TATTOO PARLOR HARRY CHECK IN! (Patreon)

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“C’mon --” 

“No.” 

“Come onnnnnn --” 

“No, baby.” 

“I gave my friend an emergency banana bag IV after watching one video on it once, you can trust me.” 

“It’s a little different than that,” Harry paused the rag he was using to polish the tattoo gun, brows furrowing as he turns to look at her, “An IV? Weren’t you a business major?” 

At first, Y/N had merely been joking. She had closed up for the night with Niall around nine, fussed about the bookshelves while he swept up the dust bunnies that hid in clusters between the shelves, and even took to reorganizing behind the counter. That took up about an hour, but even so, by the time that she jerked the key out of the lock and bid Niall a good night (where he promptly promised her that he could never have a bad night if it were just him and his hand), Harry was about thirty minutes out from finishing the shoulder piece he and his client had been working on. An intricate forest design, with trees created out of dead space and the only color being that of a fire with glowing orange embers at the center. 

She didn’t mind waiting; there was something equally mesmerizing as there was oddly attractive about watching him. He was passionate in his work -- despite the serious set in his jaw and the way his forehead tended to pinch in concentration at different points, you could tell that he was enjoying himself. There was never something more beautiful than seeing someone wholeheartedly invested in their creations, especially after how long he and the girl had been working on it together. Her consult had been a month ago, they emailed each other back and forth several times, Harry offered her in for another consult and they spent an hour getting it exactly right. She was in her late twenties and had never been tattooed before, so she wanted it to be perfect -- an homage to a favorite past time of hers, in which she and her mum, her father, her girlfriend or about anybody she could get out in the woods would stoke a fire, sit there for hours, discuss anything and everything. “Much of my life has been sorted out sat by a fire.” 

For it to finally be happening for the both of them, Y/N was happy to see it, and a few times offered her hand to the girl when Harry would get to a particularly bony prominence, which she took gratefully. Y/N would have been more focused on the lack of blood flow circulating through her fingers from the intensity of her squeeze but she was all too distracted by Harry. He had just gotten his hair cut, which Y/N had whined about suitably even though it was merely a trim, so it was smooth, soft and healthy. His lips were an in particular reddish pink that from the watermelon and strawberries he’d been eating as his mid-tattoo snack, and pouted. Today he had worn a grey hoodie that pooled around his body, which he had eventually tugged off after getting sweaty and showed off the loose white tank top he had on beneath it. He had tossed the hoodie to Y/N and had motioned for her to put it on, “Make it smell like you again.” He all but demands but the sentiment was sweet so she doesn’t scold him for not saying please.

Y/N shrugged it on, tried not to drool over his arms, biceps bulging as he leaned down over her and waited patiently for him to finish. She gushed over how beautiful it was to the woman first and then to Harry, helped gather the ointment and the sheet of care instructions while Harry dealt with the money part of it. The others had gone home for the day since they weren’t doing anything anyway, so when she left, her new ink bandaged and a smile on her face -- it was just Y/N and Harry left. 

She continued gushing to him about his work, snuggled deep in the warmth of his hoodie and enjoying being wrapped up in his scent. Y/N watched as he cleaned up, helped when she could, and got out of the way when she would have been more of a bother than an asset. Eventually though, she got a little antsy, and to soothe her boredom she took to looking at the needle gun in between his fingers as he disinfected it, and got to thinking. What it might feel like to hold it in her hand, what it would be like to ink someone’s skin perfectly, to leave them happy with your name on their mouth. 

“Could I tattoo a line on myself?” Harry snorted, Y/N furrowed her brows, “Okay then, on you --” 

And that’s how it started, Y/N wondering aloud why she couldn’t, mostly to be a brat than anything else. Which is how they ended up here, with Y/N whining, and Harry not giving in -- which she should have expected. It took her forever to convince him to even let her watch him tattoo someone, let alone to hold the gun herself with absolutely no training.

“She was a med student and had a few of them laying around, n’a starter kit, plus a terrible hangover,” she pushed the hair from her face, tucked the stray hairs behind her ear, “I did really good too!” 

“IV fluids aren’t permanent in most cases,” he sets the tattoo gun in its proper drawer, “It took me about three years apprenticing before I could even think to do some of the stuff I do now.” 

Her brows raised, “Three years?” She emphasized and he nodded, “Isn’t that -- isn’t that like an unpaid internship? What’d you do in the meantime?” 

He takes out a Clorox wipe and starts working on the counter, “A few things,” he murmured, “A bakery for a while, I was a secretary for a few months at a hospital, and my last year apprenticing the woman who was teaching me let me work at the front desk -- kinda like how Riktor does.” 

Y/N straightens to a sit, “A bakery? And you have not once made me an apple crumble!” 

“You’ve never asked!” 

“I want homemade croissants from here on out,” she grips the edge of the chair she’s sat on, swinging her legs idly -- as Harry chuckles, her whole body flushes with warmth, “What else are you hiding from me? Are you a hitman too?” 

“We prefer the term “assassin” it’s much more esteemed.” 

She reaches out to swat at him which he narrowly avoids, a grin stretched wide over his mouth, “You better be infusing your scent into that fabric.” 

Y/N scrunches down into it, shaking her head, “I dunno why you want my scent when it’s you who smells so good.” She dips her nose down into the neck of it, slinking lower, “I'd bottle it and call it something fancy like -- like l‘œuf Harry or something.” 

“Egg Harry?” 

“Is that what that means?” She slides from the chair, her shoes click against the hardwood as she lands, and taking hold of the hoodie from the bottom, dragging it up and over her head, effectively mussing her hair in the process. It was too cold for him to go out in nothing but a tank top but if she asked him if he wanted the hoodie back then he would have denied it in an effort to keep her warm. He wouldn’t fight her if she had already taken it off, however. “Alright, here have a whiff. If it isn’t strong enough, I’ll make sure to sweat in it next time.” 

Harry bundles it up and stuffs it to his nose, inhaling a deep, dramatic breath as Y/N slides on the coat she’d came in, grabbed her bag and slung it over her shoulder, starting toward the door, “S’perfect.” He shrugs it on, grabbing for his keys that jingle soundly in his palm with one hand while the other, he uses his fingers to loop around her wrist -- fingers resting at the drum of her pulse, “Slow down, Bunny, I want a hug.” 

Sometimes Harry likes to slow them both down; he takes the go, go, go attitude Y/N normally has and carefully dismantles it into a lethargic, gentle flow that he normally possesses. It’s good for her -- it makes her focus on her breathing -- centering herself in the moment as his arms slide around her body, looping beneath each other while his hands ultimately rest on her sides. Y/N takes it as a chance to burrow her face into his neck, standing slightly on her tiptoes, her nose dipping at the spot on his throat that made him shiver. She proper melted into him, a contented sigh flutters from her mouth and she lets her eyes close.

“Sleepy?” He questioned, his fingers began to fiddle with the seam of her shirt idly, humming gently against her head. When Y/N nods, Harry turns some to press a soft kiss to the side of her head, “We’ll get you home, yeah? Have you snuggled up in your covers in no time.” 

“You’ll cuddle with me won’t you?” 

Harry snorts, “Is that even a question?” 

                                                           .                            .                          .

Y/N wouldn’t be able to tell you what it was about Harry’s car that always made her so drowsy. Whether it be the comforting cinnamon aroma that permeated throughout the space from the vents, the subtle coo of Stevie Nicks over his speaker, the way his seats warm up and his heater is never too high that its rattling or soaking her in sweat. Maybe it’s the smooth, effortless way in which he drove -- how he could seemingly change lanes without her being able to tell the car was moving anyway but forward. He never slammed on his breaks, nor did he necessarily speed. Like many things, Harry was just good at it, without question or doubt. 

She had let her eyes close about three minutes into the drive, only flickering them open when she realized that he’d pulled up to a drive thru, calling over the intercom for two chocolate milkshakes and a spiral fry. Y/N had dipped down to reach for her wallet but Harry swatted at her hand until she snatched it back to her body, “S’on me, now put that away.” 

Though she does let her hand rest back in her lap, she does make a mental note to make him brekkie the following morning before they left for work. Y/N liked to repay him in anyway she could and he was not willing to accept it in cash form, so it mostly arose from cuddles, kisses, playing with his hair, making brekkie or purchasing something for him without him around to tell her no. Tomorrow, she thinks two eggs with a smiley face made of sliced strawberries and an english muffin (split in half, lightly buttered, jam on one but not on the other) might do. 

Accepting the shake gratefully, she watches as he expertly unwraps his straw with one hand and his teeth while holding his shake and steering wheel in the other. He does it so quick that she doesn’t have a chance to offer him a hand, instead tucking the straw into his mouth and moaning around it when he takes a sip. “Wha’s it about these that are so bleeding good,” he asks, shaking his head, smacking his lips together, “I could drink ‘em all day.” 

“I heard day sprinkle just a little bit of cocaine to add additional zest.” She offers, worming a disappointed bark of a laugh before he set it in his drink holder. Y/N doesn’t know why she’s eyeballing him so hard in the first place, but her gaze definitely doesn’t travel from his face when she notices him tonguing at the tourmaline jewel of his lip ring. It’s the on she had gotten him two months into them seeing each other officially, and while it was a hefty penny to spend for something no bigger than the pad of her thumb, it was well worth it to see the way his face absolutely lit up once she presented it to him. 

“I love it almost as much as I love you.” He exclaimed before he fucked her promptly, then clung to her for the rest of the night, being as whiny as he could when she dared to stray from him.

He wore it often and it made her insides glister - he treated it similar to how she treats the hoodie that he’d given her, thick and warm, which (much like he did to her tonight) she would make him wear in order to make it smell like him before she snuggled up in it. If he was treating it as she treated that, then that meant he really, really loved it, just as she really really loved her hoodie. 

Y/N’s a little more awake while they sip on their milkshakes, attributing much more conversation to accompany the purr of the car. The rest of the drive was quick, he pulled into the spot on the lot next to hers and they all but trip over themselves in an effort to get to her flat from the blistering cold. Trembling fingers work to find the key in her pocket, jamming it at the lock until it finally slid through the slit and she could open the door. They both have an over exaggerated shiver as they get used to the temperature difference from the outside to her flat -- it was enough to make glasses fog up. 

It’s when Y/N is in the bathroom, bum on the far too cold toilet seat as she peed that she hears Harry bumble his way into her room. She says bumble because he attempts to rid himself of his clothes entirely by the time that he can make it to her bed and she knows that was his main goal as of right then. Though she does notice that he does stop just short of her bed (she can usually hear the frame creak when someone sits on it) and once she finishes up and washes her hand, she discovers just why. 

In Harry’s hand was her vibrator -- the small, bulbous head purple one that had that she normally kept in her underwear drawer — she had just cleaned the night before, found it in her bathroom air drying the next morning, and tossed onto her bed prior to Harry coming to pick her up. Though she wasn’t embarrassed about it in particularly, she hadn’t really wanted him to be holding it in a setting that wasn’t explicitly sexual. He looks at it curiously, turning to face her with it in his hand, “This is yours?”

“No, it’s the other girl’s,” she teased, holding her hand out, “This is my buddy.”

“But I’m your buddy,” he pouted, “You don’t need ‘im anymore, you’ve got me.” 

“You aren’t always around, Dummy,” she takes it from him instead, reaching the short distance she was from her dresser and tossing it into the top, where it lay amongst her underwear, very clearly not fabric, “Don’ you have a fleshlight or something? Isn’t that what boys use?” 

Harry was still pouty as he shuffles out of his trousers the rest of the way, kicking them off his feet and leaving them in a bundle at his proclaimed side of the bed. He reached for the blanket and peeled the covers back, “I did but I don’t use it really anymore -- nothing feels as good as you.” 

Brows raised, Y/N works on unbuttoning her top, looping her finger around the handle of her second dresser that held a majority of her sleep shirts inside of it -- tonight she chose a worn Iron Maiden shirt, “But don’t you -- you don’t --” 

“Masturbate?” He offers and when she nods, he settles himself in a huff among his pillows, his head cradled in the three she has set up on his side,  his eyes following her every move, “Not really anymore. . .I’ve tried, but it takes too long, and I can never -- m’always just trying to replicate how you feel but I can’t.” He seemed genuinely distraught by it, enough that as Y/N crawled into the bed beside him, she felt pity. She held out her arms and Harry snuggles himself up against her side almost immediately. 

It would make sense why every time they did have sex he always reacted like he’d not came in a millenia, all handsy, kissing her breathless, fucking quick, hard, deep, and when he came he came a whole lot. She teased him about how he couldn’t get enough of her, when she was panting after their first go at it and he was pushing wet kisses down her stomach beckoning to go another round. The poor thing just wasn’t cumming without her around. 

“Poor baby,” she murmured, “It makes me wanna suck you off, but we’ve gotta be up early tomorrow, don’t we?” He whines where he nuzzled in her throat, vibrating through her, “I’ll take care of you tomorrow. And I’ll take the batteries out of Oliver, so we’ll be on an even playing field.” 

“It had a bloody name?”