I Want It Bad - Narry

Chapter Nine

When Niall said he wanted to learn how to make pottery, he didn’t mean at that very moment. But it seems, once again, Harry had misinterpreted that.

So, here they are now, with Harry sitting on a stool with a pottery wheel in between his legs.

(Where and how Harry had obtained the item is beyond Niall’s knowledge, though he doesn’t question it.)

His hands cup the clay as it spins, forming and shaping the moist, brown substance into the shape of some sort of bowel, or vase – Niall can’t tell just yet. Niall continues to watch as Harry’s hands work at the clay, never realizing before how large they are, too large for his lithe little body and big green eyes that are framed with his brown curls. He tears his gaze away, long enough to look up at Harry’s face. His eyebrows are pulled together tightly, creases in his forehead from concentration as his tongue peeks out a bit between his lips. He looks utterly adorable, Niall thinks, and that adorableness amps up a few notches when Harry grunts in annoyance; grumbling about how the clay bowel isn’t round enough to his liking.

“Here, lemme’ help,” Niall chirps, settling himself behind Harry. He slips his arms around Harry’s waist, placing his hands gently around his to work along the clay. He rests his chin on Harry’s shoulders, his hot breath fanning over his skin, and God if that didn’t make Harry’s heart skip a little.

“You aren’t really helping,” Harry mumbles, trying to focus on the clay, but that seems impossible as Niall presses his hips a little harder into his back.

Niall ignores his comment, kissing his neck softly. He nibbles and licks gently at the skin there, piercing dragging along as he trails over to the junction of his shoulder and collarbone. Harry is wearing a loose white shirt – Niall’s loose white shirt, to be exact – that is slightly see-through, showing his flat stomach and faint abdominal lines. Just as Niall is about to sneak his hand – the one he didn’t get clay on – underneath the thin cotton fabric, Harry twists around and connects their lips. Niall’s surprised at first, but soon parting his lips to suck Harry’s bottom one between his own. Harry’s hands reach up subconsciously to grasp Niall’s face, smudging clay on his cheek and jaw with bits in his blonde-dyed hair when Harry curls his fingers into it. They pull away and lean their foreheads together; mouths still only centimeters apart as they both pant in quiet breaths.

“You got clay on me shirt,” Niall groans as he looks down. Harry laughs, a little breathless, and drags his finger through the glob of clay on Niall’s cheek.

“That’s not the only place you should be worried about,” he says, smiling dopily as he swipes some across the tip of his nose. Niall scowls.

“You did that to me at the ice cream shop,” Harry points out.

“Yeah, but with ice cream, not clay.”