#crooked-stemmed aster | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

moonchildstyles · 3 years

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omg can u do a blurb of aster harry giving y/n a tattoo? like a little flower that was mentioned in poppy🥺 and she’d be so nervous but he’d be so sweet w her and it’d be in a place only he could see

@wantmoreberries: could we get an aster blurb of h giving yn her first tattoo

aster blurb where harry actually gives her a poppy flower tattoo please!

Please can we see an aster blurb of Harry giving yn a tattoo 🥺 also getting frisky in his tattoo chair is a MOOD 👀💗

Hey! Could you please write a blurb about aster harry giving y/n her first tattoo pleeeeaaassseeee🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺

aster y/n getting her first tattoo and being really scared (but she definitely wants it obvs) and harry just completely babying her and reassuring and looking after it properly and everything and after it’s done all she wants is cuddles with harry... this has been on my mind since I first read aster when you posted it and I just think it would be a really sweet moment for them 🥰💕

Can you write an aster extra/blurb where (y/n) asks harry to tattoo for the first time and the tattoo she wants matches his butterfly or another one of his tattoos?

this has been super requested for a really long time and I just now finally did it and I really really really hope u all like it and it was worth the wait !!!!

wordcount: 11k+

—————

"What are you drawing?"

(Y/N) draped herself over Harry's shoulders, her arms falling over his front as he sat before her vanity with his sketchpad out. Her hair was still damp as she'd just come from her shower, skin softened from the cream scented lotion she favored. She looked over his shoulder at the florets he was sketching out, his curls tied into a quick bun on the top of his head with tendrils falling to the nape of his neck and framing his face. With her chin tucked into the crook of his shoulder, she could feel the smile that sprouted on his lips. Harry paused his sketching and brought his free hand up and gently took hold of her forearm that was now situated across the width of his shoulders.

"Jus' some flowers," he mumbled, shifting his hold on her to lace his fingers between hers. He brought the back of her hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to the expanse.

"For your books?" Her eyes traced along a sketching of a lavender sprig, the flowers along the stem blooming. She liked that one; she could see it colored in pink despite the purpled hue of the mother plant, a sage green lining the stem.

"For you, actually."

Harry spoke so simply as if she was supposed to have known all along. He absently released his hold on her hand, picking up his pencil and continued his sketching despite the flutter of shock filtering through (Y/N). He'd mentioned it here and there that he was drafting up ideas with her in mind, things he thought would be beautiful set against her skin, but he'd never actively shown her any or so openly broadcast the fact.

She gazed at the sketching under a new lens, the blooming lavender sprig altering under a rose tinted view. "Oh," she breathed.

He moved on to another idea, sweeping his hand across the page before beginning a depiction of crawling ivy leaves. The vines were tamed to a single string, dotted with the smallest of blossoms. Each design was simple, and he was right—each one she liked, and, now with the knowledge they were crafted with her in mind, she could see each of them adorning her body in discreet spots.

"What d'you think?" his voice was nonchalant as he pulled back from the page, allowing her full range across the paper.

"They're really pretty, H," she said, voice quiet between them, "You're so talented."

"Y'tell me that every time," he laughed.

He reminded her of herself when Harry would be a bit shy to compliments about his work. He knew he was good at what he did, but he'd told (Y/N) before that it just felt different when she said it; it felt more genuine to him.

"Because it's true."

(Y/N) turned her head to place a kiss on the full of Harry's smiling cheek, lips warming from the heat of his pinkened skin.

Harry allowed her to watch, silence sitting between them as her gaze followed his hand over the page. She scanned over the delicate florals strewn over the paper, some more simple than others but they were all enchanting. Each one was composed of simple lines, little shading added to the pieces, keeping it to an overtly simple and delicate style (Y/N) loved. The string of ivy directed her towards a small cluster of blooming hydrangeas. The biggest of the designs was still a somewhat small string of orchids, curling up to the lavender-esque flower that caught her eye the first time.

"Which one's your favorite?" he questioned absently, erasing stray marks around a small rosebud he'd sketched out.

"I like that one, the flower in the corner" she peeped, pointing it out with her finger hovering over the page.

"'S pretty, huh? Thought y'might like how simple it was," he mused, reaching to pull his sketchbook closer.

(Y/N) pictured the drawing all colored in, the petals a softened pink and the stems carrying an equally pasteled green color. "Really pretty," she continued, tracing each blossom along the elongated stem with her eyes.

"C'mere," Harry said after a beat, straightening his posture before tugging on (Y/N)'s arm settled across his chest.

He lent away from her vanity as (Y/N) moved along with him, standing up straight before shuffling to stop in front of him. He smiled up at her, gaze bare from his usual eyeliner as he was dressed for bed in a comfortable pair of sweats and a vintage t-shirt. He didn't say anything as he pat his thighs, his smile going crooked as he did so. (Y/N) shyly did as asked, sitting herself atop his lap with her back to his chest. She couldn't help but feel a heat in her cheeks at the position, this one being something Harry'd began to favor as of late, ever since Valentine's when he taught her how to properly take care of herself.

Harry hooked an arm around her middle, his tattooed forearm lying against her tummy as he pulled her close. He rested his chin on her shoulder much like she had before, pulling his sketchbook closer for her to look at with the same view as him. He allowed her to take the book into her own hands, the same one she had gifted him for Valentine's that was now almost hallway full already. With his hands now free, Harry settled the warmth of his palms against the full of her thighs. The soft sleep shorts she wore ended just below the curve of her bottom, giving Harry free reign over the steam-softened skin of her legs.

Harry stretched his free arm around (Y/N)'s form on his lap, reaching for his sketching pencil he had abandoned in his effort to put her in his lap. (Y/N) watched on as he moved the pencil around the blossom, experimentally sketching out another sprig tied to the other. "Could even add another, make a little bunch," he suggested as the bones of the second flower were put in place beside the original, "Or do y'like it the other way better?"

She watched his hand move, creating another version of the flower branching right off the main sprig. The second was much smaller, boasting a short collection of flowers before the stem rejoined the main piece. The entire piece was barely longer than an inch, the lining kept intricately delicate as was Harry's trademark.

"I like the two together," she decided, picturing the small second one in a slightly brighter shade of pink compared to the pastel tone of the main sprig.

They sat in silence for a moment, Harry continuing to flesh out the idea while (Y/N) watched each glide of his hands against the page. She tried to picture herself with the minuscule tattoo, where she would feel comfortable with the art resting for the rest of her life. Despite the fact she didn't plan on seeing her parents anytime soon, she couldn't help but shy away from the more visible spaces on her body—arms being out of the picture in case she ever had to face them again. But, she still wanted to be able to see it if she did decide to go through with it, to admire the small act of rebellion and the beauty of Harry's work—her back and other invisible spots out of her options. She whittled down her options, wanting somewhere she could easily cover it up, but still be able to look upon it proudly—if she ever got it anyway.

She boiled down her options to somewhere that felt a bit scandalous, but made the most sense to her. The curve of the sprig allowed her to picture it on a more rounded part of her body, accentuating the arch in a delicate way: on the very side of her ribs, along the curve of her breast that would be easily hidden by her bra or swimsuit but still somewhere that felt special and pretty to her. She felt happy with the vision she had conjured up, contentedly smiling to herself as Harry added a couple more leaves to the drawing as he finished.

"Have y'thought about it at all?" Harry spoke, detailing the small of the flowers. His arm around her middle occasionally tightened, his fingers flexing around the soft of her side in reassuring squeezes.

"Hm?" she hummed, unsure of what he was talking about. Hopefully he hadn't been talking to her while she wasn't paying attention.

"Getting a tattoo."

Since Halloween, it had been on (Y/N)'s mind a lot more than usual after finding out Harry had been drafting up ideas in secret for her. She liked the idea, picturing small things she saw on Instagram or Pinterest on her own body, even some that Harry had designed for other clients, but she hadn't had that urge she thought she should have before committing to a piece.

"A little, yeah," she offered, eyes still drawn to the flower in the corner of the page. Maybe it was the fact he had drawn it exclusively for her, but she kind of fell in love with the idea of the floral being etched on her skin.

Something beautiful made for her by the most special person in her life.

Harry hummed in response, still mainly focused on the finishing touches for the sketch as he pressed a kiss to (Y/N)'s hair.

"You know," Harry mumbled, clearing his throat, "It doesn't have to be from me—the tattoo I mean. If y'find something y'like from someone else, I won't be offended if y'wanted to see them instead. I jus' want you to be happy if y'ever decided to get a tattoo."

(Y/N) almost felt offended for him—offended over the fact he could ever think she would want anyone else to give her something so permanent and that she considered special. And, hadn't she told him enough? Hadn't she told him over and over that she loved his art style and every bit of his talent was a gift to whomever was lucky enough to be tattooed by him?

She craned her neck to get a look of Harry peeking over her shoulder, a pouting furrow doing its part to pinch her brows together. "Don't say that," she insisted, "I wouldn't want anybody but you to do it."

"Darling, 'm only saying—"

"But you don't have to," she pressed, shuffling on his lap to sit sideways to get a better look at him with Harry's arm around her tummy keeping her stable atop his thighs, "I want it done by you and only you."

A slow smile bloomed across his features, his hand on her side flexing around the soft curve. He did his best to settle her against his chest again, cuddling her close before he dipped his head down. His eyes fell closed with the lashes touching at the height of his cheekbones as he pressed a kiss to her cheek. "You're too cute, love, m'little cheerleader," he mumbled as he pulled away, voice low to create a sense of privacy in the already empty room, "Thank you."

She was still slightly unhappy over the idea of him trying to downplay how much she admired his work, but satisfied enough with his answer. Craning her neck, she caught his lips in a small kiss—an innocent, but indulgent press of their lips before drawing back. She found Harry slowly blinking his eyes open, a small dreamy smile on his lips. He looked to her with a somewhat hooded gaze, giving her something akin to sleepy bedroom eyes.

"What?" he asked after a moment, maneuvering her on his lap to get a better view of her face.

Her eyes dropped to the tattoos adorning his neck before the ink disappeared into the loose neckline of his shirt, finding hidden heart shapes in the coiling, rose adorned vines. She brought her hand up to touch at the smallest rose bud inked on his skin, Harry's skin warm under her touch with his pulse racing only inches away. "Nothing," she said, looking up at him through her lashes, "I just love you."

A breathy laugh was exhaled through his nose at her words, his own hand reaching up to grab at the one tracing his tattoos. He brought the palm to his mouth, pressing a kiss to the skin before shifting it to lay against his cheek with his own hand on top. "I love you too, angel."

Harry tugged her in for one more kiss, one that (Y/N) found it hard to pull back from. And she wouldn't have if she didn't know Harry was already much too tired to entertain the rippling thoughts disrupting her heartbeat.

(Y/N) knew he'd been tired after his day at work from the minute stories he shared about the day and the fact he had suggested they just stay at her's that night. He typically preferred to bring her back to his where there was more space and privacy, but when he was too exhausted to make the rounds of picking her up and taking her back to his place, her small room and even smaller bed became his home for the night. She could feel his sleep seeping from his skin, coating their embrace in the comforting warmth he carried wherever he went. She'd opt for cuddling instead that night, any bit of intimacy she'd take.

"Sleepy?" she prompted when she pulled back, already standing from her spot on his lap. She quickly wrapped her hands up in his, fingers lacing together to showcase the chipping black polish on his nails.

Harry looked up to her with a sleep soaked gaze, pliantly moving along to her pull. "If y'are," he countered.

(Y/N) couldn't help but smile at his small show, always wanting to make sure she was taken care of before any focus was put on himself. She only nodded her head, allowing him to think the early bedtime was for her and not because of he exhaustion bagging his eyes. Harry cracked a small smile, lagging behind for a second to flip the cover of his sketchbook closed with the inspiring designs left inside.

Under her leading, they moved to her bed with (Y/N) climbing under sheets first. Harry flicked her lights off, leaving the lulling glow of her cloud-shaped fairylights bordering the room to dimly light the space. She watched on from under the cotton candy-like puffs of her creamy pink comforter as Harry tugged at the neckline of his shirt, pulling it over his head and tossing it to the growing pile of his things. He was left in only his forest green sweats when he crawled onto her bed, her favorite lopsided smile of his curling his lips as he slipped under the duvet beside her.

(Y/N) couldn't help but selfishly love the sight of Harry among her things—seeing him and all of his deep colors and dark tattoos covering his skin surrounded by soft shades of pink and cream with complimentary florals and angelic accessories. She especially loved seeing bits and pieces of him littered around her room, from the sketchbook on her pure white vanity to the long, black jacket he hung on the hook on her closet door beside the angel wings she wore for Halloween. She hoped those details gave him the same sense of comfort they did for her.

Maybe, having a tattoo designed by his hand and etched onto her body would give the same kind of comfort. If she got one anyway.

The idea bloomed a warmth in her chest as Harry wrapped his arms around her from under the blanket. Since her bed was much smaller than his, they tended to snuggle closer than normal, practically on top of one another. (Y/N) definitely didn't mind, it only made it easier to hear the beating of his heart, a rhythm she found comforting.

As per the usual ritual, Harry pulled her atop him with his hands on her sides. He laid on he flat of his back with the intentions of moving (Y/N) to lie halfway on top of him with their legs tangled together and her cheek on his chest. It was similar to how they slept at Harry's house, but now (Y/N) wasn't afforded her own edge of the mattress to start the night out on and her own pillow should Harry have to shift her onto it in the night. In her bed, they were to share the same small space with (Y/N) gaining the privilege of listening to Harry's heartbeat as she drifted off and Harry got to keep her flush against him like he craved after long days, repeating soothing runs of his hands down her back and tender caresses of her hair as she drifted off.

"Want me to play your playlist or talk to you tonight?" Harry questioned, his voice rippling his chest under her cheek.

Usually, Harry either played her a soft playlist he had put together before bed, knowing she liked a bit of noise like that while she transitioned into her dreams. Or, he would talk to her. It was never about anything in particular, but she had told him on more than one occasion—both sober and with a couple glasses of sweet wine—that she loved the sound of his voice, found it the most soothing thing to sleep to when she had trouble drifting off. So he'd made it a part of their routine, either queueing up the set of songs she'd become fond of or he'd tell her stories from his day that would most likely shift into praises revolving around her.

"Talk, please. I missed you today." She melted into his chest, the pad of her finger absently tracing along the sketching of one of his many chest pieces.

She could hear his smile even in the small hum he gave at her words. Harry continued the pacifying rounds of his hand on her back as he left them in silence for a beat longer.

"I've thought a lot about giving you a tattoo, you know," Harry started, voice quiet between them, his timbre matching the beat of his heart. "Ever since y'told me that night when we talked about all m'tattoos, I keep thinking about what it'd be like to give y'one."

Before they'd even made love for the first time, they had cuddled (semi)naked one night she had spent the night at Harry's. She had asked him a list of questions about the ink adorning his body, ranging from what certain designs meant to him, to what the experience was like receiving them. (He'd even shared one incident when he'd had such a specific vision for a tattoo that he gave it to himself after hours). (Y/N) was fascinated at the idea; even the sillier stories Harry told that backed his tattoos captivated her attention. He had romanticized the idea of ink etched into skin for her, something that had been demonized while growing up.

She remembered because that had been the night she also began really contemplating the idea of getting a tattoo of her own.

"Really?" she pressed, voice coming in a sleepened slur against his chest.

"Mhm," Harry hummed, "Been driving the boys at the shop mad drawing up little flowers like the ones I showed you. But, I think they like it much better than the month I didn't stop bothering them about the best way to shade in pink angel wings. Liam started avoiding me when I kept asking if I could practice a set of those minimalist little sets on his ribs."

She could hear the fond smile in his voice despite the sleepened state of her brain, knowing he told the story to act as a silly anecdote, but (Y/N) couldn't help the way her heart hurt at the visions he was painting in her head. He'd spent months thinking of different things he felt were worthy of being inked onto her skin, even bothering his co-workers and friends to be some sort of guinea pig so he could have it down if or when she ever asked him for such a thing. It made her want to tell him how much she loved the lavender he drew her. Tell him to get up and take her to the shop and have it put on her skin then and there.

Instead, she sufficed by pressing a kiss to the bare skin of his chest, cuddling that much closer to his warmth. Harry smiled against the crown of her head, the arm around her middle tightening to reciprocate her adoring hold.

He went on for a while longer, recounting what seemed to be every single time he had been inspired to create something for her and what each design had come out to be. (Y/N) slowly fell sleepier and sleepier with each run of his voice in her ears though she tried to cling to consciousness to hear everything he wanted to share.

Her eyes were closed and her hand had fallen flat against his chest, the soothing twirl of her fingers against his tattoos having stopped as Harry's hand on her back trailed up to brush through her hair. His fingertips grazed the full of her cheek as he moved her hair from her face, his thumb tenderly tracing along the line of her jaw.

"It would be jus' y'and me, you know—if y'ever got a tattoo I mean," he mused, his words coming out in a stream of consciousness the more sure he was that she was almost asleep, "Jus' y'and me at the shop, could do it after we close. Wouldn't have to worry about anyone else or any of the boys. I'd take care of y'and make your tattoo just as pretty as you are."

She was floating in the cloudy space between dreams and reality as the picture flitted in her head. (Y/N) could see them in one of the small private rooms reserved for piercings or intimate tattoos, but instead it would be her laid on one of the chairs with Harry at her side. She was still stuck on the lavender sketch waiting in his book for her, the vision of them including Harry tracing it onto her skin with the tattoo gun. Maybe it wasn't if she would get a tattoo anymore, as opposed to when.

It would be just them. And he'd take care of her.

She didn't catch what Harry said after that. Her dreams that night consisted of pinkened lavender sprigs and tattooed hands keeping their promise of taking care of her.

—————

"Baby, what are y'doing here?"

(Y/N) smiled as she slipped into Harry's office. He was sat at his desk with a slew of paperwork covering the surface, hiding the sketchings he had been working on for a client of his tomorrow. He spun in his chair, looking to her with a relieved smile on his face though the expression was tangled with one of confusion. The dim lighting in the room left small shadows on his face, only having a couple of lamps on to keep him company as he filled out his paperwork.

She dropped her school bag onto the couch before moving to sit beside it on the cushion closest to his desk. "I got out of class early, and don't have to be at the library tonight so I thought I'd come see you."

Harry didn't waste a moment before he was up and out of his chair, pushing her bag out of the way before settling beside her on the couch. He wrapped an arm around her shoulder, tucking her against his side. A gentle kiss was pressed to the top of her head, his nose skimming the strands of hair as he exhaled.

"I missed you," he mumbled into the crown of her head. Harry melted against her, his free hand reaching for her own to hold in his.

"I missed you too, H," (Y/N) reciprocated, lacing her fingers between his, "How was your morning?" She casually ran her thumb along the curve between his index finger and thumb, right over his love me please? tattoo that'd become one of her favorites since he'd first told her he loved her all that time ago.

"Long," Harry answered simply, voice quiet between them. "We should've jus' stayed in bed this morning."

(Y/N) couldn't help but breathe a laugh at the conclusion he came to, recalling the way he had been the one to get her up and ready to go this morning when she had pleaded for an extra five minutes more. "That bad?"

Harry dropped his face to cuddle into the delicate skin of her neck, the cool of his lip ring tracing along the skin as he spoke. "Jus' wanted to be with you."

(Y/N) slipped her hand from his, reaching up to settle her palm against the side of his jaw. She pulled back from him, a complaining groan falling from his lips as he was forced to abandon the home he had made in her neck. Craning her neck, she faced Harry and the pouting set in his lips.

"Do you have any appointments the rest of the day?" Her thumb traced along the structure of his cheekbone as Harry leaned into her hand.

He shifted under her hand, turning his cheek to press his lips against the palm. He blinked his eyes open, looking to (Y/N) with the intensity of his eyeliner accented eyes. "No, jus' paperwork I have to finish," he grumbled. Though the stack on his desk seemed small, the fine print and amount of signatures and approvals needed were overwhelming.

"When you finish, we can go back to mine if you want?" she offered. Her apartment was closer anyway, and he seemed tired enough to not mind the size of her bed.

"Please," he sighed, his free hand reaching towards the curve of her waist. (Y/N) jumped when his fingers made contact with her side, the hem of her shirt having rode up and allowed the cool of his rings to brush against her skin. Harry smiled at the action, minutely adjusting his hand to settle over the bunched fabric of her pink top. "Will y'stay with me while I work, angel? So we can go home together?"

Did he even have to ask?

"Of course," she answered, taking the opportunity to press a kiss to the corner of his lips, "I have some homework to do anyway."

"Good. Don't want y'to be far from me right now." He gave her a few lingering kisses to her lips before drawing away. He reluctantly pulled his hands from her form, moving to go back to his desk where the license renewals and HR forms were stacking against him.

A relaxing silence fell over the room, (Y/N) pulling out her own work while the sound of shuffling papers came from Harry's spot. She saw from the corner of her eye, his sketchbook being pushed to the side, teetering off the corner of his desk closest to her.

Usually, when (Y/N) waited for Harry to finish up at the shop, whether he was tattooing or dealing with the business side of his dream, he'd pass off his sketchbook to her if she didn't have anything else to do. Ever since that first time in his office however long ago (a day (Y/N) remembers quite vividly what they had done on the sofa), it'd become one of her favorite things to do at the shop—going through his new drawings and sketches he hadn't shown her yet. He even allowed her to add her own little doodlings to the pages if she wanted, as long it wasn't a page dedicated to a client. A lot of the time (Y/N) opted to add small notes in the margins, or smiley suns and happy flowers that greatly paled in comparison to the pieces of art he had shaded on the page.

Staring at the sketchbook set aside as Harry flipped through different forms, (Y/N) wanted to abandon the leftover homework in front of her. She knew, tucked away on one of those pages was the lavender he'd drawn with her in mind.

Since the night at her apartment, she hadn't been able to shake the piece from her mind. Every time she remembered the small sprig, something warmed in her chest. The feeling was something akin to the nerved excitement she could only compare to the moments before Harry kissed her for the first time. She wanted it, she could picture her skin adorned with the delicate ink, but held a certain amount of anxiety over the actual act of receiving it.

But, over the days, she'd come to a conclusion she hadn't expected to ever make: she wanted a tattoo. As soon as she could work it out with Harry, she wanted to take him up on his offer to take that private room with him and allow him to embellish her skin with his art.

But, Harry was busy and she didn't want to bother him when he already seemed so stressed. So she worked on her own papers behind him, making the finishing touches on an outline for an essay that would be due next week and starting the list of questions that pertained to a novel she was meant to finish analyzing for her romantic literature course. Every so often, she would hear Harry breathe a small sigh or let out a hum as his pen ran across the page.

He was distracting, even the smallest of ways.

Harry wasn't even doing anything, but (Y/N) couldn't help but sneak glances over to him. She'd always had a bit of a thing for his shoulders and the broad set in them, something that caught her eye and took her focus. Today's scenario brought her to one of the private rooms out in the main area of the shop, an innocent take on the image as she was laid in the chair with Harry needling in the fresh pink of the tattoo ink into her skin. Maybe then, watching him work on her like that, his shoulders would distract her as well, take off the nervous edge of her excitement.

"Are y'done already?" Harry asked, breaking from his repetitious movements of flipping through the pages. He looked to her from his spot at his desk, the stack he had been working on now reduced to a few remaining pages.

"Huh?" Maybe she was a bit more distracted than she thought.

A smile spread across Harry's features; he knew he caught her. "Your homework, did y'finish already?"

"Oh," she peeped, brows raising as she flicked her gaze to the pages in front of her, "N-Not yet, I was just—um—I got—"

"Distracted?" Harry finished for her, his hand coming up to run along the line of his jaw as a crooked smile took his features. (Y/N) nodded a small bit, eyes rounding out as she gazed at him. "What were y'thinking about?" Harry pressed, twisting his chair further to face her fully.

She felt a bit too shy to share the train of thought that focused on the strong set of his shoulders, instead going to where the initial thought had taken her. "Just you, g-giving me a tattoo."

The volume of her voice had gradually fallen as she spoke, something she hadn't meant to do. She realized halfway through that she hadn't actually told Harry of her conclusion, that she had decided she wanted to have a piece of his art on her body since she became certain almost a week ago. Harry had been the one to suggest it every time prior to this moment, so she wasn't sure why she was getting shy over her admittance. But since when did her nervous ticks ever make sense?

The softest curl of his lips molded his features, placing his elbow on the flat of his desk before propping his chin up in his palm. "Yeah? What about it?"

Her hands fumbled in her lap, working into a lace of her fingers before untangling only to repeat the process. "Just how you said we could take one of the private rooms, and have it be only me and you here for it. Th-that lavender kind of flower you drew last time we stayed at my place, I keep thinking about it."

"Really?" Harry smiled, "You're serious?" (Y/N) only gave him a petite nod, the smile on her face matching the excited glint he had taken on. Harry couldn't help himself as he reached towards his sketchbook, thumbing through the pages before he found the floral exhibition that had framed her thoughts. "This one?" He pointed at he floret tucked away in the corner, still uncolored with only simple lines to make up the piece.

"Mhm," (Y/N) hummed, the bundle enchanting her further now that the real thing was in front of her again. "I really, really like it, H."

The smile on his face caused the dents of his dimples to deepen as he flicked his gaze from the drawing up to where she sat in front of him. "And you'd really let me be the one to do it f'you? With my design?"

She couldn't help but feel her muscles soften and her heart follow suit at the sound of the incredulous tone in his voice. "Of course. I trust you."

Harry excitedly perked up in his seat, moving the sketchbook from his hold to sit back on the surface of his desk. He reached for her hands in her lap, the lines around his mouth acting as parentheses the deeper his smile got. "Do y'want to do it soon? We could tonight, I jus' need to prep the room and get everything closed up then it'll be jus' us. Did y'want color, or just the plain black? Where did y'want it?"

(Y/N) couldn't help but let out a laugh at the animation that took over his words and bounced him in his spot. Had he really been waiting for this?

"I don't know if we should do it tonight, H, I don't think I'm ready. And we're both tired," she reasoned, watching as Harry immediately nodded along.

"Right, you're right," he mused, squeezing her hands in his, "I wanna make sure y'don't have class the next day afterwards; wanna be there so I can check if it's healing properly and y'aren't hurting."

(Y/N)'s smile retained her features as she listened to his stream of consciousness, agreeing to each of his self-prescribed conditions. "And, I think I want color, if you think that'll work. I know it's a lavender flower, but I was hoping we make it pink? Like that soft—"

"Yeah, yeah," Harry beamed, "In your pink, the soft one. Would look even better like that. And a green, sage kind of color for the stems?"

He knew her well.

She happily nodded along to his suggestion, feeling even more excited at the way Harry couldn't get his words out fast enough as he finished her sentences. "I was thinking we could put it on my ribs?" she started, slipping one of her hands from his to point out the exact place where she wanted the flower to rest. She ran her fingers just a hair away from the curve of her breast, thumbing over her ribcage. "Like right there, where my bra would sit to cover it."

This is where Harry showed a moment of hesitation, the first fumble since he had enthusiastically latched onto her idea. His eyes traced over the spot she had pointed out, brows pinching just the slightest. "Are y'sure, darling? That's a rough place for a first tattoo; your ribs can be pretty painful to be tattooed over."

(Y/N) hadn't quite thought of that. She figured it all hurt the same, no matter where the needle would land. "Oh," she breathed, deflating a bit, "I hadn't really thought about that."

She felt like she had to start over now, the curvature of the tattoo not fitting anywhere else in her head. Maybe she needed to think about this longer, and this small obstacle was just the sign to tell her to slow down.

"But," Harry started, shuffling that much closer to her as he reached the edge of his chair, "Jus' because it'll hurt a tiny bit more, doesn't mean we can't put it there if that's what y'want. I think it would look really, really pretty there. It'd be special jus' for y'to see."

"Do you think I'll be able to handle it, if it hurts a lot?" She sought out his reassurance, an extra centimeter added to the nervous edge of her excitement.

"I know y'can. 'S not that bad, especially since you're wanting something so small. You're jus' probably going to be sore for a little while longer than other places." The pad of his thumb ran along the outside of her hand, the black of his nail polish matching the gleam of his nose ring. "We could next weekend? If y'think you'll be ready by then. It'll give me time to get your colors ordered, and we can work on a stencil to make sure 's perfect for you."

In that moment, it felt real. The vision of them alone in the private room, Harry working away at the delicate piece of art that would forever decorate her skin became more realized. The bubbling flurry in her stomach only heightened.

"Yeah, that sounds good," she agreed, her own smile matching his.

Harry sealed the deal with a kiss against her lips, the smiling set of her own mouth only adding to the affection. Now, she only had to wait.

—————

Over the following week, during every free moment, Harry was doing anything he could to prefect the details of (Y/N)'s tattoo.

He could spend hours going over different shades of ink, debating over if he should order a pre-dispersed ink that looked like it would match what they had in mind or if he felt more confident mixing the pigments himself. As pretty as the colors she had wanted were, he knew that the lighter shades—especially the green of the stem—were prone to fading much faster than deeper colors, so he wanted to get as much insurance as he could on the ink. (Y/N) wasn't quite as picky as he was, just wanting it to resemble the idea she had in her head as much as they could get it, but Harry wasn't settling for anything less than perfection.

In between figuring out the specific shading he had in mind, Harry was sketching and refiguring the design over and over. Now knowing the placement she wanted, he made minor changes, adding a stronger curve to the main piece and elongating the stem. (Y/N) was called in to okay each change he made, no matter how minute it was. Harry was taking this more seriously than she was, and she couldn't help but feel a bit her heart bloat a bit with every check-in he made with her.

Something odd that she had noticed he now also began doing, was paying special attention to the patch of skin they had slated up to be the resting place for her tattoo. It wasn't overtly obvious, but when they were cuddled up in bed his hand would slip under her shirt and trail up her side before thumbing over the area. He never really acknowledged the action, just continuing talking to her or fluttering his eyes closed to start his descent into sleep. (Y/N) wasn't even sure if he was even aware he was doing it. She never said anything about it, finding the action comforting.

(Y/N) was excited, each day that counted down and every tiny bit of preparation that Harry made for her only added to the piling elation in her tummy. She couldn't wait to have a small part of Harry's world on her forever.

—————

"You're early, didn't think y'were off from the library until eight?"

A jittery kind of excitement sent tremors through (Y/N)'s hands as she closed the shop door behind her. Harry was stood behind the computer at the front desk, the other boys having gone home for the night as he closed up. He looked to her with a matching enthused smile, his hands freezing over the keyboard to give her the full of his attention.

"I told everyone I was getting my tattoo tonight and they let me go early," she beamed, rounding the desk in the reception area to go to him.

Harry readily wrapped an arm around her shoulders, tugging her to him to press a kiss to the top of her head. "I still need to get the room set up, but y'can wait for me if y'want. Jus' need to finish closing the system and I'll be right there."

(Y/N) peeped out a small okay, rising to her tip-toes to press a kiss to Harry's cheek before padding off to the first of the private rooms. She felt oddly uncomfortable as she moved about the room, placing her bag on the small bench offered before distractedly pulling out her phone. A thread of texts lit up her screen, most from Sarah with an emoji punctuating each message about how excited she was for her friend and to send however many pictures afterwards. A single one from Mitch stood out, wishing her good luck and that he was ready for Harry to stop bothering him about each new reworking of the design. She happily replied to each one, feeling a little less uneasy now that she had something small to focus on while she waited.

A few minutes later, Harry stepped into the room carrying a small tray of the pigments and the more delicate of his tattoo guns he planned on using for her. His smile from earlier still tugged at his lips, dimples deeply denting his cheeks as he looked to her.

"Ready?" Harry started, beginning to set up the small stand that would be beside him as he tattooed her.

"Yeah," she said, not trusting her voice not to waver if she spoke anymore.

She didn't think she would be this nervous, really. Throughout the waiting days, she hadn't much thought of the process, more so focusing on the ending product. Small doubts had appeared now that the moment was becoming more and more real, hearkening back to the original reasons she had waited so long to take up Harry's offer.

What if she ended up regretting it? What if the tattoo was beautiful, but didn't look right on her? What if, somehow, her parents found out and they-they—She didn't know what they would do, but she knows it wouldn't be pleasant to hear from them over this. And she couldn't help but add the worry over the pain to the growing list of anxieties. That was something that hadn't been more than a fleeting thought until this moment, but now she couldn't help but feel a tint of fear take over her thoughts at the prospect of a needle pummeling ink into her skin along with the anxiety of getting a tattoo at all.

Harry didn't seem to pick up on her hesitance as he turned to start mixing up the trio of pigments that would make up the petal soft color of the flowers. "Y'can get up on the chair, angel. Take off your shirt if you're ready."

She could hear the pending excitement in his voice, able to picture the bright expression on his face despite his back being turned to her. She absently followed his instructions, hands surprisingly shaky with less excitement and more nerves than she remembered.

Now only adorned in a flowery bralette with the soft pink of her shirt bundled in front of her middle, (Y/N) hesitantly laid herself on the black leather of the tattoo chair. She felt stiff against the cushions, not melting into it the same way she has when she's taken this same position. She was aware of the buzzing of her phone in her back pocket, but couldn't bring herself to pull it out and check who had responded to her messages, her fingers tightly fisting her shirt.

She jumped when she heard the sound of the tattoo gun start up, her taut muscles snapping at the abrupt noise. Harry breathed a laugh as he flicked it off, tossing a glance over his shoulder to her.

"Sorry, love, was jus' plugging it in," he offered before returning his attention to the green hued powders he needed to mix next.

(Y/N) was silent as she watched him, feeling her muscles recoiling again as the silence allowed too much of her anxiety to create puddles in her thoughts. Harry had no idea as he continued to mix up the ink, (Y/N) wishing the small cups of color could take her attention away too. She needed to say something to him, he always knew what to do and figure the best way to calm her down. She just hoped she could get it out.

"Harry, I-I'm—" (Y/N) couldn't find her voice as she spoke, a slight waver now that it was real. She was really in the chair, with her shirt off waiting for Harry to give her a real tattoo.

"Hm?" Harry responded, looking over his shoulder at her for just a second as he reached for a pair of gloves, "You're what, lovebug?"

Her voice died in her throat, leaving only a small whine in its place. That caught Harry's attention immediately, dropping the pair of latex gloves onto the counter as he turned to her with a furrow in his brow. He was at her side in a second, sitting in the small stool he placed beside the chair. She shyly clutched her shirt over her middle, covering her bralette covered breasts and the heaving of her chest.

"Hey," he started, voice quiet and soft, "What's wrong? What happened, darling? I thought y'were excited."

She didn't even know where to start. He was right, she had been really excited at the beginning of the night, she wasn't even sure what exactly it was that set her off.

Harry heaved a small sigh next to her, settling his hands on her own over the bundle of fabric that was her shirt. "We don't have to do this, m'love. If you're not ready, or jus' not sure y'even want it anymore, 's okay. We can stop and wait as long as y'need." His gaze ardently bore into her own, never shifting to anything but her own worried irises.

(Y/N) felt like a guppy, her mouth gaped as she tried to find the words. He was able to calm her the smallest bit with just his presence alone, but it wasn't enough to quell the brunt of her worry.

"Is-is it gonna hurt?" She started with the simplest of her worries.

A small smile cracked at Harry's lips, hands squeezing hers. "A little, yeah. You're brave for picking your ribs, but I know y'can handle it. Is that all you're worried about, the pain?"

She chewed at her bottom lip, wanting to find the perfect way to phrase her next fear so she didn't hurt his feelings. "Wh-What if... What if it doesn't look good?"

At this line of questioning, Harry's brows raised with his close-lipped smile going crooked. "Well, if you're worried about that I can ask one of the other boys t—"

"No, no, not like that! I didn't mean it like that," she rushed, twisting in the chair to face him directly, "What if it doesn't look good on me? Everything you draw is perfect, I just don't want it to be ruined because its on me—"

"Don't talk like that, stop," Harry cut her off, his expression falling into a serious set as he looked at her. He leaned closer to her, making sure her vision was filled with only him and none of the tattooing equipment behind him. "'S gonna be perfect because 's on you, (Y/N). 'S only a flower, and you're going to be the reason it looks beautiful, I promise. Don't be scared of anything like that."

The majority of the fear tinted smog dissipated from her lungs, making it much easier to breathe and think more clearly than she had only a few minutes before. She worried her bottom lip between her teeth, the full of her pout swollen after she released it. "And what if my parents find out?"

There was a small change in Harry's expression, his jaw hardening and brows creasing the smallest bit. The look of frustration and anger only occurred whenever she mentioned her family. It was like a piece of him broke whenever he had to be reminded of what she put up with before he ever even knew her.

"If they do, we'll deal with them like we have before," his voice was quiet and firm as he spoke, "I doubt they will, though, or say anything at all if they do. But, anything they could say or think about you, means nothing, okay? As long as you're happy, they can't take that from you—I won't let them."

She was sure there was something deeper attached to his promise, but she was more focused on the clarity his voice had given her and how the remaining edge of nerves had shrunk to be overshadowed by the excitement and certainty that now filled her. He knew how to talk to her to lead her in the right direction to figure her own tangled thoughts out for herself; she'd never understand how he knew exactly what to say at the exact right times.

A beat of calming silence passed between them, (Y/N)'s gaze flitted from Harry's to trace over his features and down to their hands joined in front of her chest. She slowly nodded her head, peeking her eyes up at Harry through her lashes.

"Okay."

A smile softened the edges of Harry's features, losing the tenseness he gained at the mention of her parents. "Yeah? You're okay?"

"Yeah," (Y/N) breathed, "Sorry. I thought I got passed all the nervous stuff."

Harry dipped his head down, pressing the smallest kiss to the full of her lips before nudging his nose against her's. "Don't be sorry, 's normal. Would have been more concerned if y'hadn't got a little scared beforehand." At least he didn't seem to mind her miniature breakdowns too much. With his hands giving her's one final squeeze, her grip having loosened around the fabric of her shirt, Harry drew back from her. "Still want to go through with this?"

"Yes, please."

A satisfied smile made up Harry's expression as he inched towards the waiting supplies. (Y/N) felt much more comfortable, finding it in herself to settle into the leather of the chair under her. At least, if she had to have a small mishap like that, she was with Harry; if she had been alone, she most likely would have scrapped the whole plan and stuck herself in the all-too-familiar walls crafted by her parents.

(Y/N) tossed her shirt to land on the rest of her things laid out on the bench pushed against the wall, leaving only her bralette to conceal her modesty. Harry turned back around with a pair of gloves clinging to his hands and the rest of his supplies set and ready to go on the tray beside him. The excited smile he'd taken earlier had returned, making it that much easier for (Y/N) to emulate the expression and focus on the reward at the end of the experience.

"Ready, lovebug?" Harry beamed, gaze trailing to the lace trimmed straps of her bralette.

"Yeah, let me just—," She moved to tug off the last piece of clothing from her upper half, left in only in a pair of high waisted jeans. Despite the typical ease she felt in Harry's presence with her nudity, the fact they weren't in the safety of their own homes, made her keep the majority of the cups up against her chest.

Harry got to work after the patch of skin was visible, beginning to clean up the area and make sure she was happy with the final placement before he smoothed the stencil over her skin. The ink felt cold against her skin as he pulled the thin paper away, leaving only the beginnings of the design on her otherwise clean skin.

Before Harry could get his hands on the tattoo gun, (Y/N) couldn't help but pose a question that had been running through her mind.

"Could you hold my hand? If you can anyway."

Harry practically melted at her words, his shoulders falling and his features rounding as he looked to her. "Darling, I wish I could," he cooed, dropping a kiss to her shoulder, "But I need both m'hands if we want this to look good. But, y'can play with m'hair if y'want. Jus' be careful, though, 'cause I need to focus."

(Y/N) expected that she wouldn't be able to hold his hand, the downside to having your boyfriend be the one to tattoo you, but she figured it wouldn't hurt to ask on the off-chance Harry had mastered how to tattoo with one hand. But she happily nodded her head at the offer to instead run her fingers through his hair and take out her anxious nerves there.

With the running tattoo gun in his hand and her free hand in his hair, Harry looked up at her one more time with a question of reassurance in his gaze. (Y/N) nodded her head, sure this was his final way of asking if she was ready and sure of what he was about to do.

(Y/N) gasped as the needle made contact with her skin, funneling a lightened pink into her pores in a stinging itch. Her fingers in Harry's hair tightened along with her hand clutching her bra to her chest.

"Oh, my gosh," she breathed, feeling stiff in her own skin as Harry tried to work her through the initial bite.

"I know, angel, I know," he cooed to her, lifting the gun from her skin to wipe at the excess ink on her skin. "It gets better, I promise, jus' surprising at first."

"Okay," she peeped, her voice stiff in her throat. Instead, she tried to focus on the twirling curls she slipping her fingers between to find anything distracting.

Every time he lifted the needle from her skin to wipe at her skin, a moment of solace allowed (Y/N) to breathe before the startling burn of the gun against her skin resumed. She was sure at some point, especially when he would begin his first go of shading, that she would hopefully go a bit numb and it wouldn't hurt as bad. He hadn't been lying when he told her that her placement was bold for a first tattoo.

Harry was as adoringly gentle as he could be during the whole process, dropping a kiss to her collarbones when he could and layering sweet encouragements whenever he knew she was struggling. When he would go over a particularly tender spot, apologies would fall from his lips as soon as she tensed up, telling her he wished he could take the pain away. He told her how brave she was, and how proud he was his of his angel. In an effort to distract her, he told her how good it was looking, that he couldn't wait to show her after. He told her how especially a week or two afterwards, when it was all healed, that he couldn't want to see what she thought then. She was pretty sure he even stopped, pretending the adjust the gun and clean her skin when he saw it was getting a bit overwhelming for her.

It was the longest half hour of (Y/N)'s life, the pain only dulling a small amount the longer he worked. She loved Harry to death, but she couldn't help but question if he was taking so long on purpose. He was most likely making sure every detail was just as how they discussed it, wanting to double check and ensure she would be proud to have his design on her body, but the pain was starting to cloud her mind. Her small solace was found in the rhythmic run of her fingers through his hair, finding a new curl to twist over her finger every time in an effort to distract herself.

"All done," Harry sigh, suddenly pulled the offending machine away from her skin with a proud smile on his face.

(Y/N) thinks she could have cried as he turned off the gun. He was finished, now only going through and cleaning off the skin and prodding at the tender area with gentle fingers.

"Really?" she peeped, scared to pull her hand from his hair in case the buzzing filled the room again and he had to do more for the tattoo.

"Mhm, told you I was almost finished," he smiled, sitting back and gazing proudly at his newest piece. His smile only faltered the smallest bit when he looked up at her for the first time since he started, finding the sheen of tears (Y/N) hadn't even been aware of until he pointed it out. "Did it really hurt that bad, m'love? Should've told me and we could have taken a break."

She gently wiped them from her gaze with her now free hand, "I just wanted to finish it."

Harry breathed a laugh at her words, peeling his gloves off before standing from his stool. He offered her his hand, his own tattoos looking more vibrant now that they weren't veiled by the gloves. "Wanna see it?"

(Y/N) eagerly nodded her head, taking Harrys hand while her other kept her bralette pressed against her chest. He led her towards the mirror set up on the other side of the room where (Y/N) hadn't been able to catch a peek during the process. Harry stopped her in front of the glass, putting his hands on her hips to turn her sideways to get the best view of her new tattoo.

The custom pink of the florets looked petal soft backed by her skin, with the sage of the stem just as delicate as she had envisioned. The smallest additions of darker shading made for the rest of the piece to stand out against her skin, the highlights seeming brighter like the flower had been originally found in a spring meadow. The bend of the sprig rounded the curve of her breast just as she had wanted, easy to be concealed. But now, looking at the art, she wasn't sure she wanted to hide this from anyone.

Thank god she went through with this.

"What do you think, love?"

She flicked her eyes from her tattoo to the man standing behind her, his hands strong on her hips though uncertainty tinted his features. "Harry," she started, her eyes rounding out in he mirror in front of her, "I love it."

A large grin bloomed over his lips, fingers flexing around her hips. "Really?"

"Of course, it's even better than I expected," she beamed, dropping her hand to lay over his on her side, "Thank you."

"'M not jus' saying this cause 'm in love with you, but I really think this might be m'favorite piece I've ever done." His adoring gaze fell the his pastel creation, the dimples on his cheeks only deepening at the sight.

She stepped towards the mirror, wanting a closer look at the new ink adorning her body. "I think it might be my favorite tattoo I've ever gotten."

Harry let out a laugh behind her, his arms crossing over his chest as he watched her. "It better be."

A beat of silence passed between them, Harry allowing (Y/N) her moment to admire her new tattoo as he stood back. His own proud smile could be seen in the mirror.

"What do we do next?" she looked to him over her shoulder, resisting the urge to run her finger over the raised skin.

Harry perked up at her question, turning to grab the aftercare kit he had set up before he'd even started tattooing her. "First, I need to put some cream on it then we need to keep it bandaged for the next twenty-four hours."

(Y/N) couldn't stop the pout that set over her features at the condition. She couldn't look at it for the next day?

Harry breathed a laugh at her reaction. "'S gonna be clear, s'you can still see it, silly. C'mere."

He beckoned her to his side, waiting for her to be within arm's reach before wiping a cooling gel over her heated skin. She expected the area to feel a bit tender to the touch, but she hadn't imagined just how sensitive and sore she would be directly following. She winced as Harry made contact with her skin.

"Y'okay, love?" he asked, reaching for one of the transparent dressings to go over her tattoo.

"Yeah, just sore I think." She watched as Harry's lips tightened into a line at the admittance of her discomfort.

He carefully smoothed the bandage over her tender skin, double checking to flatten out the edges to make sure they were flush. Almost as if he didn't mean to, Harry lightly touched over the glossy surface of the bandage along the line of where her new tattoo was etched into her skin.

"'M proud of you, you know," Harry mumbled, voice quiet as he looked at her through his lashes, "Proud of y'for even going through with this, I know y'can get scared sometimes. But 'm proud of y'for being so brave. And, for getting your first one on your ribs." He ended with a smile, sliding his hand down to cradle the soft of her waist.

(Y/N) felt shy under his gaze, fingers playing with the lace covering her bralette. A warmth bubbled under her cheeks as she smiled at his words. "Thank you," she said quietly.

Harry only smiled in response, leaving her with a small squeeze to her waist before stepping towards the bench where she left her things. He passed her the soft pink fabric of her shirt, dropping a kiss to the top of her head before turning to start cleaning up. (Y/N) took a deep breath as she redressed herself, dropping her bra before pulling her shirt over her head.

Something akin to relief filtered through her system, a refreshing coolness that only served to brighten the smile on her face. She did it, finally. That was all that was running though her mind as she adjusted her shirt on her torso. She absently touched the patch as she smoothed out the wrinkles in her shirt.

She swore there was something warm that jolted through her fingertips when she brushed over the tattoo. It was small and beautiful, and something she wanted. Harry worked with her on it, and helped her figure her vision, but this was something she wanted; her own idea that came to fruition without the permission of others.

"Ready to go?" Harry called from behind her. (Y/N) turned, finding him already holding her bag and his smile bright on his face. His gaze flitted from her eyes to land where her new tattoo sat for just a second, the light in his eyes seeming to shine that much brighter. "I'll tell y'how to take care of it on the way home."

—————

"Can I see it again, angel?"

(Y/N) excited perked up at the sound of Harry's request. He was cuddled under the down of his duvet, the black fabric reaching up to his bare chest as he waited for her to join him. The sound of the playlist he crafted for their nights together soundtracked the moment, making the sight of him timeless. She was coming from the bathroom, having just brushed her teeth when Harry spoke. She happily nodded, trapping her bottom lip between her teeth as a bright smile bloomed across her features. Their shared excitement over her tattoo only furthered the amount of love she felt for the small floret on her ribs.

Clumsily climbing onto the bed, moving to straddle Harry on his side of the bed, (Y/N) played with the hem of the large t-shirt she borrowed from his closet. The palm of Harry's hands cradled her hips to keep her stable atop him as she lifted her top. The side of her ribs were exposed to him as she brought the hem up just enough to show off the glossy bandage keeping her art safe. Though she couldn't get a good view of it, she knew it was still just as beautiful as she remembered if Harry's adoring expression was anything to go by.

"I wish we could take the wrap off," (Y/N) whispered. Harry had explained on the way home what kind of aftercare was going to be involved for the next few weeks, emphasizing the fact the bandage wasn't allowed to come off for the next twenty-four hours.

"I know," Harry responded, "We can soon, 'm jus' gonna keep an eye on it to make sure it heals properly." He slid his hand up and took her shirt from her hand, allowing it to fall down around her lap. He looked up to her with stars in his eyes, reflecting the way he viewed her.

She chewed at her bottom lip as she thought about the effort it would take to make sure she didn't harm any of the ink etched in her skin. "I just want it to be healed already. I want everyone to see it."

Harry smiled at her words, shifting his hold on her hips to land on her cheeks. He gently pulled her down to draw her in for a small kiss. Nudging her nose as he pulled back, he matched his gaze to her's as she cuddled into his chest. "I know, baby. We'll jus' need to be careful for a little while longer."

(Y/N) happily took his answer, loving the sound of "we" coming from his mouth. She allowed him to pliantly move her to lay under the covers beside him. He turned to lay on his side, wanting to face her.

"Goodnight, love," Harry mumbled, pressing a kiss to the full of her mouth as she wrapped her arms around his neck.

(Y/N) tucked her head under his chin, lashes fluttering against the skin of his throat. "Goodnight, H. I love you."

"I love you too, gorgeous." She could hear the smile in his voice.

With the rhythm of Harry's pulse lulling (Y/N) closer to her well-earned sleep, she melted into his chest. His warmth surrounded every inch of her, including the way he tangled their legs together to keep her close to him. One of his hands wandered over her side, skimming underneath her top in soothing motions against her skin.

"Are y'still sore?" Harry mumbled above her, guiding his hand up even farther under her shirt.

"Not really," she answered, sleep slurring her words. If she was being honest, she was just as sore as she was right after he had finished up her tattoo, but he knew he was only asking because he didn't want to break his habit of warming that patch of skin under his palm. She didn't want to take that away from him.

Harry didn't say anything as his hand glided up to rest over her ribcage. His fingertips traced over the smooth bandage, running along the curve he had created.

She couldn't believe she waited so long for something like this.

—————

ahhhh!!!!!! thank u all so much for reading and being so patient w me obvi ive been holding onto this request for a super long time to I hope it was worth the wait!! sorry for any mistakes and if u had any request of ur own please send them !

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cheezritsu · 3 years

Text

Afterthought (Exit Stage Left) || Akaashi Keiji

Wc: 2.1k

Inspired by this quote that lives rent free in my mind, and by Afterthought by Joji

The scenery that stretches out the window of your train is a blur of orange tinged buildings, the glint of the setting sun catching every window on every skyscraper as you speed through the outer edges of the greater Tokyo Met area. You avert your squinting eyes, choosing to watch your quiet companions. The passengers on your train all sway in a similar manner, like a gif on a constant loop.

Despite this nearly cinematic tableau, there is something missing from this moment—perhaps it’s the fact that you’re on your way back to work after your lunch break and the sun is already setting, but there’s something more bittersweet than an early twilight. Your eyes sweep across the train car, searching the little cracks and crevices as if someone has left clues for this mystery.

But there is nothing out of the ordinary—the salarymen are as shiny-shoed and bored eyed as ever, the junior high girls are still huddled close together and giggling over a phone screen. One of the girls reaches down to pull up her leg warmers, and you think about how long it’s been since your friends wore those. The crest on their uniforms is unfamiliar, yet looking at them feels like a portal to the past.

The feeling in your chest grows exponentially as the train slows to a halt. The girls promptly get off, along with a host of other young, fresh looking passengers. One young man with a college ID on his lanyard walks past you, with something in his arm brushing against you. It makes a crackling sound that garners both of your attention.

“Oh!” He says, turning back to you quickly as the doors start closing. “I’m sorry!” He bows shallowly, and from the motion you catch the bouquet of purple tulips, abundant and bright, tied off with a white ribbon. He doesn’t stay in your sight much longer, running through the doors with the type of urgency only a young person could afford. You frown harder.

Now the train car is full of adults, and the alienation sits like lead in your stomach. You have nowhere else to be but work, yet you feel like you’re forgetting something—a prior engagement? A rendezvous with a friend? A missed call? You check your phone; nothing. A date—?

You remember it now. An entire train stop has come and gone. Your train stop. When you blink out of your stupor you realize you now have to walk blocks—blocks!—to his apartment, with the quickly setting sun making chills creep under a coat not meant for winter. Your fingers are popsicles where they curl around the stems of the bouquet tucked into your arm. Perhaps it’s getting a little too predictable; here you are on a Thursday, in an outfit that’s mostly black, in makeup he’s seen a thousand times. You’re a broken record for sure, but comfort and familiarity were things Akaashi savored more than onigiri.

(Right?)

You like the familiarity too. Walking into his apartment complex gives you a fuzzy warmth, and you barely pay attention as your fingers automatically press the button to his floor. Your reflection in the chrome doors is a haunting type of deja vu that leaves you with a sinking feeling you’re sure isn’t just his janky apartment elevator.

As one foot drags and the other heel clicks against the floor, it feels like you’re marching to a forlorn melody, something non-diegetic that would warn your imaginary audience that something terrible is about to happen, but leaves you clueless. There are layers upon layers of irony that surround the moment you turn the key into Akaashi’s apartment, only to find it dark and near barren.

Tokyo winters are notoriously cruel to apartment complexes. The grey sky matches the towering skyscrapers and colors the world in dismal shadows. Akaashi sits among them, a single desk lamp washing the pages of his newest project in harsh light.

He doesn’t look up when he hears your heels click against his kitchen floor. Silence drapes the room, punctuated only by the furling of pages. It sounds like a library or a study, not like a home with two lovers.

But you like watching him; the intense blue of his eyes as he scans the pages, his white shirt sleeves rolled up to his forearms. He looks handsome and pristine, like a marble statue.

He still looks that way when he finally turns to you, not so much as a smile on his face. “Hey.” He says, like you’re an afterthought.

“Hey,” you say, still possessing the bashfulness of a schoolgirl. You wait patiently for Akaashi like a dutiful kouhai would their senpai. When he does a once over of the flowers in your hand, he sighs.

He closes the magazine then pushes himself up from the desk as if it’s the most difficult task in the world. Akaashi pads over to you, still in his work shoes, and turns your head to look in your eyes.

There is no longer any feverish excitement in his touches. That placid countenance you got a thrill out of breaking never cracked, and it left feeling cold and forgotten. His fingers placed themselves exactly where they were supposed to, robotically so, with little tease, or foreplay, or reverence.

“These are pretty,” he says, and all you do is nod.

You’d heard about loveless marriages before. About people who stay together despite there not being a spark. You didn’t think it’d ever happen to you, for you had enough love for Akaashi to last a lifetime and then some. But here, now, when his lips pressed to your jaw, your neck, your collarbones with precision and no passion, you felt your soul detach from your body and allowed him to continue kissing a corpse.

He never said a word.

And when he did, it’s just: “What are they for?”

And this is where you come out of your comfort zone with him. “They’re for you. It’s a goodbye present.”

‘So that’s what it takes,’ you think as Akaashi’s eyes widen impossibly large. You’d laugh if you didn’t feel so hollow.

“Wh-“ he flounders, pushing the bouquet of purple asters back into your arms. “What are you talking about.”

“I can’t do this anymore, Keiji.”

He spares you the theatrics. Keiji was a literature major; he excels at context clues.

Yet he looks between the flowers and you, like it’s an incomplete puzzle. “What exactly is it you can’t do?”

Akaashi watches as you shuffle back and forth on your heels. Sometimes he can see the person he fell in love with back in high school: your nervous habits have stayed the same. But still, you’ve undeniably grown since then. Aged, like wine; becoming bolder, harder to swallow.

He can’t really be impressed anymore when you look him in the eye and say, “I can’t keep putting you first when I’m second place for you. I can’t be your afterthought anymore.”

“You’re not an afterthought.” It’s the lame reply of someone who can’t think of what else to say. You know it too.

“Ji,” you apply his coveted nickname, and it makes it all the worse. “You’re just keeping me around because you’re used to me.”

Something blooms across his face. It prickles with heat as a protective bubble of anger bursts in his chest. “What’s wrong with me being comfortable with you?”

Your stare goes level, lids dropping so the light in your eyes vanishes. The wings of your eyeliner make you look dangerous, ethereal. He really has always liked the way you looked. Your beauty is no longer subjective to him, it doesn’t steal his breath. It’s just an emotionless fact.

“Being comfortable is something friends are. We can be friends if that’s what you want.”

His brow raises. “Is that what you want?”

You shrug. The nonchalance is what gets him—the action is unhurried, comical, almost, in how lackadaisical you’re making this moment. (Although, he admits to himself that his anger is redirected guilt for not feeling too torn up about this himself.)

“That’s up to you,” is your only reply.

He heel turns, groaning and rubbing his twitching hands down his face. “Y/n what does that mean?” He says, voice finally rising. There’s no longer the thrill of getting him riled up. Only a dull throb where adrenaline should be. “Why are you making this harder than it has to be?”

“I-!” You laugh hollowly, and Akaashi stares at you with pinched brows. “Me? I said I can’t do this anymore. Clean and simple! You’re the one dragging this out when you don’t love me anymore!”

The anger ebbs like receding waves, and its wake is the wreckage he’s been waiting to appear. Akaashi is stunned by your violence, and nothing more.

And perhaps it’s his refusal to do anything about it that makes you turn your head as you swallow down the bitter acceptance he’s spoon fed you. “I mean,” you sniff, not even attempting to salvage anything. “I’ve always loved you more than you love me.”

The crooked smile you give pushes him over the edge.

“That’s not true,” he scolds quickly. “I just don’t show it the way you do.”

“Because you never wanted to.”

(Does it feel like he’s been shot in the chest because it’s true, or because he’s been caught?)

The flowers land on the table unceremoniously, punctuated by your heavy sigh. “So what,” Akaashi says, looking down at you. He never held his height over you condescendingly, but he’s scowling at you now. You give him a look that’s not quite defeated, but definitely not unbothered, waiting for him to finish.

“So you just knew I’d fallen out of love and you stayed with me the whole time? And now you walk in here, dressed up, with..with goodbye flowers? What kind of plan is that?”

“It wasn’t a plan, Ji.” You give a pitiful excuse for a laugh, somewhere between a scoff and a sob. ‘I just...I stayed because I still love you.”

Under his bewildered gaze you deteriorate faster than paper in water, crumbling into soggy remains as you give a wobbly smile. “But I suppose that’s not enough, is it?”

Your middle finger and thumb rub circles into your temple, like this conversation is giving you a headache. In the grey evening light of mid-winter, Akaashi can see a tear twinkle down the contour of your face like a Renaissance painting. And then it hits him all of a sudden that he’s the cause of all your wretched pain, and it winds him like a spin kick to the chest.

“I’m sorry,” he says, but never says what for. It can’t leave his lips (and why should it? You both know what for, why should he make it harder than it has to be?)

You don’t say you accept it. You don’t cry either. You simply scoot the chair back with a grating noise, and to this day, the sound still haunts Akaashi, teleporting him back to this moment, when you walked out the door and never came back.

Akaashi stares at the now unoccupied chair, his eyes lost and something pricking in the corner of his eyes.

“Akaashi.”

No, Akaashi scrunches his brow. Panic bubbles in his chest this isn’t right. You never called for him. Why didn’t you call for him?

“Akaashi,”

You leave his life as simply as stage directions—Y/n: exit stage left. The door stays open, because you’re not petty enough to slam it. Considerate, even when smashing your own heart to pieces.

“Akaaaashi.”

And his.

“Akaashi!”

He blinks once, twice. There are no more flowers, no open door, no dim grey lighting. Just the clean, white tile of Onigiri Miya, still empty during its dedicated lunch break. Orange light spills in and grants the store a golden look. From where he stood after scooting back his chair, Atsumu Miya raises a brow, his concern shadowed by the sun at his back.

“Are you okay?” He passed his hand in front of Akaashi’s face, somewhat teasingly. His handsome smile is small. “Lost ya for a sec.”

Atsumu’s left hand is still gripping the back of his seat. The other occupants of the table are seated, their curious eyes squinted at Akaashi as if they could possibly discern what was going on on the other side of his eyes.

“Sorry,” he finally says, fixing the blond with an apologetic smile. “It’s just,” he looks in the middle of the table, where sticking up from a small glass vase was a single purple kikyo flower, its head hung low and mournfully. He can’t keep his eyes off of it. For someone who’s supposed to be an afterthought, you’re always at the forefront of his mind; like the fraying anxiety of leaving the stove on, or the person one sees from their peripheral vision. If only he’d said all that when it mattered. Then maybe you wouldn’t be—

“It’s nothing. Just a memory.”

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lokiarsene · 7 years

Note

Joker giving flowers that mean a lot of things and Akechi's reactions over the months, culminating with him seemingly coldly rejecting them close to the time he's supposed to kill Joker?

Title: How Hearts BloomRating: G

Also on AO3 if you prefer.

“You don’t mind my coming here so often, do you?” Goro asked, folding his hands one over the other as he hunched over the counter.

Akira scratched the back of his neck. “Not really. But that all depends.”

“On what?”

“On what you’re coming here for.”

Goro chewed on the inside of his cheek. “For the atmosphere,” he heard himself say. He heard himself laugh, too. Strange, that he could slip into autopilot with ease. It had to be because of him. “For the coffee, too. What else are cafes good for?”

“I dunno,” Akira said, scrubbing at the stainless counter. He avoided Goro’s eyes. “The company?”

Goro gave his heart until the count of ten to stop pounding so hard. “That’s true,” he said, pretending to give it some thought, pretending that his hopes weren’t leaping eagerly at the prospect that he was wanted here, of all places. “I wouldn’t mind coming back for all of those things–the atmosphere, the coffee… and you.”

Akira turned to look at him.

“If you aren’t too busy, of course,” Goro added, smiling. He felt his face stretch to accommodate the expression.

An awful lapse of silence passed. Then, just as Akira was about to answer, Goro’s phone began to buzz. He fished it out of his pocket–and his heart sank.

Of course his father would interrupt what would be the nicest conversation Goro had in practically his entire life. Of course. Goro had a stray dog’s luck, with none of the pity. “Excuse me, but I need to take this.”

“Take your time,” Akira said, waving him off.

When he came back to his seat, a single flower sat on the edge of Goro’s saucer. The bright, impossibly vivid purple petals were a stark contrast to the bone white china and the small brown blotch of spilled coffee.

“Excuse me?” Unease twisted in his belly like a knife. “I think there’s been some mistake.”

“There’s been no mistake,” Akira said. He spoke just the way he looked: dead-set and head on. Only his eyes were dark. His words were light, soft, evenly said– and so deceptive. It made Goro’s chest ache; each word he heard Akira speak smashed up against his heart like glass beneath a hammer.

Goro picked up the flower by its stem and examined it close. “What should I do with it?” he asked.

Akira shrugged, already turning away. “Keep it, if you want. Maybe it’ll cheer you up or give you something nice to think about for a while. I dunno. What else are flowers good for?”

Goro didn’t say anything. Then, “Where did you even get this?”

“At the shop.”

He frowned. “What, today?”

Akira nodded. “I work there every now and then, picking up hours here and there.” He paused before adding, in a lower, muted tone, “You don’t have to take it if you don’t want to.”

“No.” Goro closed his hands around the flower, taking care not to crush the petals. It was so bright, so… brave, so bold it was almost garish. But that was only in its nature; the flower couldn’t help but be itself. “No, I’ll take it. I mean–thanks very much.” It wasn’t often he got a gift; he could count them on two fingers. His powers, and now… this.

Akira nodded again, his lips hitching up into a sideways smile. “Don’t mention it,” he said.

Later, after he had spent five minutes staring at the flower as it leaned up against the water in a little glass cup, Goro opened up a new tab in his browser and described the flower as best he could.

Aster, the search results said. Higher classification: astereae. Rank: genus. Did you know? Aster symbolizes patience, love, good luck, and daintiness. Also–“I will think on it.”

And now Goro had something new to think on, too.

The next flower, when it came weeks later, was no less vivid and bright than the first. It sat stemless inside of Goro’s empty coffee mug, its indigo bright blue petals fading inward to bone white, then daisy yellow at the center.

“You’ll take that to go?” Akira asked, and then, as if his smile weren’t bad enough, he actually winked.

Goro scr*d his teeth against the inside of his cheek just to have something else to feel. “If it’s no trouble,” he said before he lost his nerve.

“No trouble at all,” Akira reassured him. “It’s my pleasure.”

Convolvulus, the search results later said. Common name: morning glory. The Victorian meaning was love or mortality. Current meaning: bonds.

Goro’s heart pounded against his ribs like a hammer determined to turn bone into dust.

Weeks past. Despite his doubts and unease, Goro stopped by Leblanc’s almost every day, as often as he could spare as the summer marched forward in its dreadful, suffocating lurch. He barely felt the sun anymore; there was something oppressive and heavy about the light and the heat, and rainy days only seemed to smother him more.

Towards the middle of August, as he sat brooding quietly in Leblanc, Goro received both his cup of coffee and a plate full of flowers. He recognized these flowers well enough; red and white roses were arranged in halos around the plate. In the center sat a blue hyacinth as large as Goro’s fist.

“You’re lucky I don’t have allergies,” he said before Akira could walk away.

Akira blinked. Goro had the distinct pleasure of finally seeing the boy taken by surprise. “I didn’t even think of that,” he said.

It was Goro’s turn to smile and reassure. It came so easy; he didn’t like to think why. “Like I said–you’re lucky.”

He felt terribly stupid carrying a plate of flowers home with him. And even though they were carefully wrapped up to avoid damage or blowing away in the wind, Goro couldn’t help but worry that they would shrivel and wither the further they got from Leblanc. There was a warmth to the shop that seemed to deliberately avoid the rest of Goro’s life, as if he removed all comfort just by being… well, anywhere. The further he got from the cafe, the more the warmth in his chest faded, the ore of his heart dulling back to a dim, hard stone.

He carefully typed the flower names into his phone, swaying with the movements of the subway train. Blue hyacinth–constancy. Red and white roses, together–unity.

It was as if a hand reached up and seized his throat in its fist.

Goro didn’t return to Leblanc for a month after that.

Ever since he was dubbed the second coming of the Detective Prince, Goro was used to receiving strange things in the mail. Fan letters, declarations of love, carefully coded hate mail that bordered on menacing threats, even the occasional confession of crimes. But today was the first time he ever received–

“Flowers.” He read the card attached to the tall, thin vase. There was no name attached, but he felt safe in guessing who would be so bold, so thoughtful, so… infuriating.

Goro recognized the writing in the card–only one other person had both a sloppy and proud penmanship. “Sweet william and Jacob’s ladder,” it said. “’Smile, and come down to me.’”

A few minutes later, Goro heard the buzzer to his door hum to life. “Yes?” he heard his voice say. His thoughts were miles away, his hopes flying even further than that.

“So,” he heard Akira’s voice clearly through the crackle. “What do you think?”

“About what?”

“The flowers.” A pause. “And the card.”

“How did–? Never mind.” Goro closed his eyes. “Why didn’t you just bring them up yourself, if you were going to hang around somewhere close by?”

“I wanted to give you some time to think,” Akira said, “and the space to do that in.”

Goro’s heart ached with a raw throb. “I can’t,” he heard himself say, the words coming out thick and wet. A voice for the tears he would not shed. “Not today. I’m–I’m busy.”

“Take your time,” Akira said again. “You know where to find me.”

The sun slanted across the bare white walls in long, thick chunks. Goro watched as the shadows grew longer, the light threadbare and weak.

Smile, and come down to me. He lifted the vase in his hand and hurled it with all his strength. The glass smashed against the far wall, matching the shattered shards that bared their razor edges inside his chest.

Some time toward the end of September, Goro ducked into Leblanc one last time.

“No matter what happens,” Akira said, his voice low and rough, “I want you to know that we’re still friends. You got that?”

Goro said nothing. He simply watched the other boy in silence, studying his expression, the twist of his lips, the gleam in his eyes. Akira made a gesture, and Goro pulled his hands back with a little shake of his head.

“Sometimes you talk like you’re expecting the world to end,” he said.

“Maybe I am. Have you seen what’s happening to the world lately?”

“I try not to. It’s too much to think about.” He forced a smile. It came out crooked and wrong, stilted, broken. Much like the boy who wore it. “I’ve got enough on my plate as it is, wouldn’t you say?”

Akira cleared away Goro’s half finished coffee in silence and left the other boy alone to think. He waited until Sakura-san, grumbling and slouchy, muttered that he was going out for a smoke before reaching out again.

Another plate of flowers slid across the counter and into Goro’s view. A deep, maroon red stem curled delicately around small white and green sprigs of the smallest flowers Goro had ever seen. But it was the red flower that held his attention–how heavy it looked, how somber, like a willow bleeding.

“I’ll save you half the trouble,” Akira said, closing his hands into fists that framed the plate. “Amaranth and honeysuckle.”

Hopeless, the search results said. Not heartless. Devoted affection.

Goro’s heart thundered in his ears. He lowered his phone as a familiar ache rose up in his chest. He knew the name for it, knew the name and reason that this persistent throb refused to fade despite his demands to do just that. He also knew who was responsible for making such a mess of him this way.

“You could save me all the trouble and just get rid of it,” Goro heard himself say. He made himself look into Akira’s eyes as he continued, each word like a knife that wounded just to be said. “All flowers are good for is decorating trash. That’s where they wind up in the end, isn’t it?”

How could his voice stay so steady and sure while his heart raced on and on as it did? Goro closed his hands into fists, lowered his eyes, and waited. Waited for Akira to take the bait, waited for Akira to fall for yet another lie. But the plate stayed where it was, and Goro could not bring himself to apologize–no matter how hunched and vulnerable Akira’s back looked as he left.

Later, much later, when the dark and the cold and the quiet like the grave had its fill of him–when the strange miracle of life clashed and came out the victor against the cold, quiet grip of death–Goro opened his eyes and sat up in his hospital bed.

The world was a riot of color that took its time to settle into shapes. When it did, he noticed two things first: Pink carnations stood in a vase next to his bed and Akira sat hunched in a nearby chair, dozing. His glasses were askew, and his unruly dark hair hung lank over his pale face. Goro tried to reach out to brush a few strands of that ridiculous hair aside, only to be greeted with a fresh wave of pain.

He must have said something, must have made some type of noise or a sharp sound, because Akira jolted awake, almost throwing himself out of his chair.

“Goro!” Akira’s hands curled around the metal bars of his bed. Tears filled up those large, black eyes and spilled over in rivers down his cheeks.

What a mess–and all for him. Goro took a long breath and turned to the flowers in the vase. “What’s this supposed to mean?” he asked. His voice was straw thin, a husk of its former self.

Akira waited until Goro looked at him again, his eyes darting all over the other boy’s face, as if he sought to memorize the wonder of him. “I will never forget you,” he said, his voice low and heavy, like a wounded heart.

Goro turned his hand over on the bed and waited. Akira’s fingers slipped over his palm and around the back of his knuckles, squeezing hard enough to hurt. It was a familiar ache, different from the months of slow suffocation, different even from the agony of returning to a life he wasn’t even sure he wanted.

“I should be so lucky,” Goro said, and he waited, eager to hear Akira laugh. But something must have gone wrong in the translation from thought to speech; Akira only continued to cry, smearing the tears off his cheeks with an impatient flick of his free hand.

Sleep was coming on fast–Goro was tired, so tired, every bone in his body heavy with the weight of being, but his heart was lighter, brighter–free of the hammer and free of the stone that dragged it down. “Stick with a rose next time,” he heard himself say. “Red. Red and white, together.”

Goro woke again three days later to what looked like a garden of roses scattered across his bed. Yellow, pink, purple, orange and red, red, deep, blood bright, fresh wound red.

“This is a very expensive way to say I love you,” he said and that, finally, brought a smile to Akira’s face.

“All you had to do was ask,” the other boy said, and he leaned in for the first of many long, tender kisses.

#akeshu #shuake #goro akechi #akira kurusu #akeshu fic #fanfic #this is the ask tag

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