request: best friend!harry and y/n are drunk one night and stuff gets spilled where they’re both in love with each other
where an innocent game of UNO with tequila and a twist makes harry and y/n’s night go wrong
a/n: hi. this is my baby. i love her a lot. pls treat her well.
this is also quite long, so I guess save this for later and read during that sweet spot in your life where you have all the time in the world. thank u enjoy.
Insensible to how the night will progress, y/n admits that the aftereffects quickly following a tequila shot’s persuasive innocence rather impresses her.
“That,” she blurts out, “looks downright disgusting.”
Y/n breathes in the retched smell, leaning on the cheap granite with her weight pressing down on her forearms. Her eyes wander over the islands of accidental spills scattering across her kitchen counter – alcoholic puddles have gone to waste. Harry, positioned over his mess of a workspace, stands confidently tall on the opposite side.
“Oh, shut up!” he retaliates, throwing half of a lime at her ebullient figure.
The citrus bounces against y/n’s skin, right beneath her collarbone. She emits a gasp of shock from the cool sensation, but still manages to trap the small fruit to chuck it back at her best friend.
“Asshole!” she laughs. Never should she have teased Harry over his ability to recreate the infamous drinks he has downed in foreign countries. Peering down at the failed concoction before her, y/n bites down on her tongue and prevents any smartass remarks from sliding right off.
Well, alright, one more can’t hurt.
“I don’t think you’re making this right,” she says, ignoring whatever metaphorical daggers might possibly impale her best friend’s fragile ego.
Harry, in turn, sticks out his tongue. “You don’t even know what I’m making,” he remarks, picking up the blender to examine the poison inside.
“Sure, I do. It’s some drink you had in … Belgium.”
“Brazil,” he corrects, “but close. Your geography skills are truly remarkable, d’ya know that?”
“Well, I’m sorry, Mr. I-Have-A-Net-Worth-of-70-Million, but we don’t all have the privilege of expanding our education through continent-hopping on our private jets.”
Harry lowers the blender. His brow furrows, staring quizzically at his friend, then asks, “70 million? Really? Is it really that low?”
The two share an instant look of amusement; sparkling eyes and wide-open mouths. The kitchen walls echo with their wasted laughter. A drawn-out “Wowww” vibrates from y/n as she soaks in the Cheshire man’s conceited joke. Harry has to assure her over and over that “I’m joking, I’m joking!”
A couple minutes pass by. “You’re making a right mess of my kitchen,” y/n points out. “Are you planning on cleaning all of this up?”
“Of course,” he promises, then mirrors her position: leaning on the cheap granite, weight pressing down on his forearms. With a wide countertop anchoring right between them, Harry inches closer, cautious with his effect. “You don’t peg me as some sort of animal, do you?”
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