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“You’re good.” Harry had whispered so softly that Niall would’ve missed it if it was anyone else saying it. He didn’t miss a thing when it came to him.
“What was that?” Niall heard him fine, had no idea what Harry meant, but his voice floated so nicely in the prettiest of sounds that he put Beethoven and Mozart and all the classics to shame. It was probably too late into the night or maybe it was too early into the morning for them to have any sort-of conversation right now, and they were both a little too out of breathe and sticky and sweaty and dirty. But if Harry talked nonstop for however long he’d have him, he’d be ok.
“You’re so good to me,” he mumbled deeply.
“What’re you goin’ on about, Harry?”
“Nothing, nothing, let’s hit the shower, yeah? You stink of my cum.” Niall remembers squeezing closer to Harry’s skin when he said that and giggling into his neck, then he remember fearing that he was being too clingy and backing up a little because he didn’t want Harry to find out he needed him so much. The thing is, Niall hated himself for wanting to push Harry into talking, and he hated himself for being so curious, but now he hates himself for not pushing Harry because maybe his answer would’ve moved their love a little faster. Or maybe he hates himself for not saying it back immediately because Harry is so good to him too and maybe he could’ve moved their love a little further. Harry was so, so, so good to him. God, he didn’t even know.
“As if that’s ever bothered you.” He thought the burning blush on his face had finally subsided from the post-orgasmic state Harry left him in, but the giggles Harry pressed into the back of Niall’s neck brought it right back.