VALENTINE'S DAY BLURBIE (Patreon)

Y/N has only been stood up once before.. 

It was nowhere near a good feeling -- it hadn’t even been a date that she was stood up for, but a lunch with a friend who forgot to set her alarm and let Y/N know about four hours after they were supposed to meet when she finally did wake up. Before this came to light, Y/N remembers exactly how she felt. How low her heart began to sink to her stomach, rolling in the acid, eroding the muscle, and weakening considerably. The flush of sadness that spread through her like ice in her veins as the prospect of being forgotten had begun weighing her down substantially. She felt heavy and cold as she paid the tab, went home and felt sorry for herself after sitting alone for two hours sipping on water because she thought it might be rude to order before her friend could come. 

The same feeling overwhelms her now, actually, only it is much sadder when it’s meant to be a Valentine’s day dinner. 

Or, well, it was technically the day before. Y/N and Harry had made the mutual decision that it was much easier to get a table somewhere nice when it was the day prior to when everyone else would be hoarding restaurants. As a plus, the less crowded it was, the less torment for the staff to endure, the calmer the environment. Then the actual day they would stay within the comfort of their flat, staying warm with the snowstorm present in the forecast. A documentary on the telly, wrapped in Harry’s endless limbs with her cheek pressed to the soft material of his sweater, warm beside the marbled fireplace installed in the living room. Full of food, ebbing in and out of sleep, submersed in a bubble that they’ve created around each other. 

She’d been giddy about it — throughout the course of the week, she would send Harry little gifts akin to his favorite flower or boxed chocolate, or bring him lunch the two days she saw he forgot to pack one. She thought that she ought to make it a whole week of lovey dovey mush, riding off the high she feels when a grin as wide as he gives it, spreads across his cheeks after she appears in his office, and with her, his favorite bistro sandwich and a thermos of the special passion fruit tea on the menu at a separate location. He’d sponge a big, fat kiss on her mouth, hugging her so tightly that she wheezed like a squeaky toy that lost her squeaker, “What’s this for, hm? Why’s my girl being so sweet on me this week?” 

“Just love you is all.” 

Harry had work that morning—his alarm chimed abrasively at 6AM, startled Y/N just halfway into consciousness before he swatted it with the pads of his fingers. In some way or another they usually wake up koala’d together, so she felt the muscles in his torso shift as he stretched and the drawn groan that accompanies it buzzes through her. Several times does Harry start to unravel himself from where their limbs are tangled, but he pauses every so often — once, he told Y/N that she makes it exceedingly difficult to get out of bed. Not only because she managed to loop the sheets in complicated restraint-like ties, but how she unknowingly tightens her arms around him when he gets to the upper half and makes him want to stay. She vaguely comprehends the kisses he pushes to her temple, warm lips that make her eyelids flutter, but eventually as she returns to a heavier sleep, he is able to wriggle out of bed (much to his own dismay). 

They were supposed to meet at the smarmy restaurant at 6PM, which gave her the entire day to get all primped and pampered for him -- and by all day, she would waste about five hours and start to get ready in a panic three hours before she was supposed to go. Even despite her late start (she got out of bed at 10 then mucked around for two hours trying to decide what she wanted to wear or if she wanted to paint her nails, taking a bath, shaving and exfoliating most places, making her waxing appointment, steaming her face, and just about every other maintenance thing she could think to do). She danced around to a Spring time playlist, let herself revel in the glow of her excitement -- special days with Harry were always fun. Especially when he had an excuse to ignore every manner of phone calls, paperwork, and whatever else he sometimes had to bring home with him. Dating a CEO of a company met sharing him with absolutely everyone and their mother, which she was used to and had no qualms with normally, but it was nice when she knew the day would be free of disturbances and they could just focus on one another. 

Y/N managed to arrive fifteen minutes till and  was still positively giddy, down to the excited little giggles that spurt from her throat. She waited until six to go inside in case Harry was able to make it by then, but it was rush hour, and Harry was close to 20 minutes away so she didn’t fault him for it. She spoke to the hostess, went to her seat, told the waitress she was waiting for someone but she got water and nibbled on the fresh bread basket they brought out for her.

But then twenty minutes passed and she figured she could order them both a glass of wine, and more breadsticks might suit her grumbling stomach nicely -- she had forgone breakfast and lunch that day so she could properly gorge on the food there. She was getting a little uncomfortable beneath the solidary lamp with delicately woven shading over her head, shuffling in her seat in an effort to re-establish herself. The waitress, however, had begun to sense that Y/N was being stood up far before the thought had even glimmered past Y/N’s brain. When she came around with the obligatory phrase, “I’m in no hurry, I was just wondering if you would like to have an appetizer while you wait? Do you know how much longer they'll be?” Y/N was finally beginning to catch on. 

At 6:30, she messaged him a simple Where are you? She started to get worried -- Harry was rarely ever this late for something and if he was, he usually sent her a message telling her. She thinks that maybe he went home to change but even then, he would have let her know. Her stomach churns at the thought that something might be wrong, so at 7, she goes to the bathroom and calls him. 

The dial rings two times before he answers. 

“Hi, Babe,” he sounded exhausted, her heart did a little pull in her chest, almost out of guilt -- maybe he had a long day and got stuck at work a little later -- “Are you okay? I’ve gotta make this call quick, m’having a drink with an important client.”  A deep, reverberating male voice on the other end, says something along the lines of, Hey Missus, directed at her. It wasn’t one of Harry’s usual clients. . .they knew her by name. 

Oh. 

Stomach acid abrades her throat, raspberry pink nails she had been worrying between her teeth cut superficially into her palm, her heart rate picks up -- she can feel it pounding low against her ribcage, her pulse roaring against her temples. A icy flush runs through her body when frustrated tears threaten to well at her lashes, “Are you fucking kidding me?” Her voice comes out far more striking than she feels, as a weight lowers her shoulders. 

“Excuse me?” His response only contributes to making her more irate; he had the nerve to sound irritated with her. 

Y/N isn’t usually confrontational but she felt like a kettle filled with bubbling water, “I’ve been sitting at this restaurant looking like an absolute idiot because I kept promising that my date was on his way, ate two loaves of bread by myself, and had to get all these pitiful glances from the staff because they figured out I’d been stood up long before I could. Thought something had happened to you but no, it’s alright, enjoy your fucking drink.”

She hangs up, straining muscles in her calves as she tries to make it to the table to slap a few bills down before hustling toward the car. An array of emotions drain through her, none of them feeling particularly good, as Y/N snuffled, avoiding the sympathy ridden gazes. The snow had begun to fall, large flakes that dot her coat and speckle her tear stained cheeks, melting against her warm, already wet skin.  

Y/N finds some composure before she begins driving and runs through a fast food place to quell the ever present grumble in her stomach. She just wanted to stuff french fries down her throat and pretend like she wasn’t in a dress that she had saved up money to buy -- it was a slip dress, stereotypically red, stopping about mid thigh and when the light catches against it just right, it sparkles and shimmers. She’d never gone out of her way to dress up for anybody how she does for him, including the puffy red earrings, the heels that she stuffed her feet into, and the makeup that she practiced again and again until she got it perfect. Hell, she really didn’t have a reason to prior to them being together.

It was shit, and what was even worse was that she couldn’t just order herself something to eat without having a guilty conscious, so she gets him something too. Once she gets home, she doesn’t bother with being dressed up any longer -- she lets the fabric pool off in their bedroom and slump against their floor, took three makeup wipes to her face, and changed into her softest pajama pants and her loosest, biggest top. The crying she had done on the ride home wore her out, so she ate the rest of her fries and the burger she ordered before brushing her teeth and crawling into bed. It was only eight but she was exhausted and upset, so she snuggled her face into her pillow and curled up under the covers.

She wanes in and out of sleep for a while, like waves plodding against the shore on a storm-less day, halfway in between something fuzzy and warm where they had eaten their dinner then went to their favorite coffee shop, and the cold reality of what actually happened. Harry must have come home when she was still in a dream, because she only distantly recognizes that the door to the bedroom is creaking open and her body tenses considerably when a cold palm settles on her bicep. Goosebumps pebble up her skin, a tiny whine grunts from her throat but he coos a soft, “Shh, shh,” at her. She pries her heavy lids open, Harry’s face illuminated by the yellow lamp light she’d left on in the corner, his cheeks and nose are rosy from the cold. His eyes are soft, apologetic in their sea green gaze and his hair is damp, still garnering a few flakes. He’s got his nice trench coat on -- the black one with the marbled, pearl buttons Y/N likes fiddling with in her fingers -- still buttoned up and tied at the waist. 

“My sweet girl,” he murmurs, shaking his head, “I’m so sorry.” 

“S’okay,” her tongue is heavy; she doesn’t care to be angry anymore. Not when his body radiates heat and she realizes how sad she was at the prospect of an actual argument occurring because of this. She was just happy that he was safe and home, no matter how upset she was previously, she could accept his apology, hope that it was merely because he forgot, and move on. Plus, she had come to the realization briefly before she fell asleep that they still had all day tomorrow, so it wasn’t like everything was hopeless.  

“No it’s not,” he begins kicking off his shoes and undoing his coat, “This week has just been so hectic,  ‘ve been trying to butter up this client and I forgot all about Valentine’s Day and  our plans ‘cos m’the biggest prick in the world,” he shrugs out of the sleeves, letting it fall to the ground before he places his knee on the edge of the mattress -- her body sinks into the dip he creates, shuffling when he crawls over her. He manages to wiggle himself beneath the sheets, his skin still chilled from the biting air outside. The cold tip of his nose nestles against the back of her shoulder, “Daddy’s so sorry.” 

A shudder runs through her body, tickling around every fiber of her being. It’s not like it wasn’t often Harry called himself Daddy but there were two times when she did it mostly -- if she was about to be punished or if she had somehow garnered herself a reward. She thinks that if the circumstances had been a little different today then it might have been a punishment; Y/N was rude, mouth-offed at him, and no matter how upset she was, that wasn’t allowed. But his body language didn’t suggest that he was too terribly upset with her. . .hell, how he is cuddling and holding onto her would suggest that he was more so upset with himself than anything. 

She shimmies, turning in his arms so that she could face him but Harry acts like he barely even wants to face her. He burrows into her chest, his forehead dipped against her collarbone, “You were in such a pretty dress -- I saw it on the ground,” he murmured, his thumb stroking against her shoulder blade slowly, carefully tracing up the ridge, where the bone is closer to the surface, “And I could hear that you were crying over the phone, I -- how long were you waiting there, Sweetheart?” 

“It doesn’t matte--” 

“It does,” he cuts her off, holding her impossibly closer, “Tell me.” 

Y/N’s hands find his cheeks, her fingers stroking against the tender, rosy skin, “Forty five minutes.” 

Harry hisses in a breath like she’d stomped her heel into his toes, peeking his head up, looking at her with a huge, remorseful, glossy gaze, “Daddy’s terrible.” 

“You’re not!” She insists, her brows furrowing, hands cradling his face more firmly, “You forgot and that’s okay -- you’re human,” it’s her turn to continue stroking his skin softly, “I barely even mentioned it this week, anyway -- I would’ve forgotten too, if --” 

“If you weren’t so excited,” he finished off her sentence, though that wasn’t exactly what she was going to say, but an additional amount of guilt washes over his features when he begins to realize what this week had entailed for the both of them. What she had been doing all week was gift giving and kisses, and Y/N knows that he had forgotten about Valentine’s Day all together. Which, she doesn’t fully fault him -- he would’ve forgotten his birthday too had Y/N not been the one counting down the days. His job took such a cornerstone of his life and he was the cynosure of the company -- it was hard to think of anything in relation to dates when it felt like you had thousands of people breathing down your back. Y/N might have chugged through his processing earlier and maybe would have even given him a full pass, had she not been out in public waiting for him, and had he not answered the phone in the rushed way he did. That, coupled with the fact that she thought maybe something could have happened to him, and the sudden rush of relief that he was okay but the anger that he was standing her up had skewed her perception and made things completely different than they would have been in the first place, “This whole week you’ve been so amazing, bringing me foods and flowers and chocolates, and it’s ‘cos you were building up to these next two days. Fuck sake,” he leans forward, pushing a kiss to the corner of her mouth, “I don’t deserve you.” 

“You do,” she murmurs as he pushes another kiss to her mouth, “Daddy --” she giggles when he begins to pepper them from her lips to her cheeks, feeling how they warm with each kiss to her skin, “Hey!” 

“I.” He kisses her nose, “Don’t.” He kisses her forehead, “Deserve.” He presses two quick kisses to either eye, “You.” He ends it on her mouth again, though his hands slide from where they had been pressed to her back, down the length of her body, slipping down her spine to the curve of her hips, hooking his fingers into the elastic bands of the grey cotton, “Let me try to make it up to you, hm? For being the worst boyfriend in the world.” 

“I’m not even angry anymore,” she murmured and she meant it, but he had already begun to peel the fabric away, and she raises her hips up as he maneuvers himself to a sitting position, now hovering over her opposed to at her side. The covers slide away from her body the lower his hands go to remove her bottoms. Y/N doesn’t notice that her panties had gone with them until Harry’s warming fingers coupled with the pinch of his cold brassy rings take hold of her calf, lifting it up high enough that he could duck beneath it, parting her legs open wider for him by pushing against the inside of her thighs with his open palm. A small little gasp puffs from his mouth and his thumb comes in contact with the very, innermost portion of her thigh, where the skin is delicate and had soothed from the heated, raw feeling that had been present after the hair was stripped away from her earlier that day.

“Did you do this for me?” He asked, and the sad look in his eye makes Y/N reluctant to respond, but his gaze is set on her and he all but refuses to move it elsewhere, so she nods, “Fuck sake,” he uttered, lowering, scooting back down and his arms wrap around her thighs and keep her spread open for him. He pushes a biting kiss to the inside of it, “M’not cumming tonight.” 

“But --” she begins but he cuts her off. 

“No, I don’t deserve to,” he murmured, his breath is warm as it washes over her folds, his nose tipping against her mound as he takes her in, “So Daddy’s going to make you cum again and again and again, until the thought of an orgasm makes you sensitive.” 

He doesn’t waste time, stripping one long, wet stroke of his tongue from her hole right up to her clit. Y/N gasps, her fingers digging into the comforter, body bending toward him but Harry reaches out with his hand, presses his palm to her chest and urges her to lie flat again. He always scolded her for it -- not relaxing and taking it in when he has got his head buried between her thighs -- her mind always races, her muscles were tense, she was jumpy, no matter how slowly and delicately he was being. He reminds her to focus on her breathing, steady and even as she could keep it, until the feeling he’s producing is so absolutely consuming she has no choice but to give in to the way her body reacts to. For a while she thought that maybe he just liked the build up, but Y/N realized that it felt much better for her this way.

So she flops down against the pillows again, one hand she rests atop of his that sits just between her breasts and he easily manipulates it so that he is able to slot their fingers together. He squeezes her hand, slicking his tongue between her lips up and down, swirling the tip around her swelling little button. Her belly shakes with a breath, hips absently bucking against him. 

Harry always licked into her like she might be made of porcelain; his tongue was soft, and if he pursed his lips around her clit they were suckling lightly, considerate to the possibility of her being sensitive. Harry often compared her to a flower that he had to be tender with -- caressing her petals with his tongue, spreading her open with one hand and lapping against her slit. The wet muscle slid between her lips, in that languid, lolled way that he had perfected (stiff tongued boys were always the worst, Y/N had learned from plenty experience -- Harry was the only one who had ever cared to do it right), dipping into where she grows wetter and wetter. 

His arms withdrew from their place locked around her thighs, but his hands pressed to the back of them and pushed upward, so her feet were in the air and she was curled inward. He raises on his knees to accomodate for the new position, “Bendy little thing,” he purred, before delving back in, tonguing at the engorged bud now much more prominent this way. Y/N melts when his eyes flicker up to her, green gaze fluttering like she was the best thing that had ever touched his mouth. Her moans come more frequently, nails raking through his hair at his scalp, and Harry couldn’t possibly be louder about how much he liked it. 

He pulled back for barely a moment, dragging his thumb from her glistening hole up messily against her slit, rolling her clit beneath the pad of his thumb while simultaneously occupying the skin of her thigh with a nibble as he did so. Harry latches back onto her, tongue pressed against her swollen folds, stroking up and down while his mouth was fixed against her. Her toes curl, the knowing flush of heat that swarms through her lower half coaxes a wanton moan from her lips that she had been gnawing at unintendedly.

Her first orgasm strikes her like lightning, sizzling through her being in a hot, zipped flash that made her thighs quiver. She pulsates against his tongue, he groans like this was all he could have hoped for, Y/N’s mouth feels dry and her heart is racing but for the best reason now, opposed to why it had been before. Harry peers up at her with an impish gaze, pursing his glossy raspberry mouth and blowing cool air against the wet, heated skin, the stream coming in sputters when he giggles at how her pussy twitches  under the attention. 

Then he slides his tongue back against her. 

True to his word, Harry makes her cum four times with only his tongue. He sucked and lapped and moaned -- spit over her, rubbed his fingers against her, slapped the pads of his fingers against her swollen clit and the echoed sticky slap of it made them both shudder. The most attention Harry had paid himself was a subtle roll of his hips against the mattress, Y/N assumes to relieve some of the pressure building up between his own thighs. And the thought of him being hard, full and heavy as he mewled against her, flickering his tongue, sucking on her, parting her lips and slipping his mouth up against her -- it made her dizzy. 

But she couldn’t cum anymore -- she was overwhelmed, and exhausted; she just wanted to drink a gallon of water and sleep.  

So she slides her hands around his jaw, cradling it as she ushers for him to come up, “Daddy, no more,” she whines, thighs squeezing shut around him, “S’too much.” 

Harry parts, kissing up her body slowly, pushing her shirt up some so that he can kiss at her belly before he scales up the rest of her. He lowers, glossy lips smearing against her own bitten mouth, and whimpering against her. She soaks in his kisses, still holding cupping his cheeks in her hand and holding him to her mouth, “You --” she murmurs, words muffled by his unremitting kisses, “You now.” 

Shaking his head, Harry rubs the tips of their noses together, “No, Daddy’s not cumming tonight.” She pouts but he only suckles at her puffy bottom lip, “Tonight was about you princess. Maybe, if m’good, then I’ll get to cum tomorrow, yeah?” 

A shiver rattles through her.