Camping trip part 6 (Patreon)

This got pretty long! I hope you guys enjoy these two cuties :D

warning: smut ahead

Part 1 

part 2 

part 3  

part 4 

part 5 

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vi.

“You have nothing to eat,” Harry scolds Y/N after about ten minutes scouring her pantry and fridge for their dinner. After she had gotten him off this morning, they had stuck to their plan of spending the day together and watching over the kitten, simultaneously snacking on the goodies that Y/N brought out for them. She was much more of a snacker than she was someone who would have ingredients to prepare a meal, so by the time it got close to supper and Harry asked if they should make something to eat, she had to explain herself.

“Hey, technically I’ve got stuff to make muffins!” She cheers, reaching over his body and into her pantry to retrieve the mix, “I have plenty to eat, nothing like -- for a meal though probably, especially not two people. But this makes about ten muffins so that should tie us over, yeah?” 

Harry craned his neck to look back at her, the expression on his face somewhere between horrified and amused by her ways, “You’re telling me that you are sustained by sliced fruit, crisps, and muffins -- what do you do for dinner usually?” 

She shrugs, “Dunno, sometimes I order out, maybe make a sandwich. Or I just snack all day until I’m full.” 

“No protein? Vegetables?” He tries. 

“The egg white is a great protein, sometimes I muster up the strength to cook some for brekkie -- or I’ve got those microwaveable sandwiches! Um. . .hm, there’s this one steamed vegetable meal thing that I get. Just pour the bag out in a skillet and push it around until it’s done -- it's pretty nice.” She tells him this as she reads the back of her muffin box, trying to think if she had any more oil left. Harry had come over a day before her specified grocery day, so some of her ingredients were running low, which definitely did not make her case look any better. 

Harry gives a shocked gasp, though Y/N believes its partially feigned -- he would never make her feel bad about something, she knew, he just liked teasing her, “You poor thing, no wonder you’re always starving,” he shakes his head, sliding the pantry door shut, “That does it, we’re going to the market, I’m making you a meal tonight.” 

Her brows furrow, “Hey, you don’t have to --” 

“Let me rephrase,” he cuts her off, pivoting on his heel and heading toward the living room, “I’m making us a meal, so that we aren’t surviving off muffins and juice,” he starts to wiggle his shoes on, stepping into them and shuffling his heel down, “Plus, I don’t think you’ve ever had my cooking and lemme tell you, I’m ace behind the stove. I’ll have you wanting to hire me as a personal chef or summat.” 

Y/N unsuccessfully fights a smile that ends up worming onto her mouth anyway. She’d been doing a lot of smiling, in the past 48 hours since they’ve been with one another. Like someone might have injected serotonin straight into her brain stem before it transmitted it rapidly through her neurons, bouncing from synapse to synapse, joy proliferating through her being. It was always like that though, when you spent time with Harry -- he just had a way about him that encouraged pleasant feelings. She and Chrissy had both agreed and properly labeled it The Harry Effect. 

(“We can’t go on tellin’ him though or he’ll get too massive of ahead.” Chrissy had muttered to her under her breath the day they had decided, just as Harry entered the room, holding a Scrabble box in his hands looking eager.) 

She’d heard rumors about Harry being a good cook, but she was always so busy stuffing him full of sweets and takeout in their time together, she’s never gotten the full experience. Once she almost did, when he invited everyone to his place to try his Sunday roast, but she had work that day and tried as she might to pawn the shift on somebody else, it was to no use. Apparently it was the best roast that anybody had experienced to date, and she was still huffy about missing it. 

“I’ll only allow it if it isn’t you trying to repay me for the blowie.” She tells him, though she’s also wiggling her heel down into her shoe. 

Harry sighs, “I pinky promise that this isn’t me trying to repay you for the blowie -- I’m just a friend, concerned about your eating habits, and with a desire to fill your belly.” 

“And you’ll let me pay for at least half of the food.” She adds, holding out her hand for him, “If you say no, we’re eating muffins tonight and that’s final.” 

                                                  .                      .                      .

Grocery shopping with Harry is a domesticated experience Y/N didn’t know that she coveted for until it was granted to her. 

They were given a pretty strict time crunch considering the tiny kitten that was left on her own in her shoebox, resting peacefully within a makeshift barricade of pieces of cardboard strategically supported around her like a gate. She was fed before she left, so she should stay asleep for the majority of their time absent, but still, neither of them felt good about leaving her alone. It almost felt like they left a real baby at home, minus the potential legal implications of that. 

Harry goes to a fancy market that Y/N had only ever sped past once after taking the wrong turn on her way to a wedding. It was the kind of building that appeared to be more glass than brick, the extensive, wide-reaching arched windows allowing in enough sunlight to produce solar energy for a small country. From the parking lot she could see inside, and already she noted the massive produce section, a bright and wide variety of colors, an array of greens some of which she was sure she didn’t know the name of. One look at the place and she could tell it was the kind of organic market that is crawling with smarmy soccer moms and personal assistants whose bosses couldn’t be arsed to do their own shopping. The kind that she would avoid like the plague because she knew if she took one step inside they would know she didn’t belong there -- like they could smell it on her. 

But she would stomach it -- if Harry liked it, there must be some redeeming quality of it. She had never really grouped Harry in with the reputed “elite” that crawl around the area. Sure, she knows that he does indulge in a lavish lifestyle -- she’s not dense, and she’s seen pictures of it, and heard stories -- but when they were together, he never acted like that. He’d always been very down to earth unless she was just blinded by sea green irises and a pearly smile; spending time with Harry was like spending time with an old friend. One that has been around for so long, being with them is just as easy as breathing. Yeah, sometimes Y/N got nervous before she saw him, but it was less because he was Harry Styles and more so the feelings she’d developed burgeoning with each passing day. 

Y/N attempted to push the cart but Harry swatted her hands away, telling her that unless she could read his mind she would have no clue where he was headed. No matter the number of times she asked him what he was planning on making for her, he dodged every question, sometimes not even attempting to be sneaky about it. He discussed his purchasing process, how he chose vegetables, the shelf life, the color, the feel -- Y/N was his certified bag opener though, considering he struggled terribly with it. 

“You really won’t tell me what you’re making?” She tried once more when they were at the seafood, the woman behind the glass sliding shrimp from the board on crushed ice. 

Harry appears to be doing a mental checklist, his finger stuck out as he looks in the trolley like he’s making sure he had everything he needed from this section, “Do you like shrimp?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Good!” He leaves it at that, takes the shrimp from the woman, and sets it carefully in the cart beside her purse in the seat of the trolley, “You’ll like this then.” 

The whole time she is left in the dark, but still has a pleasant time. Harry made what could have been a rather dull trip pretty entertaining, and for some reason, him raving about snap peas just really tickled her in the right places. 

“Listen, Babe, you’ll never find someone who loves a snap pea-like I love a snap pea. Could eat about forty in a sitting -- you know what forty snap peas could do to you? I don’t either, but I’m willing to find out, that’s how much I love a snap pea.” 

Once they return home, she’s anxious to see what he is preparing for her, but he doesn’t let her help much at all. Maybe it had something to do with how she kept nibbling at ingredients when he wasn’t looking (he bought a bag of small peppers, which happened to be one of Y/N’s favorite snack foods), but he waved her away and told her to go sit down in the living room. She did disappear to the living room, but only for a second after collecting the kitten, taking a seat with her on the kitchen floor much to Harry’s dismay. 

“She wanted to be with Daddy,” Y/N reasoned with him, and while he kissed his teeth, shooting her a small glare, he resigned his efforts to get her out of the kitchen. She watched intently, marveling at the way he cuts the veggies, preps some kind of sauce, sautees the bell peppers and the snap peas he’d been raving about, and cooks the shrimp until they’re a nice pink in color while he stirs a pot of noodles. Y/N is certain that if she had more than one pot on the stove she might burn the house down, and she states as much to him, which he only shakes his head and chuckles. 

It doesn’t take him long to finish, just a little under an hour, and the smell was so delightful Y/N’s tummy had been growling since her last baby pepper. Harry plates it like he’s in an audition for culinary school, carries hands her two wine glasses, before going to the plated meal and carrying them over, the wine tucked beneath his armpits. 

“I present to you, ginger garlic shrimp noodle stir fry,” he handed her the plate then soon plopped down with his own, right across from her on the kitchen floor -- she was proud of herself for having cleaned them earlier this morning when he’d still been asleep, “Not too intricate of a recipe, but it’s delicious usually unless I did a piss poor job of making it. Have a taste.” 

Before he could so much as finish the sentence, Y/N was already stuffing it into her mouth, chewing slowly, savoring it -- her brows raised as the flavor fully fleshed out along her taste buds, “Harry, you’ve got to be kidding me,” she says after she swallows, watching as he pours the white wine into their glasses, “It’s not just delicious, it’s -- s’like ambrosial, honestly. You made this?” 

Harry laughed, “You watched me didn’t you?” He retorts, “What, you don’t think I’m capable?” 

“I know you’re capable, but I didn’t think this capable. And you just let me stuff you with take out!” 

He grins, always fond of an ego stroke but never one to fully admit it aloud. With a nod to the wine, he encourages her to take a sip, “It pairs well, go on.” And of course, he was right. 

Y/N eats two servings and with a proper amount of goading, Harry goes ahead and gets himself another serving as well, “I said it once, and I’ll say it again -- I think you’re trying to thicken me up for soup. Like a witch or summat.” 

“I’m doing precisely that.” 

They finish eating and after Y/N assures him that the dishes could wait until their post-dinner exhaustion wilts some.  Y/N was always incredibly exhausted after a meal and from the heavy-lidded gaze Harry had, his hand lying on his belly with his socked feet kicked up on the ottoman, she knew he felt the same. The kitten, who had done a suitable amount of playing with a small toy they’d gotten her at the store, was tuckered out and hungry for her own supper, which Y/N fed her before taking the spot beside Harry. 

She leaned her head to his shoulder and sighed heavily, “That was very good,” she praises him, though she’d fed him enough already to sustain his culinary ego for about a millennium, “I think I’ll have dreams about, that’s how good it was.” 

Harry accommodated her cuddled against him, sliding his arm from underneath her and placing it behind her on the back of the couch, tilting so that she could fall into him, “I’ll make it for you anytime you like.” 

“Don’t make promises like that, I get in toddler-like food jags, you’ll be over every night this week.” 

He breathed a laugh through his nose. 

“I could think of worse things.” 

                                                .                            .                         .

The movie they put on ran forgotten on the screen, both Y/N and Harry far too enraptured in their own conversation to pay much attention to it. It had started out innocent enough; whatever film they were watching (Y/N couldn’t be arsed to remember the name) had a scene where two of the characters discussed their various sexual encounters, both the good, the bad, and the ugly. One of the bad encounters Y/N had resonated with on a deep level, which she had gasped and told him about immediately (it helped that the few glasses of wine they’d both had at dinner made the conversation spill from their mouths like a broken faucet). 

“He did what?” 

“Answered his brother’s phone call and told him he was in the middle of pile driving me, but his brother had him on speaker at dinner and -- oh god,” Y/N shuddered at the thought, covering her face with her hands, “I had to see his family the next day. I wanted the ground to open up and pull me in it.” 

Harry look horrified, “Fuck sake,” he shook his head, “Please tell me that’s only happened to you once.” 

“Thankfully yes, but sadly, that isn’t even the worst of my stories.” 

That had done it -- they had launched into a conversation that very heavily depicted Y/N’s less than dazzling sex life, while Harry tried desperately to reflect on a time that his sex hadn’t been up to par. His explanation for this had been that all the men in the world are just shit in the sack, (except for him of course) but he still truly couldn’t understand why Y/N hadn’t just been with one guy that blew her mind.

“No, I don’t think you get it,” Y/N began, pulling her legs up onto the couch but leaning closer to him as she began speaking with her hands, pointing at him, “You’re you -- everyone you sleep with is going to be on their best behavior ‘cos they’re hoping to snag you with amazing sex and then you’ll be so head over heels in love with them.” She then flips her finger to herself, “Me? Y/N? Just the average joe you might meet at a pub or a club? There’s plenty of me going around, they can pump and dump into a condom no problem, I’m just the sorry sap that fell for all that sweet talk prior to them taking me home,” she clears her throat and lowers her voice, “I’ll fuck you so good, you won’t be able to think about any man ever again -- I debunk that immediately, I’m already picturing someone else is chatting me up while we’re speaking.” 

Harry looks at her like a server might when they realize someone’s been stood up on Valentine’s day. The pity that adopted his features was so obvious it nearly made her feel bad for herself, but she’d long since given up on the thought that anybody who took her bed wasn’t a selfish lover. She thinks, inherently, everyone is a bit selfish in bed -- she’d yet to meet a giver, but she’d met more receivers than she could count, so she stuck to her hand and a select few toys to get her through any horny period in her week. 

“I --” he shakes his head in disbelief, “Is that why you were so alright with the idea of sucking me off and getting nothing in return?” 

“Oh, not at all, Button, I reckon the blowie was more for me anyway,” she assures him with a nod of her head, “I like giving blowies to people who I know will appreciate it, even if I’m left uncatered to after the fact -- but I wasn’t asking you to cater to me either, y’know? I dunno’ --” with a shrug of her shoulders, she leans back into the couch pillow with a huff, “Neither here nor there I guess.” 

“Can you remember the last time someone did well with you?” He probes gently; Y/N could tell that he’d like to ask more blunt questions, but he was always so careful and as polite as he could be no matter the situation they were in. It’s something she liked a lot about him. 

She mulls his question over in her head, tipping it back and forth like she might be swishing around a memory infused liquid that might bring her back. With a snap of her fingers and a point in his direction, she nods, “A year ago, there was this drummer bloke who did pretty good. . .I think I was already kind of revved and warmed up by the time he had at me though so anything he was doing was bound to feel good. He is what convinced me that like, nobody knows how to do anything with their fingers anymore.” 

“I don’t know about them blokes, but I’m aces with my fingers,” Harry tells her and while it does make her insides flutter, she teases him, rolling her eyes and waving him away. 

“Sheesh, that’s what they all say. Y’know how easy it is to fake an orgasm to keep from shattering their ego? I know for a fact half the guys saying that aren’t actually finishing anyone off with just their fingers.” 

Harry, who had appeared to take minor offense to this statement, looked at her with such opposition she wondered how he could be so confident that he was that good, “Okay, yeah, yeah with those other guys, but Sweetheart, believe me when I say, these fingers,” he holds them up and wiggles them proudly, “Key to the universe. Anyone I’ve been with has praised these puppies.” 

Y/N’s gaze follows them, eyes tracing his index and middle finger, both long and nimble, where the skin puckers around his knuckle, how his rings fit snug at the base. He had nice hands -- beautiful hands -- but everything about Harry was beautiful and amazing, and great, it felt like. . .Y/N had just begun to expect and accept that in most things, he’s exemplary. She could understand if he was good with them. Her mouth watered at the thought of them anywhere near her in any way other than the platonic, doting friendly way he typically uses them on her. If they dented the tender skin of her thigh, dug into the flesh bits of her hip, traced her bottom lip, tucked themselves inside of her, or slapped against her bum. It would feel good, she knows it. 

But she loved to goad him. Reveled in stirring him up, teasing him, flustering him until he’s all huffy and puffy with her. That’s why she only waves him off again, “Yeah, yeah, yeah, I’ll believe it when I see it.” 

She was just talking -- she hadn’t meant anything by it, really -- but she underestimated how proud of his fingers Harry was. Which is why she’s surprised when, with furrowed brows, Harry motions towards her legs and says a firm, “Well, get your kit off and I’ll show you.” At first, she laughs it off, snorting, but when he doesn’t join her laughter, her brows raise. 

“Wait, what?” She asks him, subconsciously crossing her legs. 

Harry’s hand now rests on her calf, his thumb pressing into her muscle gently, “You don’t think I can do you over with my fingers, and I’m going to show you that I can,” he explains to her like it’s an everyday thing, “You’ve helped me cum twice, you haven’t had a partner induced orgasm in what you’re telling me has been about a year, and if anyone here deserves a good orgasm, it’s you. I know I can provide one -- plus, even though you say I don’t have to repay you for anything, it would make me feel better. . .you made me cum, I make you cum, it’s an even exchange babe.” 

“I --” Y/N’s speechless and almost certain that she fell into a stir fry induced sleep coma where she’d conjured up a dream like this. Harry wanted to touch her? He wanted to get her off and he was so certain and assured that he could and would do it. The look in his eyes and the itch in his tone expresses to her that he wants to do it, and the logistics bit he’d tacked on at the end was more for her than anything. An even exchange -- an orgasm for an orgasm -- it sounded simple enough. 

“How would you even start?” Is what eventually leaves her mouth, shaking her head, “You’re just g’na shove your hands down my pants and do as you wish?” 

Harry scoffs, “What am I, a caveman?” He moves the pillow he’d been cradling to his body off of his lap, “Go to your room and lay down on the bed, and I’ll show you.” 

“Can I brush my teeth first?” 

They both depart to brush their teeth, but Y/N makes it back to her room before Harry can (he chose to brush his in the kitchen sink so he wasn’t “crowding her”, but Y/N believed he just wanted to make her squirm waiting for him). She stretches out on her bed, sinking into the soft mattress and enjoying the smell of the new fabric softener she used on her blanket. Nerves jitter through her body, even more so when Harry appears in the doorway, having changed into a pair of sweatpants opposed to the pleated trousers he’d worn when they went to the store. 

He grins as he knees up on the bed, “Alright, I’m g’na need you to relax, which I know will be borderline impossible for you.” His hands are gentle when they touch her knees, sliding over the rounded bone as he takes a hold of her — he splits her open but makes no move other than to fit himself in between her thighs. Her chest heaves — she wonders for a moment if she’s dreaming but the cold sting of his rings stirs her. She just can’t believe what’s about to happen, and with every move, he makes, her breathing hitches like she’s preparing for him to say that the joke’s over and tease her for how far she let it go. 

But Harry doesn’t. He fits himself comfortably between her thighs and pats her hip, “Why don’t you close your eyes for me, Sweetheart?” 

“You really don’t mind?” Y/N dips her brows with her question, and Harry hums quietly. 

“That’s my line,” he references the past two times she’s helped him, “No, I don’t mind. You’re saying it like you asked me to, but I’m more so asking you if I can. I don’t want you to be nervous, I’m just gonna make you feel as good as you make me feel, okay?” 

With a nod, Y/N lets her eyes flutter shut and inhales slowly and deeply, so that she feels every particle of the air inflate her lungs until they are so full it is uncomfortable, before letting it out in a small stream through pursed lips. After she finishes, she feels Harry’s fingers grip the hem of her shirt, meticulously rolling it up just beneath her bosom, so her stomach was showing. From their position at the hem of her shirt, he grazes the pads of his fingers down her tummy, stirring goosebumps in his wake. They dance along the skin of her hips, he flips his fingers so that the tips of his nails skim against her. 

Her body reacts to it, tummy jumping when he gets close to her belly button and he laughs quietly, which makes her smile. Harry continues this pattern of caressing her, until Y/N feels the tension in her muscles steadily slipping away from her, her body melting back into her mattress. It felt so nice that she had almost forgotten the point of what he was doing, and if he kept it up for any longer she’s certain she could have fallen asleep from it. 

But then he migrates a little lower. Those same fingers that had been looping involuted patterns into her skin dance along the waistband of her shorts, tucking into them only a centimeter and very briefly before they pop back out and dance along her hips again. He does this a few times, and each time Y/N finds herself wishing he would go lower. Wishing that he would curl his fingers beneath the elastic and pull them down her legs. 

He almost seems content to just keep touching her like this though, and Y/N, for a while, had been content with it too. Until his hands left, then reappeared on her thighs, stroking down from her knee down to the more tender portions of her legs. She had been doing pretty well at staying still, until about the fourth time he had followed his little path, each time getting closer and closer to where she wanted him to touch her. Her whips buck up a little toward him, and she blinks open her eyes when he tuts his tongue, a pout on her mouth, “Getting impatient?” 

“Thought you were gonna touch me,” she hated how her voice trailed off in a whine, but she couldn’t help it. 

“I am, sweet girl,” he murmured, still tracing his fingers against her, “I’m just getting you warmed up a bit.” 

“Well, I’m warmed,” she concludes for him, shifting her hips closer to him, “Go on then.” 

Harry bites down hard on his lip like he’s fighting a smile that still draws on his mouth anyway, but he begins to work diligently on the knot that tied her shorts, before easily working them down her legs, “You’re lucky you’re so cute,” he murmured, “That’s why I’ll let you get away with being a brat.” 

“I’m not a brat,” she pouts her mouth, but that’s all she can muster as a retort -- she’s rendered speechless by the way he regards her center, even though she’s still covered by the lacy fabric of her panties. 

He takes his own deep breath before he frames her pussy with his hands, running the pad of his thumb up and down the borders of the lace. Y/N hadn’t realized how wet she was until now when he was just a thin sheet of fabric away from feeling it. He was careful to avoid all the spots she would love him to touch, but he only does this for a little while, as his final tease, and as if to prove she wasn’t a brat, she tries to control her hips as best as she can. 

Until he takes his thumb and strokes down against her slit, starting at her clit and ending at her hole; she gasps, she tilts herself closer to him off instinct as if to search for his finger again when it left her, “Goodness,” it sounds as if he’s speaking mostly to himself, “Look at that.” He does it again, this time with a little more pressure and he makes sure to stop at the dampened fabric and rub a small little circle there. His gaze meets her, his mouth wet from his tongue, “When’s the last time you touched yourself?” 

“Um,” she thinks back, swallowing thickly, “A few days ago, maybe.” 

“Hm,” he hums, seeming puzzled, “You’re so wet, you’d think you hadn’t been touched in ages -- do you always get this wet.” 

Only when I think of you, “Only sometimes,” she wiggles her hips as if to garner his attention, and he responds by stroking up and down her slit, smiling when she pulsates against his thumb, “Do you. . .is that okay?” 

“Of course it’s okay,” he all but coos, “I’m just trying to piece you together, sweetheart, think I can make you feel really, really, especially good,” he bites on his lip, dipping his fingers into the sides of her panties, pulling them up and away before letting them snap bag against her skin snuggly, and Y/N lets out a soft, small oh, “Have you ever squirted?” 

She shakes her head quickly, “I don’t think I can.” 

“Have you tried?” He presses, and she feels her face warm when she shakes her head, “Well then how do you know, hm? Do you want to give it a try today?.” 

He already sounds so encouraging, Y/N thinks she would do anything he asked her to. Harry was calm, and casual -- things didn’t have to be weird, just how they weren’t weird when she’d had her mouth on his prick -- it soothed her. To be able to talk during something like this, to discuss things. . .he was making an effort to communicate that not a lot of guys even considered attempting. She adds this to the ceaseless list of things Harry is effortlessly good at. 

“I -- I don’t know, I can try, but I don’t know if I can,” she answers, and she feels a bit small beneath him, watching him pet her slit. 

“It’s okay, babe, we don’t have to try today we can try next time, yeah? Today’s about making you feel good, don’t stress over it.” 

He tucks his fingers in the elastic of her underwear, and begins their descent, dragging them down and off her legs. He even unloops it from around her ankle before tossing them off the side of the bed. Now, when he looks back, he spreads Y/N open once more only this time he almost immediately places his thumb onto her swollen clit, rubbing slow, long circles over the button. 

“Christ,” he sighs, “Look at this pretty little pussy. How could anyone not treat it properly?” He pulls his thumb away, sucks it into his mouth until it's slick and shiny with his spit before he connects it back to her clit. Y/N moans without thought -- she’d been conscious in making an effort to not make much noise at all, but it drags from her throat and her thighs twitch, threatening to close around his hand, “Gorgeous, fucking gorgeous,” he pushes her left thigh open, keeping her stretched out, “How do you usually get off?” 

“Just -- I --” it’s hard to focus on a conversation with his hands doing what they were doing to her, with them sliding down to her hole, gathering the wetness that had collected there and dragging it back up and over her clit in loose circles, “I just rub myself, usually.” 

“Just rub?” He pushes further. 

She nods, her heels dig into the mattress, “My fingers don’t really feel good -- they can’t reach well.” 

“Poor thing,” he pouts his mouth for her, “You don’t have any toys?” 

“Not really,” she admits, “I don’t know what to -- to get -- oh,” Harry had circled his index finger around her hole before sinking it in, down to his knuckle, before curling it up and bumping against the bundle of nerves inside her. 

“That feels good?” He asks her and she nods, her eyes fluttering shut, “It looks like it feels good -- when’s the last time you had your g-spot stimulated?” Y/N’s brain is useless at mustering a response, searching for the words but she’s coming up blank as he strokes inside of her,  her fingers dig into the blankets beside her, “I asked you a question, baby, you need to answer me. Or do I have to stop to get a response?” 

“Please don’t!” She rushes, “Please, please I -- um, I don’t remember. . .the last time I had sex? It was. . .it was a while ago. Seven or eight months, maybe?”

Y/N doesn’t know if his gasp is feigned to tease her, or honest in his surprise, but nonetheless, he pulls out his index finger to slide his middle finger in beside it, stroking at her more firmly with both, “No wonder you’re so tight! And you’re just soaking my fingers,” he withdraws them to show her, stretching his fingers away from one another to show her how her juices cling to him, before he dips them back inside of her. Only this time as he’s rubbing against her g-spot, his thumb presses against her clit and he’s rubbing firm little circles into it. 

She moans again, back arching just a little as her head falls back into her pillows -- she tries to mute herself with her own finger, but Harry reaches up and loops his fingers around her wrist, giving it a soft pull from her face, “Don’t hide those precious noises. You have to let me know I’m making you feel good.” 

Her body responds to him, she pulsates around his fingers and grips him tighter, another groan dragging from her throat and he coos, “That’s it, Sweetheart, there we go. Just like that.” 

Her thighs tremble, he leans over and lets spit drop from his mouth over her pussy before rubbing it in and over, punching his fingers in and out of her, constantly nudging the bundle of nerves. He has a hand holding at her hips and when he slides his thumb just a bit beneath the hood of her clit, touching more directly on it, one of her hands finds him. She holds onto him tightly, and he lifts his fingers so that she can curl hers around them. 

“I think,” she began, her legs wrapped around him some, and he’d pulled her close enough that she was practically in his lap -- she could feel how hard he was and it made her squirm. . .she’s sure, even with the size of him, she was so wet that he would just slip right inside her, “I think I’m gonna cum.” 

“Yeah?” He slides his hand from her hip and places it on her lower belly, his palm is warm against her skin, “Thought I wouldn’t be able to get you off with my fingers though?” 

His taunt is mixed in with her whimper as her hips roll down to meet his fingers, “You’re g’na make me cum,” she tells him, mouth fallen open, neck outstretched, “fuck --” Harry’s leaning forward, tucking his head against her throat before letting his tongue roll over a pulse point. He sucks tenderly on the skin, his fingers still working diligently, and with him as close as he was, her senses were almost overloaded. He smelled good, he was so warm, he felt nice -- everything was amazing. She wishes he would kiss her -- wishes that he’d slip their tongues together while she came around his fingers, but she doesn’t ask for it. 

No, instead, the hot pool of arousal that had been spinning through her body, topples over and floods her vessels. Her orgasm dazzles through her, like sparkles of white heat as her back arches into him, pressing their chests together, and he works her through it with little murmurs and encouragement against her neck. 

“Look so pretty like this,” he said, his voice hushed, “Just ride it out. . .yeah, yeah there you go,” her chest heaves with each bated breath she takes, her head is spinning, and her muscles feel like gelatin as she comes down from the high. Harry’s fingers only slowed when she started twitching and whimpering, hips jutting away from him to avoid any further stimulation. He withdrew his fingers slowly before slipping them into his mouth, tonguing away at them.

Y/N watches him intently, “Do I taste good?” 

“Better than I could describe,” he responds, “You’ll let me try it straight from the honey pot, won’t you? Not tonight -- sensitive little thing you are, but soon.” 

“You want to touch me again? After this?” She asks and he nods. 

“If you’ll allow me to -- I think you deserve to feel good. You’re a good person, with a beautiful heart, you deserve to feel pleasure that knows no bounds and -- and I’d like to be the one that gives that to you, yeah?” He pats gently at her thigh, “How about we get you cleaned up, yeah? Then we can have a bit of a cuddle.” 

She breathes out a puff of air, her eyes trained on where his jeans bulged out, “What about you?” She asks him, playfully nudging him with her foot, but he grabs a hold of her by the ankle with a laugh, “I can suck you off.” 

“I’ll take care of myself. Tonight was about you, remember?”