to her place and suggested that they attempt to make kimchi, in which they failed miserably. She had been so bummed, pouting and feigning an overly melodramatic reaction. For some reason it had made his heart soft for her and without much thought, he had looped his fingers around her wrist, gave her a small pull until she was close enough for him to press his lips to hers. Their lips tucked into each other so neatly, Y/N found his waist and pulled him into her body a little closer, and when he parted, she scrunched her nose at him. 

“You just had to go and put me in a good mood when m’trying to be pouty?” 

Harry couldn’t say what it was but his feelings had surpassed his five month briefing, because he was still just as in love, just as obsessed, just as melty as he had started. The amount of times he has to resist ignoring the priorities of their days in favor of keeping her trapped in bed with him so they could cuddle for hours on end -- was probably a problem. And the amount of times he has to withhold from smothering her face in kisses is most likely worrisome.  . .he doesn’t really do a good job withholding though. If Y/N is walking by him he grabs her by the crook of her elbow and has her stumble back so that he can push kisses upon kisses against her skin. Sometimes he’ll do it when she’s cooking, when she’s brushing her teeth, when she’s waking up in the morning. She pretends to hate it but she questions him when he hasn’t done it in a while, with a little bit of a huff, 

Some days he just couldn’t stand it; he felt as if he needed to adhere himself to her body. Bit hard on his lip so he didn’t hug her too tightly, and god forbid he gets in one of these moods while he’s fucking into her. Maybe he goes a little deeper, a little harder, bites down into her shoulder and leaves bruises where he squeezes his fingers deep in her hips. That’s when he leaves bitten, suckled marks all over her skin and Harry revels in them for days after. 

And he would think it was nearly to a fault, but Y/N reciprocates these feelings most adamantly. He’ll wake up to her flopped over him, clinging to him tightly and he’ll think she’s asleep until he realizes that she would be scrolling on her phone. Or he would be sat eating breakfast at his counter and she would saddle up beside him, stealing his jellied toast and giving him sticky jelly kisses because she just couldn’t wait until she wiped her mouth. Maybe that grip would return when she grabbed his hips, dragging him back into her body when they lose each other in a store and she’s elated to have found him again. Or how she follows after him as he fills his bath after a rough day, offering to wash his hair because she knows how much he likes it.

Mostly it is in her words, where she compares him to beautiful constellations. How he reminds her of hot sunny days where the breeze brings cool air, sat by the oceanside with the wind whipping through their hair, feeling content. Of cold days, when the sun is hidden behind an overcast, snow blankets the ground but inside is warm, the covers are heavy, body heat is welcomed, exchanged, and comforting. 

“You feel like coming home after a long day, y’know that?”  She had once told him, “But like, one of them days where you already cleaned the house before you left and the sheets are fresh and it smells like lavender or summat.” 

For some reason,out of all the things people had told him, this had stuck out as the nicest. 

That’s why a year and three months in, Harry still turns into a puddle when she slides beside him and snuggles into his throat. When he tries to get out of bed in the morning and in her sleep she holds on tighter. Showing up at the studio with smoothies for everyone there, even though it would cost a fortune and get everybody's order correct, then take him off to the side away from everyone to present to him that she had gotten him a banana muffin. Waking up with Y/N cuddled between his thighs, the head of his cock nestled neatly between her lips as she suckled, or when they’re in bed and she manages to pinpoint every single erogenous zone that he’s had. 

Y/N took time to learn his body, opposed to where most of his sexual ventures are a bit quick and to the point, Y/N had always been an exuberant, passionate lover. From the very first time that they had slept together, when he had her on her back she had looped her legs around his waist, pulled him closer and rolled them over. Harry had been left a bit boggled, but Y/N kissed him breathless before he could question her motives, and whispered against his mouth, “I want to take care of you.” To which Harry had gladly let her. He had always been a giver in bed, but he reveled in receiving, though he feels he doesn’t give a lot of people the chance to. That would make him more vulnerable than he already was and he is hesitant to allow that, even with people he’d been with for months. 

But Y/N -- hell, Y/N managed it in just three short weeks. Established a trust and a bond between them that Harry could only relax into the mattress, sink down in the pillows, and gasp, moan, whine, and pant as she suckled and kissed and bit and stroked every part of his body that he could think someone would want any business with. Being with her in bed was an experience in itself, their dynamic could change so swiftly, from soothing caresses and deep slow strokes, to holding on too tight, hips slamming to thighs, breathless expletives. Harry always sang about spreading someone else open and getting to know the inner workings no matter how little they cared for his own but Y/N only matched his energy, his desires, needs and wants. There were times Harry’s eyes watered because Y/N always sure that every single part of him feels loved, even the bits he doesn’t like so much. 

Y/N was not from the world of fame and glamour that Harry himself was often subjected to, which meant that it was not very often she would run into his exes as Harry rarely does. She goes with him to certain parties and events but she has no problem not being in the public eye; she likes to keep private things private, but she had put on the table that if Harry wanted her to shout her love from the rooftops for him she would. It wasn’t often that Harry got in contact with someone who didn’t have just a sliver of an ulterior motive in mind so when three to five months have gone by and she wasn’t “mysteriously” papped in one of his shirts or making vague tweets about being with him, and when she was offered a magazine slot for an interview about potentially being Harry’s girl and she had not thought for a second before refusing it -- he’d known that she was in it because she loved him and for who he was deep down. Not what he could give her, not to start a career, not to milk him dry with halfhearted agreements to be seen in public so that they could get a kickstart as something of a public figure or to further themselves in pop culture.

She wasn’t interested in that, she was interested in him and that made him melty all the same.

So, with all of this explained, one could understand why Harry was holding Y/N so close to him she might as well have been superglued to his side. It had snowed in sheets that built a thick blanket laying over the ground, which would normally be a bit irritating in January but not when he’s in his hometown. The holidays may have been over but after a short trip elsewhere, Harry wanted to return for a little while, relax in the comfort of what home can bring. Maybe he just wanted more home cooked meals from his mum’s special recipes, or he likes spending time with people who had cared for him before the fame, or maybe he just likes showing Y/N off -- but he had an excuse to go. Not that he particularly needed an excuse, however Gemma was around to introduce her new boyfriend to their mum and it was one of his old school buddy’s birthdays (which since he had missed the pivotal 21st, he figured that a few years late to get black out with them would do). 

It was cold outside but he was warm beside the fire he’d stoked, his mum was nodding out on the one seater, Gemma and her boyfriend were making kissy faces at each other on the couch adjacent to where Harry is lying, Y/N between his thighs resting her back to his abdomen, a flannel blanket thrown over her legs. She rubbed up and down his arm with gentle fingers, coaxing goosebumps to the surface of his skin with each graze. They’d been like this for half the duration of a movie called About Time, and Harry was content. More than content, even if there was a word for it he didn’t know what it might be, but that was how he felt. 

Harry’s full after dinner, he’s lethargic, and he’s sure he could fall asleep right there. Reminiscing on how in love he was with Y/N left him in such a lovely mood, he thinks if someone asked him for anything right then he would do it with no question. If the bloke cuddled up with Gemma asked him for thirty thousand, he would scratch out a check for forty. 

He raises his thumb, running the pad of it over Y/N’s lips and she puckers her mouth to kiss it before she tilted her head up. Harry smiles down at her as she scrunched up her face, nestling further into his palm, “Am I pressing on your bladder?” 

Shaking his head, puckered his lips like he wanted her to crane her neck to kiss him but she presses her fingers to his mouth instead, then pats them against her own. He pouts, taking her by the wrist loosely and holding her fingers in his hand, nibbling at the tips of them playfully. She giggles, attempting to wriggle her arm away but Harry is adamant, “Sweetheart,” she whispers, “Gimme my hand back.” 

‘Then gimme a kiss.” 

With a roll of her eyes, she grins, pushing herself up the short ways and cranes her neck so that she can smear their mouths together. It’s innocent, sweet, and Harry hears Gemma murmur, “I reckon they are trying to outdo us,” from across the way. 

Harry turned to face her, “I reckon we already did.” He sticks out his tongue petulantly to which Y/N swats his chest, but she does reach up to peck another kiss to his mouth before she settles on his chest, encouraging Harry to wrap his arms around her. He dips his nose against her head, smells her shampoo, and hums lowly. 

Harry is happy. 

And melting.