can we talk about harry getting a little tattoo on his ring finger when he gets married?? just imagine how sweet it'd be aww
PLEASEEEE I THINK ABOUT THIS OFTEN BECAUSE IT’S LITERALLY SOMETHING HARRY WOULD DO!!! He’d be so cute about it, too, and maybe he doesn’t even tell you when he has one of his mates that have done a million of his other smaller tattoos do it. It could happen a month of so after the wedding and honeymoon (which was nearly a whole month itself and Harry had told everyone to fuck off while the two of you disconnected from the rest of the world for a bit). You’ve had a little over a week to settle in as newlyweds now, though, not that it took much, because you finally stopped paying rent at your own place and moved in with Harry completely about a year ago (even though he had been begging you to for months beforehand, because you mostly lived together, anyway, so it just made sense and you were just wasting money). Today’s been his first day back at work, though, which really just entailed going to a few meetings and getting a bit of writing done for his next album, and the rest of the time was spent fucking around with his team.
When he comes home, he finds you in the kitchen finishing up dinner, and he wraps his arms around your waist from behind and presses his face into your neck. “’F you tracked dirt into this house because you refuse to take your shoes off at the door, ‘m gonna’ kill you,” you tell him, placing a hand over his on your tummy, and you feel him smiling against your skin. “You wouldn’t. Can’t live without me,” he shoots back, and you spin around until you’re facing him, and he’s grinning down at you (and you, up at him). He leans in after that, but you turn your head so that he misses your lips and gets your cheek instead. You expect him to put up a fight, pretend that he’s hurt, but instead he just presses his lips harder against your cheek, grabs for your hands, and laces your fingers together. He’s got you pressed between his body and the counter by the time he starts peppering wet kisses along your jaw, and you groan, doing your best to move away from his assault. His grip tightens and he presses up against you a bit harder. “You’re so annoying,” you complain, but you’re out of breath from laughing so hard, and he knows you don’t mean it. “‘S too bad. Y’stuck with me,” he counters, bringing your intertwined hands up, and that’s when you see it.
You’ve had an obsession with looking at Harry’s left hand ever since you put his wedding ring there during your ceremony, and each time your heart has lurched and you’ve nearly caught a sob in your throat. This time it’s no different, but it’s more intense than it has been since the first few days, because there’s the tiniest bit of black ink just below where his new, shiny wedding band rests against the fourth finger. Said ink appears to be in the shape of your first name’s initial, in your handwriting, and there’s a red sort of glow around it, which leads you to think that it may be permanent. That thought makes you feel a bit dizzy and you must look very suddenly drained of color, because Harry narrows his eyes at you, and then follows your gaze to his finger. He smiles, and you look up at him with wide eyes. “You like it, then?” He questions, his voice his softer, but just hearing the rasp of it brings a smile to your face and you hold his left hand tighter.
“Is it real?” You murmur, and he lets out a breath of laugh, because it very obviously is, but your voice sounds genuinely filled with wonder as if you don’t quite believe it. “’Ve got ‘big’ tattooed on one of ‘m big toes, ‘nd you’re asking me ‘f your initial is real or not?” He teases, and you want to swat at his chest, but you’d rather keep holding his hands, squeezing them as if to encourage him to further explain. “Remember when I told you I didn’t even need a ring? That night when you thought I was proper smashed ‘nd I was beggin’ you to let’s just get married already, and your argument was that we didn’t have rings yet?” He starts, and you give him a small nod, and he lets out another quiet laugh. “I believe I told you we could just get tattoos ‘f some sort on our ring fingers after, didn’t I?” You nod again, and he brings his hands up to cup your cheeks, and you wrap your arms around his middle, hugging him close to you. You had been together right around four years now, and you still were never able to get close enough to him. “Still wanted mine. Even if you wouldn’t let me marry you that night. You’re part ‘f me. Already were, but now y’can see it,” he says, and you turn your head to press a kiss to his palm and then you’re leaning up to kiss him properly right after.
Harry makes a choked off sound, like he’s surprised by the kiss, but he melts into it easily. You think you could probably kiss him forever, just like this – standing in the middle of your kitchen, you in your joggers and t-shirt, and Harry in the same except he’s got on jeans, feeling the newest sensation of feeling an extra ring on his hand as he cups your cheek. It’s breathtaking, and you’re certain no one has ever been as in love as the two of you are. When you pull apart for a bit of air, you tell him that you want his initial, too, and he raises an eyebrow. “Y’can have it t’night if you trust me enough t’let me do it,” he tells you, and you nod quickly. He’s no tattoo artist, you know that, but he does have a kit, and he’s got enough tattoos himself to know how to do it properly. He’s also tattooed a few of his mates, just as they’ve done him, so you know he knows what he’s doing. Also, there’s something about Harry tattooing his own initial, in his handwriting, into your skin that makes it beyond intimate. Just the idea makes you feel hot all over and needy for him, so you press closer and drag your hand over the dip in his back beneath his t-shirt. He clearly doesn’t pick up on it, though, because he smiles as he presses a peck to your lips and steps away. You whine because that’s all you get out of him.
Not a minute later, though, you catch his smirk and realize that he has, in fact, picked up on it, but instead of doing something about it, he’s taking two plates from the cabinet and placing them on the counter beside the dish of pasta you’ve successfully made (and forgotten about in the fifteen minutes he’s been home). When he speaks, it seems so sudden that you nearly jump. “Know tattoos get y’ all hot ‘n bothered, baby, but think about how bad y’gonna’ want it after I’ve done your tattoo,” he tells you, turning back to face you and setting both plates in front of the barstools at the island in the center of the kitchen. “Remember when y’got your first? Could hardly keep y’off ‘f me while I drove us home,” he says, and his voice is fond and you love when he does this – pretend he’s not just as affected as you are. You let him be cocky, even if you know the truth. “Promise I’ll take good ‘f you after we’re finished. Know how wet it gets you,” he murmurs, once you’re sitting beside him, and you lean over to press a kiss just below his jaw, and he places a hand on the inside of your thigh.
You end up getting two tattoos that night – an ‘H’ in his handwriting, just below where your wedding band rests, to match his, and a heart he’s drawn directly on the skin of your hip. “’S a fuckin’ shame ‘m not gonna be able t’get my mouth on y’there for a week now,” he tells you after he’s finished, and you tell him there are plenty of other places he can put his mouth in the meantime.
And he does.