FWB Harry part 2! (Patreon)

I think someone may have feeeeelings

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It is not often that Y/N is stirred awake by an unremitting knock on her front door. The last time it had occurred, it was around when she had first moved in, her next door neighbor had come by during one of her injudicious post-lecture naps at noon. They were pounding on her door like the building was on fire, Y/N had thrown herself from the covers so quickly she had to catch herself on the wall as black splotches blur her vision. She tripped over her own feet, slung open her door, and there was Heidi -- the single mother of a one year old next door, who was lonely, skittish, and only twenty-four -- with her son tucked on her hip, his chubby fingers resting on her flushed face. 

“I -- there’s a mouse! I think two, they’re just in my flat, how’d they -- how the hell did they get to the seventh floor?” 

(Y/N watched the baby while she went to the store for no kill traps. In return, she brought Y/N three candy bars and a soft pair of socks as repayment for not only watching Georgie, but helping her set up the trap.) 

Though, the rapid knocking that flurries her door at the tender hour of 1AM seemed a little more relaxed than hers but it was coupled with her ringtone. She took it a little slower this time, as she pushed herself halfway up, slapping at the sheets around her head with her palm where she knows her phone might have plopped when she fell asleep with it in her hand.  When she flips it around, she sees Harry’s face big on her screen -- she had caught a picture of him mid-bite and made it her icon much to his resentment (it made her giggle every time he called) -- a smile cracks at her dry mouth when she answers. 

“Harry?” Her voice rasps, the first part of his name having barely emitted as a sound through her mouth, “Are you the one bangin’ at my door?” 

“Why don’t you come bloody open it and find out?” 

With a roll of her eyes, she swings her feet over the mattress and doesn’t bother to drag any manner of pants on to greet him. He’d seen it all before anyway -- she hangs up the phone, holding it limply at her side as her lips stretch around a wide yawn. From what she’s learned of Harry, his voice has a telltale lilt to it when he’s been drinking and she was well aware he had been meant to go to a party tonight. That didn’t explain why he had ended up at her place though; normally when he goes to a party, he’s planning on burying himself in some giddy blonde when he gets bored of her. Or that’s what she thought at least. . .it was why she was always a bit snippy with him when he did go out. 

Y/N was not much of a partier, despite the fact that is where she and Harry met. She only ever went if Adam cajoled her with promised food because he needed “somebody sane” there or he would go batty. And Y/N had never really been one opposed to free drinks and burgers afterward. If not Adam, then maybe Harry if he’s already there and bored he’ll ask her to come around. Though she would much prefer an area where her lungs didn’t feel stuffy from smoke if she were in there for longer than five minutes, or where the possibility of getting somehow peed on was not as far off the table as it ought to be. 

She slides the lock on her door, fists around the knob and drags it open with the creak of its hinges sounding through the hallway, “To what do I owe the pleasure?” Is how she greets him, and Harry pushes his way in, though he loops his fingers around her wrist and tugs her along with him deeper into her flat, just barely giving her enough time to shut and relock her door. She gets a little tripped up on her feet, “Oi, Harry? Weren’t you at a party?” 

“It was shite,” he uttered, “You should have come with me.” 

Snorting, her brows dig into her forehead, “You didn’t necessarily extend an invitation.”

“You’re always invited.” He replies like it should be known fact by her, that he would want her around with him. At the start of whatever this was, he had been adamant in keeping his distance from her to some degree. Showing up to parties together might give people the wrong idea, and worse, hanging out with one another at said parties might give her the wrong idea. Y/N would tease him about thinking that she was going to fall deeply in love with him like some quixotic coming of age romantic comedy (despite herself, she had begun to like him, but that was beside the point) but abided by his regulations. She didn’t mind, he was a good lay, and had been clear about what they were from the beginning -- she wouldn’t fight it. 

So this was definitely a new take, but she holds her tongue as he leads her to the kitchen. Harry guides her to the counter and in a fluid movement he hikes her up atop of it, lugging a squawk from her throat. His arms slide around her familiarly, comfortingly, nestling his forehead against her collarbone, lips just barely grazing against the tender skin stretched over it. Y/N lets her hand pet through his hair, scritching at his scalp gently, “What, did ya get turned down or summat?” He shook his head, snuggling closer between her thighs, “What’s wrong then? You normally go home and pass out -- a taxi here’s more expensive than to your place.” 

“Adam drove me.” 

Her eyes widen, “Wait, what? Since when do you and Adam talk?” 

“Since I can’t get off with anyone but you.” 

That hadn’t been the answer Y/N was expecting. She wonders if it shows all over her face, the way her eyes go impossibly wider and her brows skyrocket up toward her hairline, fingers pausing in his hair, coaxing a low whine from his mouth. He nuzzles his head back up against her hand, sighing lowly, “Keep going.” 

“What d’ya mean with anyone but me?” She questions, though her fingers do resume their ministrations and he practically purrs, leaning into her touch and she doubts that his eyes are open. Harry had always been a more than affectionate drunk; he was far more tender and softhearted with her. This was the Harry that had first offered her a true snuggle.

(They were both gone on jello shots, she had had a rough day after taking an exam she hadn’t felt prepared for and in turn did not feel good about, and had just gotten done drunkenly crying to him about it before he could even get his kit off. She remembered that he sighed, wriggled the rest of the way out of his trousers before patting at the mattress space next to him. Through bleary eyes, snuffled, hiccuped breaths, and floppy limbed movements, she ended up falling into his open arms and he held her against him. Allowed her to sniffle and whine, stroked up her back, shushed her until she eventually succumbed to sleep.)

It was drunk Harry who spun her around on a dance floor like she was something out of a romance novel, and drunk Harry who peppered kisses all over her face and told her how good she was — how she wasn’t like anyone else, how badly he needed her all the time, how tight, and warm, and perfect she was for him. She had always denoted them as his normally filthy dirty talk going mawkish from the liquor but with no real intent behind his words. Had never considered any deeper meaning behind them than that. 

“You know what I mean,” he murmured loosely, his fingers fiddle with the hem of her t-shirt -- or what she is almost positive is his shirt -- but with little purpose in his movements. Typically, when he was toying with her shirt, he was planning on yanking it off, or at the very least snaking his hands up her skin to grip at her boobs. Instead, he just plays with them, sighing contently, “Don’t make me say it.” 

“Say what, hmm?” She pries but he just shakes his head instead. 

“You’ll make me waffles or summat?” He redirects, retreating from where he was cuddled into her to give her space to slide off the counter, “I would, but I don’t reckon you want me burning down your flat.” 

Y/N knows when Harry is subtly refusing to answer her and this time she allows it; if not for the fact that she could probably pry the information out of Adam, she thinks she probably would have whined until he broke. Harry was good at keeping his lips welded shut though and if he didn’t want to share a secret, then he wasn’t going to share it. She might as well keep a lock on his good mood while she can, especially if it meant that she would be getting all this affection from him.  

So she cranked her freezer door open, pulled out the last two waffles and stuffed them into the toaster. Harry refuses to go sit in the living room like she had suggested so he could get off his feet, leaning against the counter, eyes trailing her around the kitchen as she pulled out a plate and the hazelnut spread. His gaze lit up, “You know just how to make ‘em — this one — one time someone tried to make me waffles and they just drenched it in syrup. . .it was bloody terrible.” 

“You didn’t tell them how you liked them?” She questioned, brows raised, “You made it clear to me off the jump, didn’t ya?” 

He giggled loosely, his face propped up by his hand, “You’re the only one I can be real with, yeah? Half the stuff I’ve admitted to you would have other people runnin for the hills, wouldn’t it?” 

And there he went again with that phrase. You’re the only one -- doesn’t he realize how much that stirs up her insides? Does he not know that giving her this acclaim would only further implant her heart into his hands? If he does, was he doing it on purpose? Did he like knowing that she bristled under his attention? That, no matter how nonchalant she carries herself around him, she garnered irrevocable feelings for him? It couldn’t be that though, could it? Because Harry would hate that. . .or at least the Harry she had met would hate that. 

Every chance that he had gotten, he would tell her: 

This isn’t a relationship. 

We aren’t together like that. 

I say that stuff because it’s in the moment, don’t let it skew things. 

But here he was, showing up at her house at 1AM, saying things that could imply that he might feel more for her than their something slightly more than platonic but a little less than a relationship. Giving her these eyes like she had reached into the midnight blue sky and plucked a star specifically for him, when she held out the waffles to him on the plate. Harry took the plate in one hand while grabbing for the waffle with his other, taking a big bite out of it, “Thank you.” He murmured around a mouthful, the hazelnut spread smeared at the corner of his mouth. She reached up and stroked it away without much thought, leaning over and tearing off a paper towel from her roll to wipe off her fingers. 

Y/N was leading him to the bedroom when she made a pit stop at the living room, only so that she could pick up her laptop so she could plug it up in her room. Harry liked sleeping to the sounds of a thunderstorm near the ocean, and she decided that she would accommodate him. Though he had grumbled something short of a whine and when she turned around, her laptop clutched to her chest, he was looking at her with the most distressed, downtrodden look, “I want to sleep beside you tonight.” He told her seriously and Y/N felt her heart twist. 

“You are,” she told him, “I’m just grabbing my computer.” 

Harry only is let on to why she had grabbed her computer, when she had encouraged him to climb into bed while she got it set up for him. Her sheets were already rumpled on her side -- she used to sleep in the middle of the bed, but ever since Harry and her had begun sharing more frequently, she finds she naturally gravitates to the left. Harry peeled up the covers that had been tucked in still, nestled himself against the pile of pillows and tucked the blanket around his neck. No matter how cold he got at night from her fan spinning or her window cracked open, he refused to keep on anymore clothes than his underwear. She could hear him have his whole body shiver as he grew accustomed to the temperature change, comforted beneath the thick blankets she snuggled up in. When he heard the first shudder of thunder echo from her computer speakers, Harry’s head popped up. 

“Is that for me?” He asked her as she pulled her covers up, climbing into it, and once she nodded, he barely allowed her to position herself before he was dragging her into his body. Harry’s preferred way to cuddle was to spoon, where he could swaddle her in his limbs and nestle his face deep into her throat. It was akin to the position they had been in the other week, when Harry all but refused to let her get up to go to class. She melted against him, sighing contently as she felt the slumber she had once been in begin to cradle her once more. 

“We need’a talk,” she told him, though her tongue felt heavy, her mouth full of marbles, “About this.” 

Harry’s only response is a hum, as he noses his way closer.