Cozy fluff (Patreon)

Hiiii! This is just a bit of cozy fluff to get us all through a v dreary winter

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Harry can’t handle the cold. 

One would think with a northern background his body would be made for it; all his ancestors growing in a dreary, cloudy atmosphere where winters could be quite brutal. They’d think that he could go out in a thinner coat and brave the icy winds with an unwavering expression. Crack his knuckles and go to the store to get hot chocolate for him and Y/N to enjoy on such a snowy night. 

Yet here he is, swaddled in a thick winter coat with a big faux feather filled coat that puts everyone around them to shame, Y/N’s thick knitted socks stuffed into his loafers, a scarf tied around his throat, all on top of a shirt, underneath a hoodie, underneath his coat. Still he was shivering and shuddering, bones rattling and teeth chattering, acting as if he was in the middle of the arctic. It would be annoying if not for how precious he looked with a red tipped nose and flushed cheeks, arms hugged around his chest. 

That’s why, once they get to the car after they went through the park attempting to find the gift card that she’d dropped on the sidewalk earlier that day (and she would not let him just give her the money that had been on it, because there was just something so gratifying about swiping a card full of money that wasn’t coming out of her bank account), she tells him to stay in it and heat it up. “W-where’re you going?” He’d shuddered out but Y/N rolls her eyes. 

“I’ll be right back, babe, just try not to freeze.” 

Y/N was cold too, she was just a bit better at dealing with it than he was, so that’s why she’s going to the little hot chocolate stand that they have set up near the pavillion. He had come out in the dark with his pure hatred for cold just to help her find this insignificant gift card, to a store she rarely goes to, the least she could do was try her best to warm him up. The poor thing. . .she really was a sucker for him when all his often dominant nature has been reduced to nothing but little weather driven whimpers. 

So she buys two hot chocolates, whipped cream and sprinkles, “Could you add the marshmallows too? Loads of ‘em on the left one,” because he’s always got a sweet tooth for gooey thinks like marshmallows, and she takes them to the car, where Harry has resigned to the passenger side, trying to thaw. He looks to her when she knocks on the window, motioning for him to roll it down so she could hand him his drink and he smiles wide, “You’re the best,” he swooned, “But your hand, is it okay? They don’t have a cardboard thing on yours.” 

They did but she had switched it so the cardboard was on his cup. 

She waves him away, “S’fine, keeps my hands warm anyways,” even though she’s fairly sure that it was giving her burns on her hands, passing it over to him, “Put that in the holder for me yeah?” 

The drive home is filled with Harry’s soft and often audible shuddering, careful slurps of their drinks, and the soothing coos of whatever cd he had playing on the stereo. They talked some but mostly it was Y/N checking up on him and him telling her that he was, “Peachy keen, Lovie,” he would jitter, “Jus’ tell me about your day.” Which she did, and albeit it being uneventful, he still asks her questions and encourages her to continue, and that reminds her why she gave him the cup with the cardboard in the first place. 

Once they get home, she ushers him inside and immediately skips up to the bathroom, cranking the faucet to the hot water and filling it the special bubbles and salts, while Harry ambles in, “This is for us?” 

“For you,” she corrects, filling the temp of the water beneath her finger, and flicking it dry, “I’m g’na make some potato soup and then get the roast prepped so I just got to throw it in tomorrow. Remember the one you wanted to try?” 

There’s a pout present on his face, cheeks and nose still pink from the outside as he takes her by the bicep and drags her into his body, his arms slung around her waist looking down at her, “Why you being so sweet on me huh? You gettin’ ready to send me off to the navy or summat?” His hand raises, cupping her face, running the pad of his thumb along the round of her cheek. 

She shakes her head, cheeks pulling back in a soft smile, appreciating the warmth that accompanies being close to him, which only furthers her wanting to do nice things for him. He always does such sweet things for her, whether he be the one filling up her bath after a long day, or cooking her meals, or giving her oily massages (that ultimately lead into something more), pecking kisses all over her face and being disgustingly adorably nice to her. It makes her heart all too soft and she never feels like she’ll ever be able to make it up to him, for dealing with late night study breakdowns, and grumpy mornings where she didn’t want to leave bed and swatted at his hands as he pulled the covers from her. 

“I oughta send you off to the navy, maybe then you’d learn to pick up your socks,” she murmurs, “But no. . .not doing that. Just wanna do something for you. Play the role of the doting wife.” 

“But that’s my job,” he responds. 

“Don’t I know it,” she counters, “But you deserve an eensy bit of a break. Now get in the tub,” she slips away with a swat to his bum, “I’ll be downstairs.” 

He gives a weak grab towards her elbow but ultimately lets her slip away with a soft  groan, though as she cracks the door shut she can hear him begin to undress. She makes quick on her promises, making the soup, keeping it warm on the stove before starting up on the preparations for the roast, which just involved a lot of chopping, a lot of tupperware, and a lot of making room in the refrigerator. They both had the day off tomorrow and it was supposed to snow, so she figured it would be something warm and cozy for them to indulge in. And the thought of cuddling with a full, post roast Harry just makes her feel so soft. 

She hears Harry slosh out of the tub, padding to the bedroom, and he reappears to her in the kitchen adorned in sweats and a soft, weathered long sleeve. Y/N greets him with a bowl of the soup she’d made, and a piece of bread, “Eat now,” she tells him, “It’s good -- I think, at least, I had a bite.” 

Harry puckers his lips, making kissy noises until she gave in and tiptoed up to his mouth to kiss him, “Everythin’ you make is delicious,” then his eye drops down into a wink, “Even when it isn’t, now c’mon --” he reaches around her, grabbing her bowl and placing the cut bit of bread she had for her own into the bowl with her soup, “--’nough of you doting on me, come eat with me.” 

Y/N lets him lead her to the living room, where she had started a fire, and had gotten the tv set on this movie he loves (he considers it his guilty pleasure since it’s shit) and Y/N just can’t stand watching. He flopped down on the couch, cradling the bowl in his lap and patting next to him as she situates herself.

After they eat, Harry almost immediately pulls her into his side, and kisses her forehead. 

It’s moments like these, when they’re both cuddled together, swallowed in the warmth of one another that Y/N can’t help but feel overwhelmingly grateful for him. She has always thought romantic movies were complete shit -- they were contrived and sappy and quixotic at best and she’d never understand why people would watch things knowing it’d make them longing and sad. There was no such thing as shining, quirky weird knights that come in, sweep you off your feet, and love you forever, and to spend your life waiting for one. . .well, it was silly, and stupid, and just leading you to disappointment when you finally settle for the bloke who slaps your bum everytime you walk by him. 

But then Harry happened to her. She was sad, feeling droopy in a shirt covered in soda, the stress making her neck ache, and all she wanted to do was sink into a hot bath but she needed to do some work before she got to relax at all. The shirt hadn’t even been hers -- it was her friend Millie’s who had spilled her coke all over herself but had a class she had to go to, with a guy that she really fucking liked, and Y/N. . .well, Y/N hid behind the thick bushes just outside the English building and switched shirts with her. Taking on her sticky, old Led Zeppelin shirt and telling her she would wash it for her when she got home and get out the stain from it. She’d been headed to the Starbucks on campus so that she could at least get a croissant to soothe her troubles, but instead she got hit in the head with a frisbee. 

She’d held her head, tears springing to her eyes as she turns around, gearing up to tear whoever the hell just hit her head with a frisbee in two -- rip him to shreds. The fucking idiot, who throws frisbee in a populated area of the campus? There’s literally a free fucking field just a few minutes away, so why the hell are they doing it at the quad? 

But then she sees him, and the anger nearly withered in her throat. . .he was beautiful. A panic-stricken face as he rushed over, “I’m so sorry! So, so, so sorry, fuck me I -- are you okay?” 

“Peachy-keen,” she’d answered, rubbing at the spot, “S’fine, s’fine, don’t worry abou--” 

“Oh god, did I make you spill soda on your shirt?” His face drops into a frown, “I --” 

“No, no, this wasn’t you -- it was just. . . my friend spilled it on her shirt but she still had a class so we switched,” she shakes her head, “S’fine, you probably just gave me a concussion,” his face drops even further, and he looks like he could cry, but she starts shaking her head even more so, “That was a joke! I was kidding, I’m fine, really.” 

However, this green eyed boy did not look quite convinced, brows tilted, “Let me make it up to you please?” He picks the frisbee up, “Do you like croissants?” 

Y/N nodded and smiled. 

After their small little croissant/bagel/coffee date, Y/N started to realize why romantic movies existed. 

It’d been two years since then -- a year of firsts. First kisses, first touches, first fuck, first fights, first make ups, first, firsts, firsts all around. And she loved him with every single part of her. When this had all had began, she’d been worried that she liked him way more than he could like her but he’d soothed her worries once when she’d over heard him on the phone with his buddy Niall. 

“Yeah, mate, she drooled all over me but. . .but god it was cute. S’that weird? I really love her, man. . .like, I really do.” 

(She’d given him an extra special blowie that night.) 

And he took care of her however he could, whenever he could. If she needed him, he was there in a second, if she wanted him he was there even faster. When she’s sad, he makes her happy, when she’s mad, he lets her drone on about her problem until she’s tuckered herself out from it, all of which she returns to him. Through sleepless nights, terrible finals, the aches and pains of being in college and the aches and pains of just going throughout life sometimes -- he was always there. Everytime she sees him, she figures her heart couldn’t grow anymore in her chest, but he proves her wrong time and time again. 

Like he couldn’t be anymore perfect, he was generous in bed to. She’s certain he’d be happy lapping between her thighs all night while he just grinded himself off on the mattress if she’d let him. They tried lot of things, both of them open to anything the other wanted to do, talking it out beforehand. 

They have fun. So much fun together, doing the stupidest shit, whether it be staying up late and binging a show only to critic it’s entire being, to taking salsa classes knowing full well that Harry’s got the limbs of a clumsy giraffe and two left feet. Even when they’re just sitting, watching a cliche movie, by the soothing warmth of a fire and soaking in each other’s body heat, Y/N has fun. 

Because she loves him. 

She loves him so much. 

“I love you,” Harry murmurs suddenly, like he’d been poking around in her brain, peering into her thoughts and when she shuffles to face him, she sees the soft, reflective look on his face, a gentle smile on his mouth, “Just thinking about you, and I love you. Plus, I saw you switch the cardboard slip from your cup to my cup which is a move I’ve pulled on you about a dozen times, so I think you may love me just as much.” 

Her heart feels as if it may burst, as she shakes her head playfully. 

“No, not just as much. Pretty sure I love you more.”