Your Harry Fantasies.

Being 6 months pregnant had its perks.
For one, you were large enough to show off to everyone what you had sporting between your hips, yet not large enough to be considered near your due date just yet. A bump accessorising your waist, hidden beneath thick jumpers and hoodies and t-shirts stolen from Harry’s wardrobe because they were much comfier to slide on in the mornings. His clothes seemed to clothe your body more perfectly than not, and they gave more to the imagination of the wandering eyes, hiding the stretchmarks painting your skin and the home your baby was ‘renting’ for nine months of it’s pre-life.
For seconds, you and Harry were both fully able to finally feel your baby move more frequently than not under your stretching skin, together and at the same time rather than him being unable to detect the soft and gentle movements that your baby would give with his flattened palm against the skin that curved around. The soft fluttering feeling you were so familiar with, that would nestle at your core, was now replaced by football kicks and boxing punches from the long arms and legs forming upon your baby. Feet kicking, more than not, against your ribs and causing visible movements and bulges behind your belly and from your womb – an action that Harry found beautiful and breathtaking and he was never short of reminding you that that was a healthy baby inside of you, made with a mixture of the two of you.
And the perk of all perks that you loved more than anything was that Harry wasn’t shy to crack out his singing voice and belt notes out when you found comfort upon the bed, laying upon your side, his figure curled into a ball with his face level with your bump. Fingers raking through his hair as he hummed soft tunes and sung lyrics that you were no stranger to hearing, your body melting into the sound and your ears alert to the change of notes he’d make, an occasional voice break when he got too tired and the odd rasp from his dry throat.
However, being 6 months pregnant had its downfalls.
People were prone to wanting to touch and rub your bump, trying to coax the little one into kicking against their hands and trying to elicit a reaction with the sounds of their voices, their palms cupping protruding asset to your body without a care that you found it uncomfortable. You didn’t mind Harry’s family having a heartfelt feel of their newest addition because they were family and you were comfortable with being around them, listening as some gloated about having felt kicks to their palms and the disheartened grumbles of how some of them hadn’t, with their actions coming paired with a comfortable conversation with you as they wondered just how you were feeling and how well Harry was looking after you and just how you were finding your first pregnancy to be going.
However, you minded when fans of Harry and yourself – both the elders and youngsters – would find it upon themselves to congratulate you sweetly and absentmindedly roll a hand and a palm over your prominent curve, without even an inch of thought to how you’d feel towards their action.
You were a victim to hormone changes; blowing up on Harry and yelling at him about anything and everything when you felt the need to explode, and, pouncing on his body and peppering his exposed skin with kisses when you felt the need to relieve the sexual tension growing in your veins.
The biggest downside was the two seasons you were going to be heavily pregnant throughout the entire time; the Spring and the Summer months. With your due-date set for the middle of September and the date of conception dating back to January, you were set to endure a pregnancy through the allegedly warmest days of the year.
By the time June rolled around and your hormones were in full swing, it was more necessary than not to settle beneath a thinner blanket to make sure you slept through the night without waking up to a sheen of sweat making it difficult for you to move without the sheets sticking to you as a second coating. Through the days, you’d be fine with going about your daily routine of cleaning the house or focusing on a home project that you and Harry had spoken about, without an ounce of sweat rolling off your forehead, without a desperate need for a drink and without the requirement of sitting down to catch your breath.
Yet it was the nights you found the most difficult to comprehend with.
Settling down in bed, in a comfortable position was easy; it was the same position every night. Your back was the most comfortable to lay upon, a hand laced with Harry’s as he curled up on his side to face you – having a bump growing at the mid of your hips made a barrier between you and Harry that made it disagreeable to cuddle together like you’d done before the pregnancy had gotten to the ample size that was average for a 6-month pregnancy.
Yet, as the hours passed, heat would swallow you and turning into a huffing mess was your best bet to get your mind wracking for a way to get rid of the feeling.
However, the breathes leaving your mouths had a tendency to wake and rouse Harry from his slumber, earning a disgruntled yawn and a hum of what the matter was; he was no foreigner to the elbow to the shoulder or a kick to his thigh or a grunt to his ears as you shuffled around to get comfy.
This night, in the middle week of June on a warm evening, was no different. You’d fallen asleep together, breathes synchronised and hands laced together to signify that the other was still right beside them and sleeping soundly as ever, ankles somehow interlocked and calves pressed against one another as the hours passed through the night.
By 3 that morning, you were hot. Kicking the sheets away from your body and catching his ankles with your toes in the process, a subtle grunt leaving his lips as he shuffled around beside you and remained in his constant snooze, wheezing softly from his throat, his breath escaping between his parted lips. Your arms tensed as you tugged at the sheet and tried to adjust yourself,
“S’the matter?”
You heard him wonder in the darkness, and without even catching a glimpse across to him in the darkened room, you could sense the sleep and the confusion lacing his features, matching the tone of his words as he spoke deeply and raspily. His voice catching in his dry throat, as you heard the sounds of the sheets rustle beside you and the springs of the mattress creak beneath his moving body weight.

“M’hot again,” you hissed harshly, “you’re makin’ me hot, Harry.”
That was an exaggeration; it wasn’t his fault. He happened to be there, as a person to blame, because you were clueless of what to count as the liability.
“I haven’t done anythin’,” he grumbled, sitting upright and reaching across your body, flicking on your bedside lamp and lighting the room up with a yellow glow from the lightbulb hidden behind the shade, “I was asleep the whole time. How is it my fault?”
“You’re the one who got me pregnant,” you muttered, swinging your legs over the edge of the bed and letting your ankles swing out, “you’re the one with the sperm in your balls. You’re the one with a canon as a dick. You shot your sperm into me and look where we are now,” you hissed through clenched teeth, your palms pressed to the mattress beneath you as you pushed yourself up to your feet and let your soles come into contact with the plush and fluffed carpet lining the floor, “you’re sleeping in a bloody jumper, for Christ sake!”
You could recognise the green material from anywhere; his Packers hoodie that you were more than never nestling into when you needed comfort. Whether it was to cosy down when you needed something other than one of your own or whether it was to block out the thoughts of missing Harry throughout the day when he’d pop out to run errands and make a stop at the shops to get dinner for the coming evenings. It was one you’d fig around looking for when you wanted to cosy back into a jumper; and Harry found it endearing to see when he came home to the material drowning you and hanging dramatically loosely down your torso.
“I put it on because you wanted the windows of the bedroom open through the night,” he responded softly, his fingers held into a fists as he rubbed his eyes from the lingering sleep taking home at the crinkling corners of his eyes, “I got cold when you went to sleep so I slid a hoodie on.”
“You’re the one who decides to sleep with the heater on, which makes me hot through the night, and then leave it on all day to keep the house warm. We live in the constant heat, Harry,” you sighed, stepping foot towards the window and pushing the curtains apart, “if you left the heater off through the night, we wouldn’t be having this conversation right now.”
“Hey,” he drawled out slowly before continuing with his slight argument, “you’ve woken up in this house so many times to know that I get cold in the morning,” Harry sighed from his sitting stature upon the bed, the sleeves of his jumper acting as sweater paws over his hands as the hood behind his head tucked over his head and resting softly on his pillow-messed hair, “and you know my feet turn into blocks of ice before 8am rolls around. You’ve moaned about me waking you up with them when I accidentally touch your legs with my toes.”
As soon as the cold tips of his toes met your warm legs in the early hours of the mornings, you were prone to kicking and reaching out to swat at any part of his body, catching him mid breath as he choked awake.
A startled Harry sitting beside you as he gave you confused grumbles about why on earth you’d woken him at such a stupid hour of the day.
“If you slept with socks on, you wouldn’t have the problem of cold feet,” you stated, your back facing your husband as you looked out across the city of London through the translucent netting covering the window, usually and always hidden between the curtains through the night, street lights visible in the distance and lighting streets up in the horizon, “I tell you every time. Sleep with socks on. You have plenty of thick ones to wear.”
“I’ve told you over and over again,” Harry started, rolling his head back in a tired manner of frustration, “I cannot sleep with socks on. That’s the worst feeling in the world.”
“Oh, boo-fuckin’-hoo, Harry.”
On instinct, Harry smirked at your feisty nature.
Hormones.
They had his eyes rolling every time they made an appearance in your mannerisms as well as your speech.
“I can see you smirking in the window, you wanker,” you grunted, spinning around and looking across to him, “this isn’t funny or a smirking matter, Harry. I’m fed up with feeling this way. It’s frustrating to wake up so many times through the night because you’re so hot. It’s unfair. I just want to sleep but I can’t and it’s driving me insane,” you whispered softly, puffing your cheeks up and releasing a heavy breath with your hands on your hips, a momentary pose before you spun back around and braced your hands upon the windowsill, leaning forward and looking between the panes of glass, “why did you have to get me pregnant, huh?”
A groan emitted from Harry’s mouth, casually turning into a wince as he stood himself to his feet, a tired expression taking up his facial features as his hood fell from his head and rested at the base of his neck. With slow, yet cautious, footsteps towards you and extended arms, he stood himself behind you and wrapped his arms around your waist.
“You love bein’ pregnant,” Harry cooed into your ear, as the both of you stood ahead of the window, “you are never short of telling me how much you love feeling our little baby girl inside of you, moving and adjusting to the space she’s got in there,” Harry stated, his hands resting on top of your bump, fingers splayed out and his thumb rubbing over the material bathing your torso, “here, how about we try somethin’ a little different tonight?”
“Like what?”
“I’ll turn the heater off in the house for the night, you close the windows and we’ll meet back in here, strip out clothes off and sleep naked. How does that sound?” Harry hummed, pursing his lips together and he poised his chin on your shoulder, his eyes cast down as he watched your hands rest upon his that were settled perfectly at the top side of your bump, “it sounds pretty great to me.”
“Of course it does,” you groaned, “you love to get naked. It’s an easy way for sex for you.”
A scoff left his mouth, his neck retrieving back from your shoulder as he spun you around and gave you a feigned look of a frown.
“It’ll help,” he stated, “trust me. I’ll take the duvet out of it’s cover and we’ll sleep naked under the sheet, yeah?”
“We can’t have sex because you threw all the condoms out the other day when the doctor said we didn’t need to worry about protection now that I was this far along, and, I don’t want to get pregnant at the same time with this baby,” you muttered teasingly,, a smile toying at your lips, poking his chest with your finger, “it’s driving me into a sense of frustration. At this rate, we’ll end up having one child and adopting however many more we want. I’m not going through this again.”
“You’ll want more when we finally have her with us,” Harry smiled, “Mum said it’s always tough with the first pregnancy. We can trust her; she has done this twice, remember?”
“I’m fed up of being hot, Harry.”
“I’m not. You always look smoking hot to me,” Harry smirked, nudging his nose to your forehead before pressing his lips to your own nose, a distressed sigh leaving your lips as you rolled your head back to catch a look at him, “I’m sure this will go away soon, Gorgeous. You’re adjusting to the change in weather, that’s all.”
“Well, I wish you’d gotten me pregnant in the Summer last year so I could be pregnant through the winter,” you muttered, a pout forming on your lips, “plan the next time you get me pregnant, okay? Properly and not spontaneous.”
“You love my spontaneity,” Harry grinned cheekily, before hunching down and catching the back of your knees with his arm, his other capturing you to his chest as he hoisted you to his chest, “gon’a get you naked, now.”
A smirk lifted your cheeks, your hands cupping his face. The slight slight stubble dusting his cheeks and his upper lip catching roughly beneath your fingertips, contrasting against the softness of your skin and the roughness of his.
“Go for it,” you whispered as seductively as you could, making Harry’s knees turn into jelly and shake under your weight.
“Lovin’ these hormone changes, really, I am,” Harry grinned, setting your back on the bed and standing between your legs, his palms coming to either side of your head as he hovered above you, “how’s 3am sex sound to you?”
“Sounds great,” you hummed, “sounds so incredibly great, Peaches.”

Notes