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“If I ever have to see another vagina again, I will cry,” Louis calls out to Zayn and the world at large as he keys into their flat at eight.

“Quick, B, hide your snatch!” comes Zayn’s laughing voice from the direction of the kitchen.

“Oi, that’s my girlfriend you’re talking to,” Niall protests, and then there’s the distinct sound of what is probably Zayn getting hit with a wooden kitchen spoon, and then Barbara shrieks, “Hey, watch the dress, it’s Pra- fuck-” and then it’s Niall getting hit with a wooden kitchen spoon.

Louis sighs for a year and a half, drops his keys in the dish, toes off his shoes, and slumps over to the kitchen.

It’s a Sunday night. It’s been a rainy November, but the flat is warm, and cosy. Niall’s jacket is lying in a heap on the floor, a bottle of £3.99 Tesco wine is sitting the coffee table, the smell of Indian takeaway is wafting through the air, and, Louis sees when he reaches the doorway, most of his favourite people in the entire world are standing in his kitchen- Jake’s laughing by the stove, wearing his beloved ‘fuck the cook’ apron and heating up the curry, Zayn is hanging out by the window, smoking, Niall is nursing a beer and a bruise, leaning against the counters, and Barbara is dabbing at a red stain on her dress, shaking her head good naturedly, the spoon and a glass of wine on the counter next to her.

Louis wants to drown himself in a vat of molten lava.

“Babe,” Niall coos the second he catches sight of Louis’ face. “Oh, darling, bad day?”

“Fucking pussy,” Louis groans, leaning towards Barbara and resting his head on her chest.

Barbs hums sympathetically and strokes a hand through Louis’ hair. “No promotion today, then?”

“Good one,” Louis scoffs dully. “Listen, B, I’m never going to get a promotion. I’m going to be stuck bikini waxing for the rest of my life.”

Barbara squeezes Louis extra tight, then releases him with a kiss to the forehead. “If it helps, my friend Jamilla says you have a brilliant touch. She’s recommending you to all her model friends.”

“A model’s vag is still a vag,” Louis mumbles.

Jake laughs from the stove. “I’m not afraid of a pussy.”

“Jake fucking Bass,” Zayn, Niall, and Barbara chorus, while Louis fights back a smile.

“Seriously, Lou, are you alright?” Zayn asks from the window, concerned. Niall reaches out to pull Louis closer, slinging an arm around his shoulder. Louis leans his head against Niall’s chest, nuzzles in.

“No, I’m not,” Louis tells him. “Niall reeks.”

“I smell of cowboy musk and leather bound books and Guinness and Ireland, excuse you,” Niall shoots back, without malice. “Actually, though, what’s wrong with you?”

Louis sighs again. “I just feel severely underappreciated, is all,” he confesses. “Over a year, I’ve worked at that fucking salon, and I’m still spending my days with vaginas.”

“Trade jobs with me,” Niall sighs. “Please.”

Barbara smacks him again.

“You’re on the brink of a promotion,” Jake says. “I can feel it.”

“You’ve been feeling it for six months,” Louis reminds him.

“Did anyone ask for a vajazzle today?” Zayn asks, blowing smoke into his boyfriend’s face.

“No,” Louis answers over Jake’s coughs. “But Sam’s been talking about how to teach me to do the ‘downstairs dye’.” 

“Ooh, that sounds festive!” Niall says excitedly. “More on that later. J, is dinner almost ready?”

“Patience,” Jake says sagely.

“It would have been warm already if we hadn’t taken a forty five minute detour to get the alcohol, and actually picked it up on time,” Barbara says reasonably.

“Niall always gets very good alcohol,” Zayn says defensively, tipping his dark ale in Niall’s direction.

“Thanks, Zayn. Love you.”

Louis must look extremely, extremely miserable, because Niall presses his own beer into Louis’ hand, bless him, and kisses the side of his temple. “Cheer up, Lou. It’ll all work out, I swear it.”

“And if it doesn’t, there’s always porn!” Jake says cheerfully, and everyone, Louis included, laughs. “Now, B, could you hit Lou with the spoon? I need him to set the table.”

Barbara moves quickly, reaching over to hit Louis smack in the chest before he can duck out of the way.

“You’re all awful,” Louis says. “Especially you, fucking Jake Bass.”

He goes to grab the bowls, anyways.

Dinner, after that, is a lovely affair. Louis feels all of his twenty-two years, sat around his own kitchen table, talking about sophisticated things, like how Jake’s seen Frozen four times, or how one of Barbara’s model friends has one of those fizzy drink machines but he doesn’t use any of the special flavouring packets because he doesn’t consume processed foods (“How fucked up is that?”). They do give up on the wine, but only because Niall says that tequila goes better with the palate, anyways, and they leave a semi-coherent message for Eleanor, the member of their little family who is currently missing in action, at her sister’s destination wedding and getting, by the looks of her Instagram pictures, a terrible sunburn.

Sunburns fade into sun tans! We love you! Don’t sleep with the groom again!

By the time that Barbara and Niall are pulling on their coats and laughingly stumbling down the stairs, Louis is in a significantly better mood. He sees them out the front door, pulling the sleeves of his jumper over his hands to protect himself from the cold.

“See you Friday, Lou,” Barbara kisses his cheek. “Lunch at Shake Shack, don’t forget.”

“Could I ever,” he laughs. “Bye, darling,” he says to Niall, who hugs him fiercely.

“Have you been sleeping?” Niall asks quietly.

Louis bites his lip and shakes his head. “You know I can’t, not when I get this keyed up.”

Niall nods, ruffles his hair. “Try to relax, Lou,” he advises. “Go with the flow, and all that shit. You never know when something big might happen.”

Louis laughs tiredly. “Thanks, Ni, but I’m pretty sure I know when it won’t happen. Like, try, within the next fifty years.”

“You don’t know shit,” Niall tells him frankly.

“Definitely true,” Louis sighs.

Niall grins at him, then bounds down the steps after Barbara, and Louis turns to go back inside.

“Oh, Lou!” Niall calls. Louis turns around.

“Yeah?”

“Before I forget-- I’ve just met this great guy, friend of Ed’s, a photographer, just moved to London, said he was looking for a good beauty parlour? I recommended him to you, keep your eye out for him.”

“Do I have to give him half price?” Louis makes a face.

Niall laughs. “No, you greedy bastard. Try ‘t sleep, talk tomorrow, love you!”

“Love you, too!” Louis calls back, and he shuts the door to the cold. He climbs up the stairs back to the flat, pushes the door back open.

“You have ten minutes to come, and then clean the counters!” Louis yells into the flat, a crash and a shout alerting him to Zayn and Jake’s most certainly compromising position in the kitchen. “And then we’re all watching Nashville and I get to be the middle spoon!”

***

“I’m not even fucking with you. She wanted a bright green arrow. Not a landing strip, an arrow.”

Perrie leans closer to Louis, across the front desk, and lowers her voice like she gives a fuck about client confidentiality. “Like, pointing down to her vag?”

“So that her boyfriend would ‘find it’,” Louis confirms, nodding.

Perrie giggles. “What, has he been putting it in the wrong hole?”

“Evidently,” Louis laughs, then makes a pained sound. “Fuck, Pezza, I don’t know how much longer I can do this for. I want to style hair hair, not pubes.”

“Aw, babe,” she says sympathetically, giving him a little pat on the head. “I don’t think it’ll be long now. Sam adores you. I think she just thinks you’re a little inexperienced.”

“Of course I’m inexperienced!” Louis cries. Several clients turn towards the outburst, and Louis sighs and drops his head on the desk. “Of course I’m inexperienced,” Louis repeats, quieter. “They did hire me right out of school, you know.”

“I know,” Perrie says. She tucks a strand of peroxide blonde hair behind her ear and smacks her bubble gum a bit. “Trust me, though. I’ve been here four years. They’re just testing you, seeing if you’re dedicated, seeing if you’ll walk out or not. You’ll be an assistant colourist in--”

The shrill ring of a phone cuts across, and Perrie rolls her eyes and picks up.

“Bleach London, how can I help?” she asks. Louis yawns widely, grabs a lolly from the big glass bowl on the desk, and surveys the salon, sulking.

It’s six o’clock, on a Tuesday. Louis’ next appointment, that bloke that Niall recommended, is running late, and so Louis is taking an extended break in the spacious main room of the salon, with white-painted bricks and high ceilings and bright lighting. Louis’ realm is downstairs in the basement, a little, private room by the shampooing station and the dryer machines, but he often sneaks up to the main room between appointments, to chat with Perrie, and to just observe the general bustle. Bleach London is, by pricing, a high-end salon, but, by clientele and location, off the beaten path, nestled in Dalston and servicing, mainly, semi-successful hipsters. Even Louis’ clients have their own off-beat charm, he has to admit, and he’s ninety-two percent positive that everyone who’s inquired about vajazzling so far has done so in a purely ironic way. But just because Louis doesn’t detest his clients doesn’t mean he’s happy spending his time outlining the differences between a Hollywood and a Brazilian wax. No, Louis thinks, as he watches Jesy start in on a dip dye in her chair at the end without sectioning the hair out properly. No, Louis deserves to be upstairs.

“Alright, I’ll put you in for next Thursday at six. Yes. Have a lovely day, now,” Perrie says, and then she hangs up. “It’s just the hierarchy, Lou,” she says, turning back to him. “You’ve just got to work the system, a bit.”

“Yes, but don’t you ever get tired of working for the man, Pez?” Louis asks, biting down on the lolly, because he lacks the required patience to lick it, and then tossing the white stick into the rubbish bin. “Don’t you ever want to say ‘fuck all’ and throw caution to the wind and rip off your clothes and start a revolution?”

“Why do we have to be naked to rebel?” Perrie asks, confused. “In a beauty parlour, no less?”

“Because naked revolutions are the best kinds of revolutions,” a slow, unfamiliar voice from behind Louis says.

Louis turns, to wholly concur, and his breath catches in his throat.

There’s an angelic-looking man standing before him, with a lopsided grin and dancing eyes and deep dimples and loose, dark curls. He’s got legs that seem to go on forever, encased in impossibly tight black jeans, and a loose, black t-shirt hangs off his collarbones. Louis is sure his mouth is hanging open around his cherry lolly, but he can’t help it. He just wants to eat him, a little bit.

“Hi, I’m Harry,” sexy cherub introduces himself. “Sorry to interrupt, but I’m here for an appointment with someone called Louis? Intimate detailing.”

You’re Harry?” Louis asks, before he can stop himself, blinking over-tired eyes in disbelief. Fucking Niall, he never gives Louis fair warning when he sends attractive guys Louis’ way. “Ed’s friend?”

“That’s me,” Harry says, looking a bit guilty. “Sorry I’m running a bit late, I walked over here all the way from Highbury & Islington and I saw that this young girl had dropped her ice cream cone on the ground and she was crying and so I stopped to see where her mum was and then she told me that her mum was actually at work and she was there with her dad, like, of course, shame on me for assuming that her mum would be the stay at home parent, so, anyways, then I asked where her dad was and she said that he was playing with Sam and then I asked who Sam was and--”

“I’m Louis,” Louis interrupts, not because he isn’t oddly endeared, but because he has the sneaking suspicion that if he doesn’t, Harry will talk forever. “Don’t worry about it, it’s fine.”

Harry looks simultaneously relieved and embarrassed; Harry looks good. He sticks out his hand, and Louis shakes it, careful to grasp it for a little longer than necessary and watching Harry’s face for any sign of reaction.

“Niall’s told me a lot about you,” Harry says earnestly and, Louis hopes, a little flirtatiously. “He talks about you all the time.”

“Niall’s not told me much about you,” Louis says, thinking that he might need to reconsider letting Niall be his best mate. “I’m going to have to have a long talk with him, about that.”

Harry laughs, surprisingly close to a giggle.

Perrie clears her throat.

“Right, you want to follow me?” Louis asks, dropping Harry’s hand. Harry nods, waving goodbye to Perrie as he follows Louis down the spiral staircase.

The basement room is cosy, Louis can admit, well-stocked with trashy magazines, filled with a heavy aroma of rose oil and Turkish hair relaxants. It’s nearing the end of the day, and so the shampooing station is empty, and there’s only one woman sitting underneath one of the dryers, flipping through a Hello magazine.

“Right in here,” Louis gestures, opening the white door that separates the waxing station from the rest of the room. There’s a massage table draped in a clean sheet in the centre of the space, and a tall, thin table next to it, with the pot of wax, some cloth strips, and a cup of wooden lollysticks resting on it; in the corner, there’s a sink, with a cupboard on top full of plush towels and fresh seats, and, underneath, a cabinet containing a variety of bleaches and soothing oils. Louis moves about, grabbing a pillow off the floor and tossing it up onto the table.

“Waxing, then,” Louis starts, checking the temperature on the wax burner to make sure that it’s neither too hot nor too cold. “Brazilian or Hollywood?”

“Um,” Harry says thoughtfully.

“Brazilian, it’s just the hair around the pubic bone. Hollywood, it’s everything.”

Harry pauses, considering. “Could you, like, wax my bollocks, and bleach my arse? Like, when in Bleach London, you know.”

Louis laughs. Usually, he’s the one who’s got to make the jokes, got to try to keep the mood light, but Harry seems so comfortable. “Sure, I can do that.”

“Maybe bedazzle my sac, too. Like on TOWIE,” Harry’s eyes sparkle, and he winks, letting Louis know he’s just messing about.

Louis raises his eyebrows, fighting back a smile. “You want a vajazzle?”

Harry shrugs, facetious. “I’ve got a bejewelled butt plug, might as well get a bejewelled cock, to match.”

“What’ll we call it?” Louis plays along, not thinking about butt plug.

“The Hairy Style,” Harry says, without having to stop and think for a second. “Like, my name, but ‘Harry’ spelled like ‘h-a-i-r-y’, and Styles without an ‘s’.”

“Oh, my god,” Louis cackles. “That’s awful.”

“You’re laughing, though,” Harry sounds proud. “You’ve got a nice laugh, you know.”

Louis hides his blush, bending down to sort through the cabinet, pulling out some cleansing cream, a bottle of non-toxic bleach, and some rose-scented cooling lotion. “So, I’ll just pop out for a second, and then you can-”

For the second time today, Louis’ words die in his throat when he turns around, because Harry’s already taken off his shirt, and he’s stepping out of his tight, tight jeans, and, apparently, his pants, leaving him stood completely naked in the tiny room. His chest and arms are littered with the most random assortment of tattoos Louis’ ever seen -- Jesus, are those ferns? -- but they hardly distract from just how fit he is. He’s got four nipples- four, shadows of a six pack, and softness around his hips, lovehandles. His actual chest hair is sparse, because he looks to be eighteen at the most, but he’s got a thin trail of hair leading down the vee of his hips, straight to his. Fuck.

“Louis?” Harry asks, and Louis’ gaze is ripped away from Harry’s cock (pink, huge, nestled in a crop of dark hair).

“Sorry,” Louis says weakly. “Assessing the, uh, I was- um. Have you ever gotten waxed before?”

To Louis’ relief, Harry just laughs, and takes the towel that Louis holds out to him, wrapping it around his waist and hopping up onto the table. “No. I’ve shaved, once or twice, but I’m always afraid I’ll castrate myself with the razor, and the aftershave stings.”

“Waxing is better anyways,” Louis says automatically. “Much smoother. So, you want your bollocks  done?”

“And my treasure trail,” Harry nods, like he’s reciting something. “And then I should get my bum bleached, like I said. Ben says people like it best when you’re totally hairless, but I did some reading online and I don’t fancy any sweat in my arse crack.”

“Ben?” Louis furrows his eyebrows, unable to help himself from prying. “Is he your boyfriend?”

Harry smiles, and shoots Louis a complicated look, a Mona Lisa half-smile, but naked. “God, no, I’m very single,” he says, and Louis feels warm and tingly. “Ben’s my boss.”

His boss?

“Niall said you were a photographer,” Louis says carefully. He’s never heard of any magazine editor who requires their photographers to keep their groin area waxed.

“I do some modelling on the side,” Harry explains breezily. “To make extra money.”

Oh, well. Okay. That makes sense, actually, because Harry must be a model, with how tall and lovely he is, but Louis can’t be blamed for not noticing right away, because Harry’s posture is terrible and he’s got ink stains all over his hands and a piece of scrap cloth tied in his hair and he doesn’t look like any model Louis’ ever seen before.

“Anything particular you’re saving up for?” Louis asks, unable to stop himself.

“A tandem bicycle, a new dildo, and my student loans,” Harry answers automatically, and Louis, in spite of himself, giggles. Harry’s just adorable, is the thing. “You ask all your clients this much personal information?” Harry flirts.

“Just the models,” Louis smiles back, just as casual, even though his heart is beating unusually quickly. “D’you want to get started now?”

“Does it hurt?” Harry asks slowly, contemplatively.

“Yeah,” Louis answers honestly. “I’m afraid so.”

“Oh, it’s alright, I was hoping you’d say yes.” Harry smiles serenely, swinging his long legs up onto the table and folding his arms behind his head and closing his eyes, as if he’s settling down for a nice nap, or to get a really nice blowie. “I like the pain.”

Fuck.

Louis washes his hands thoroughly in the sink with cool water, then splashes some over his face, for good measure. He dries off, rolls up the sleeves of his tight henley, pulls on a pair of latex gloves, and walks over to the table, taking a necessary deep breath when he’s faced with Harry again, stretched out, long and peaceful, along the table.

“I’m gonna do your abdomen first, alright?” Louis asks.

“Do it,” Harry says, at once a little dirty and a little scared, keeping his eyes closed.

Louis dips a lolly stick into a wholesale tub of anti-bacterial cream. “This is going to feel a little cool,” Louis warns, smoothing the flat stick over Harry’s fuzzy treasure trail. Louis can’t resist rubbing it in with his fingers, watching, fascinated, as the muscles in Harry’s abdomen contract involuntarily.

Harry possibly lets out a soft noise.

“On to the wax,” Louis says softly, and he takes up another stick and dips it in the hot wax. This time, the noise that Harry makes when it touches his skin is more audible, a low hiss.

“Alright, mate?” Louis asks lightly, trying and failing to keep the atmosphere casual and comfortable.

“Fine,” Harry says, but his voice has noticeably hitched up two octaves.

Louis has to act fast, before the wax dries, and he rests the wooden stick against the pot of wax and reaches for the cloth strips, smoothing one out along the thick line.

“Breathe in,” Louis instructs, and he’s momentarily distracted by how quickly Harry obliges, his ribcage expanding.

“Breathe out,” Louis finishes, and he rips off the strip with a flick of his wrist.

Fuck,” Harry hisses. Louis watches, mesmerised, as Harry’s back arches up, and his fists ball up into the sheets, and a red stripe starts to bloom on Harry’s skin.

I made that, Louis thinks, his head pounding.

“Here, sorry, let me-” Louis hears himself saying, and then he’s dipping a third stick into the soothing cream and smoothing it over Harry’s pale skin. “To cool you down, and to prevent ingrown hairs.”

Shit,” Louis thinks he hears Harry whisper, but when he looks up, Harry’s lower lip is caught between his lip and he seems to be trying very hard to stay quiet. Stay professional.

“Ready to move on?” Louis asks, but his voice sounds too loud, too forced. Harry’s eyes blink open slowly, a little glazed over.

“Um,” he says. “Just so you, like, know. I’m.”

Louis follows Harry’s gaze down and realises, with a start, that he’d been so focused on watching Harry’s face that he hadn’t noticed that Harry is hard, his cock starting to tent out the towel wrapped around his waist noticeably.

“I read that that was normal,” Harry continues, voice slow like molasses. “Online. So, I’m sure you’re, like, used to it.”

The thing is, a lot of guys do get awkward boners their first time getting waxed, but never before Louis starts touching their dicks, never just from the pain alone. Louis doesn’t say this, though, just nods in what he hopes is a comforting manner.

“It’s alright, bro,” Louis assures, voice only wavering a little. “Happens all the time.”

Harry seems to relax a little, settling his head back down. He’s got a great jawline, Louis notices.

“Alright, on with it,” Louis announces, and then he peels off the towel.

Harry’s hung, is the thing. For his coy smiles and twinky personality and lack of chest hair, the boy’s got an insanely large cock. It’s pale pink, and uncut, and, as far as cocks go, positively lovely, standing at half-mast in a crop of darker, neatly trimmed hair. Louis reaches out to give it an experimental tug, involuntarily, and then draws his hand back immediately when he remembers that he is at his place of work and that he handles genitals for a fucking living.

“We’ll start from the top, then,” Louis clears his throat, mainly to fill the thick silence.

“You know best, you’re the boss,” Harry says, and that’s it, Louis loses the battle he’s been fighting with his dick, and he’s hard, too.

This isn’t good, Louis thinks. He closes his eyes and straightens up, focusing on the calming spa music drifting in through the speakers, takes two deep breaths in rapid succession, and reaches for the antiseptic again.

“This isn’t going to hurt as much,” Louis babbles, just to fill the air, as he concentrates on rubbing cream around the base of Harry’s cock. “There’s more hair here, but the follicles are actually less sensitive. The single most painful place to get waxed is the chest, followed by the inner thigh, followed by the upper lip.”

“Fascinating,” Harry says huskily.

“After you get waxed, you’re going to want to be sure to buy a tube of the soothing cream, so that you don’t get any of those nasty red bumps,” Louis continues, slathering on the hot wax without warning, trying to ignore how Harry’s body comes alive at it, taut, like a livewire. “It’s expensive, but it’s really nice, it smells like roses, and everything, and it’s got a million essential oils.” Louis layers on two cloth strips, one on top of the other. “I sometimes use it as hand lotion, or moisturiser, after I shave-”

Fuck!” Harry cries out again, this time loudly, as Louis bends down to rip off the two strips, without warning and in quick succession.

“Spread your legs, a bit,” Louis grits out, his cock throbbing uncomfortably in the confines of his jeans, and Harry keens, of fucking course he does, and spreads them wide, so Louis can get at the hair at the crease of his balls.

Louis hadn’t been lying when he’d said that the hair on the inside of the leg was the most painful to come off, but he’s too keyed up, too far gone to go easy on Harry. He starts with the left side- antiseptic, wax, cloth strip, and a hard yank to get it all off- and Harry groans, an exquisite sound that Louis is sure is a perfect mixture of pain and pleasure.

“You really like this,” Louis whispers in wonder, too quiet to expect a response.

“Yeah, fuck, I do,” Harry gasps from up above, and Louis chances a glance up his body to find that Harry’s positively writhing on the sheets.

“Stay still,” Louis nearly pleads. “Jesus, Harry, please, for the love of God.”

“Sorry,” Harry whimpers, and Louis immediately and inexplicably feels bad.

There’s no time for this, Tommo, a voice that sounds suspiciously like Zayn’s drifts through Louis’ head.

“Time to do the right side,” Louis hears himself say faintly, and he repeats the routine on the right side of Harry’s thigh.

Think of how red and pretty his thighs would look after you’d fucked them. It’s Jake’s voice, this time.

Louis takes a step back, takes a deep breath, focusing everywhere but Harry’s face, screwed up in pleasure, or Harry’s groin, fiery red with marks that Louis made, cock curving up towards his stomach, practically leaking.

“I’m going to do your bollocks, now,” Louis says as calmly as he can, addressing Harry’s right kneecap. “If you’d be so kind as to hold your cock, right at the base, and pull it towards you, then I can, um, get at them easier.”

Louis averts his eyes pointedly, but he can hear Harry whimper when he finally gets a hand on his cock. Louis thinks that Harry might be so worked up that he’ll start pulling himself off immediately, but when he focuses back in, Harry’s hand is still, just like Louis asked, gripping himself so tightly that his knuckles are white.

“Okay,” Louis says, to both himself and Harry. “Okay.”

“Okay?” he hears Harry echo, and even now, hard as fuck because a stranger’s been ripping hair off from around his dick, he sounds cheeky.

Louis wants to break him.

He goes slow with these ones, essentially rolling Harry’s balls around in his hand as he rubs in the antiseptic. Above him, Harry is making soft noises that sound almost like sobs, but Louis keeps a careful eye on Harry’s hand, and he keeps it still, even though he must need to come so badly by now that it hurts. Louis goes one by one, in no particular order or speed, keeping Harry on his toes. Sometimes he does it lightning fast-- wax, strip, rip it off-- but sometimes he goes slowly, making Harry’s hips jerk up in surprise. Harry makes it through the first set of strips relatively quietly, the top side of his bollocks  now flaming red and bare, but when Louis starts on the sensitive underside, going strip by strip, Harry seems to fall apart.

Louis,” he gasps.

It’s the first time that Harry’s said his name since they’ve started the waxing, and Louis literally can’t help it, he shoots a hand down to press at his own dick through his jeans. “Shh,” Louis pleads, voice coarse. “Please. We’re almost done.”

Harry doesn’t say anything in response. His thighs are trembling.

Louis spreads wax on the last spot left on Harry’s balls, hyperaware to the hiss he earns in response.

“Shh,” he says again, this time soothingly, and he gently presses the final strip along the sensitive skin. “Ready? One, two, three.”

Louis pulls up; Harry’s hips buck up, off the bed, and his cock hits Louis square in the face.

There’s a prolonged, stunned, silence, and then Louis bursts out laughing.

“Oh, my god,” Harry gasps, seemingly horrified, sitting up so quickly he must get a headrush, snatching his hands away from his cock. “Oh, fuck, I am so sorry, that was absolutely involuntary and without intent, I-”

“Jesus Christ,” Louis manages, and he effectively cuts Harry off by dropping to his knees and taking Harry into his mouth.

“Oh, fuck,” Harry screams, and Louis really hopes that the floor is clear of any other clients by now, but he also can’t be bothered to care.

Harry’s cock is heavy and hot on Louis’ tongue, just like he thought it would be, and it’s too big for Louis to take all the way down, and so he wraps a hand around the base, making sure that his knuckles press up against the agitated skin surrounding Harry’s cock. Louis hollows out his cheeks and wraps his lips around Harry’s cock, the combination of his spit and Harry’s pre-come making devestatingly wet noises as Louis bobs his head up and down furiously, squeezing his own dick as tight as he can through his clothes, hoping against hope that he won’t come in his pants.

“Don’t stop don’t stop don’t stop,” Harry chants. Louis flattens his hand out, digs his fingers into the red skin, and sucks, and Harry’s coming with a cry, spilling into Louis’ mouth, fisting his hands into Louis’ hair as Louis swallows around him.

“Oh, fuck,” Harry whimpers, pulling at Louis’ hair. “Fuck.”

Louis can barely see straight, he’s so turned on. He stands up too quickly, barely catching himself on the table. “Turn around,” he pleads desperately, fumbling with the buttons on his jeans. “Please, fuck, Harry, turn-”

Harry flattens himself on the table and flips over onto his stomach without question. Harry’s arse is perky and pale and lovely, Louis thinks, and he’d quite like to wreck it, sometime, but there’s no time for that, now. No, now, Louis shoves his jeans and pants down to the ground and nearly trips over his own feet in his haste to get out of them, grabs the rose cream from the table, climbs up, and lathers it onto the backs of Harry’s thighs.

He pauses, however, when Harry hisses at the sudden cold.

“Is this okay?” Louis asks urgently. Fuck, he hasn’t been thinking, what if Harry doesn’t want this, what if Harry’s just got a pain kink that has nothing to do with him, what if--

Harry, the twat, laughs. “Are you fucking kidding, Louis, if you don’t fuck my thighs right this second, I’ll kick you square in the balls.”

Louis lets out a sigh of relief, and slips between Harry’s thighs.

Everything is white hot heat, Harry clenching tight as a vice around him. Louis braces himself against the table and fucks down into it, once, twice, three times, and then his cock catches at Harry’s rim, then he’s coming for what feels like hours, coming in between and all over Harry’s thighs.

“Fuck,” Louis breathes harshly into the crook of Harry’s neck. Harry squeezes once, weakly, around Louis’ softening cock in response.

“Do you- do that- with all your clients?” Harry pants.

Louis laughs, rolls off of Harry so he’s sat at the edge of the table, feet dangling just above the ground. “Just the ones with the extreme pain kinks.”

***

Two hours later, they’re sat at a Pret minutes before closing, clothes back in place and knees knocking against each other’s under the table, unintentionally. Harry has made exactly six terrible puns, Louis has pulled up pictures of all of his sisters on his phone, and they’re both terribly, terribly smitten.

“And this one,” Harry is finishing, pointing at a tattoo of a padlock on his left wrist, “I let Ed do when we were drunk, and it was actually supposed to be a little heart, but then he slipped up and it didn’t look much like a heart at all, and so then he said that he was really sorry and I was like, oh no mate, it’s fine, and then he said he was sorry again and then I said well maybe we could fix it and then he said how and then I said we could make it into something that wasn’t a heart and then he made it into a padlock instead!”

Harry looks a bit winded. Louis would know, he’s staring at him intently.

“I think a padlock’s better than a heart anyways,” Louis says, when he realises that Harry’s sort of expecting him to say something, not just to gaze upon Harry’s bright green eyes and rosy cheeks. “Much more original. Much more symbolic of a friendship.”

Harry nods happily. “Ed’s a good mate, yeah.”

“How’d you meet him, anyways?” Louis asks curiously.

“Oh, well, I’ve just moved to London, actually, because I was going to uni up in Leeds but then-” Harry cuts himself off, looks at Louis, a little confused. “I’m sorry. I ramble a lot.”

“I noticed,” Louis says honestly.

“You’re not cutting me off, though.”

Louis cocks his head to the side. “Am I supposed to?”

“Oh,” Harry blinks, a slow smile spreading across his face. He ducks his head, shyly, looking into his tea cup. “No. Not really.”

This kid. “So,” Louis prompts. “You were going to uni up in Leeds.”

“Right,” Harry nods, looking up again. “Well, long story short, I decided to drop out to, um, pursue my art. Like, my parents were expecting me to study law, which is, I’m sure, a perfectly respectable profession, but I just- it’s not what I love doing, you know? Not the way that I love taking pictures, like, of everything, of people and birds and buildings and life, and London is just so alive, innit, like, I’ve got this internship now, at this startup magazine, and I get to take pictures of all of these new acts and new spots and I feel like everything’s so new here and--” Harry cuts himself off again, shakes his head a little, laughs at himself. “Flatshare,” he says, looking at Louis finally. “Ed needed a new flatmate and he posted a listing online and that’s how I know him.”

Louis is sure his jaw must be hanging open and his eyes must be flashing hearts, flashing hearts at this wonderful, introspective, pain kink-y, tattooed freak. “I, uh,” he starts. “I get what you mean, I think, about London being alive.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

They stare at each other for longer than is probably normal, and then Harry clears his throat. “So,” he says. “Enough about me. You. Um. So. Do you enjoy being a...waxer?”

Louis laughs at the ridiculousness of it all, of this night and his job and this boy, and shakes his head. “I don’t really aspire to be a waxing technician, you know. I really want to be cutting hair.”

“What’s stopping you?” Harry asks, genuinely curious, sipping at the last bit of his tea.

“My boss is a bitch who won’t promote me.”

Harry raises his eyebrows, mimicking the unimpressed look Louis’d given him when he’d called the crappy Pret cuppa Louis has bought him ‘positively tea-licious!’. “You don’t seem like the type to let other people decide what you do and don’t get to do.”

Louis stares into his empty cup, thinking. “I mean,” he says. “I don’t really have a choice.”

“Have you talked to her about it, about a promotion, I mean, or anything?”

“Nah,” Louis says. “‘s not how it works, ‘round there. There’s like, this system, this ladder that you have to climb up. It’s very organised, and very oppressive.”

“That’s how I felt about school,” Harry nods. “My professors were all so bloody controlling, it was so surprising. There’s no reason to get anal about it.”

“Well, did you talk to them about it?”

“I tried,” Harry shrugs. “It’s always worth a try.”

“Didn’t work?”

Harry laughs a little, shakes his head. “Nah, mate. I told you, I dropped out. Decided that the only one who could get in the way was myself.”

“So you’re saying I need to quit?”

“I’m not saying anything,” Harry says, surprisingly gentle.

“I would be flat broke,” Louis confesses.

“There are worse things,” Harry says breezily. “Besides. There’s always porn.”

Louis giggles, nudges Harry’s foot with his own. “Hey,” he says. “Are you happier now?”

“I don’t know,” Harry answers honestly. “Because I don’t know how happy or unhappy I would’ve been if I stayed. But I am happy, which, I think, is the more important question. Are you happy?”

Louis thinks about his job, thinks about the people he loves; thinks about how November is his least favourite month and how something big might’ve just happened. “If I look at it one way.”

“I’m sorry to interupt, but you’ve really got to go,” comes a barista’s apologetic voice from above their heads.

“Heading out now,” Louis promises, and they rise and throw out their empty cups and shrug on their coats and push out into the cold night air.

It’s bitterly cold outside, most of the lights out in all of the storefronts, and they each have a long tube ride home in opposite directions, but Louis doesn’t feel particularly inclined to move.

“Thanks so much,” Harry says earnestly. “For the orgasm, and the tea.”

Louis pushes himself out of the way and peers up at Harry. “Can we do it again, maybe?”

Harry dimples and flushes. “You got a pen?” he asks.

Louis digs around in his pockets, before coming up with a biro, and a blank receipt.

“This,” Harry says, scribbling down a string of numbers, “is my mobile.”

The pen pauses across the page, and thoughtful little crease appears between his eyebrows, and then he seems to shake himself off, keeps writing. “This is the URL and info for you to, um, check out some of my stuff. Which you should probably do, before you call me, or anything.”

Louis takes the receipt back, confused. ‘Thurs, 11PM’ is written, along with the name of a website that sounds vaguely familiar, and a username and password.

“What’s this?” Louis asks.

“I don’t like lies or misunderstandings or unnecessary angst or confusion,” Harry shrugs. “Watch one of my videos, and then let me know if you want to hang out again, because, like, I really, really do.”

“Harry-”

“Hope to hear from you soon,” Harry says sweetly, and he leans down, presses the briefest and softest of kisses to Louis’ lips, and turns to start walking away.

“What’s this?” Louis calls out again.

“Be the master of your own destiny!” Harry yells back.

***

Thursday night, at eleven ten, Louis is pacing back and forth in his room, clutching the receipt Harry gave him tightly in one hand, a tequila beer in the other.

It’s a porn site, it is. Louis realised it about two seconds after Harry disappeared from view. It’s a popular one, too-- Louis thinks Jake’s even done some work for them-- one with reputable names and quality scenes and one that definitely requires all of its models to keep themselves manicured.

So, Harry’s a pornstar. Louis lives in a flat with Jake Fucking Bass, he’s not judgemental of pornstars, or anything, couldn’t be, at this point. He’s just...he’s just struggling with the idea of watching Harry get fucked by some muscle stud, struggling with the idea of watching Harry get fucked by anybody who isn’t Louis, which is extremely stupid because Louis hasn’t even properly fucked him, yet.

Louis collapses down on his bed, pulls up the site in his browser, then closes the tab again.

“Zayn!” Louis hollers out.

There’s no answer.

“Zayn, I think some of my hair products are missing! We’ve been robbed!” Louis tries again, and, sure enough, a half clothed Zayn comes bursting into his room a second later, eyes wild.

Louis can’t help but laugh at him.

“You fuck,” Zayn groans, realising he’s been put on for the fourth time this month. “What do you even want?”

“What’s it like dating a pornstar?”

Zayn looks as if he’s ready to steal all of Louis’ hair products himself. “Well, about two minutes ago, it was pretty fucking awesome, but then someone started yelling-”

“Besides from good sex,” Louis says. “Do you still get. Y’know. Insecure? That Jake’s gonna leave you for, I dunno, Max Ryder?”

“Fuck, I don’t- what’s brought this on, Lou?”

“Harry From The Waxing may or may not be a pornstar,” Louis says.

“Well, first off, you should probably sort through those conditionals,” Zayn advises. “And if he is, well- I guess you’re the one who’s got to make the best choice for yourself, in the end.”

“Be the master of my own destiny?” Louis guesses.

“Stop quoting greeting cards and let me go back to shagging my pornstar,” Zayn rolls his eyes, and he shuts the door on his way out.

Are you happy?

Louis clicks to reopen his recently closed tabs, logs in with the information on the sheet, and is faced with a grainy connection.

Then, the video focuses in, and Louis’ breath catches.

Harry’s not a pornstar. Harry’s a camboy.

Perched on a single bed made up with dark blue sheets, Harry looks so young, a messy compilation of soft lines and lean muscle, a curly fringe, round cheeks and bright eyes and dark, inked lines. He’s smooth, everywhere, thanks to Louis, and Louis’ eyes trace over his pecs and down his chest, skipping down the place where Harry’s treasure trail used to be and coming to stop at a pair of pink, lacy panties. His cock is tucked under the waistband; he’s only sporting a semi, but the head is already peaking out. Out of the corner of his eye, Louis registers a JUSTIFIED poster in the corner of the frame, and he lets out a little giggle, thinking of Harry singing along to Señorita, and then Harry lets out a soft little groan, and Louis is not laughing anymore.  

The sound is grainy, illicit. The show’s started already-- Harry’s slowly palming himself. He’s not moaning exaggeratedly, like Louis’ heard Zayn tease Jake for doing countless times, but he’s talking, his voice low and syrupy sweet.

“Wore these all day,” he’s saying. Through the lace, Louis barely has to squint to see Harry’s length, hardening as he rubs over it purposefully. “Felt so dirty,” he continues, eyes wide but voice steady, comfortable and confident. “Felt so dirty, and I couldn’t wait to show you.”

Harry turns around.

The pink lace looks gorgeous against his pert, pale bum, and Louis has to suck in a breath and palm at his own dick through his jeans when he realises that there’s a darker, wet patch covering Harry’s hole, from when Harry must’ve prepped himself earlier. Louis wonders what he’d thought about.

Harry looks over his shoulder and smiles, coy, as if he knows exactly what Louis is thinking. “Are you touching yourself, yet?” he asks, voice husky, and Louis’ groan echoes out through the empty flat as he hastily undoes his flies and gets a hand around himself. Harry reaches a hand back behind himself and starts rubbing at his own hole through the panties, and, fuck, he’s so wet, and Louis starts fisting his own cock as Harry begins to push a finger inside of himself, over the panties, so that a bit of the lace disappears into what Louis knows must be tight, wet, heat.

“Oh, yeah,” Harry sighs contentedly, rocking against his hand. “Yeah, yes, fuck, Daddy.”

Louis gasps. Harry’s working two lace-covered fingers into his hole, now, but the lace is restricting his depth- he can’t go deep enough to reach his prostate, and on-screen Harry and on-bed Louis groan in mutual frustration.

“C’mon, baby,” Louis finds himself muttering as he thumbs over the head of his cock, and, Jesus. I really, really do and Daddy and be the master of your own destiny. Louis throws his head back and groans. “C’mon.”

As if he can hear Louis, Harry keens, pushes his index finger inside of himself as far as it will go, and then cries out as the lace rubs against his walls. Shakily, he pulls out of himself, then turns around to face the camera again, sitting on his haunches, his cock stretching the lace obscenely, now.

“Need more,” he murmurs. “Need something that’ll fill me up, don’t I?”

His eyes flick to the side, and Louis knows he must be reading the dirty things that all of the viewers are typing out out, the vulgar messages calling Harry a slut and a whore and telling him to spread his legs and saying how naughty he’s been. Harry doesn’t seem to mind, winks and licks his lips as he turns his gaze back to the camera, but Louis feels fiercely protective, because Harry’s nothing but this beautiful, beautiful boy.

“Beautiful,” Louis says aloud, like Harry can hear him.

“How about this?” Harry suggests, hooded eyes, and he reaches back on the bed, and withdraws a thick, purple dildo.

It’s already lubed up, Louis can tell, and it’s all he can do to bite back a moan and watch as Harry sucks the head into his mouth, peering up at the camera from under long lashes. It’s filthy, is what it is, watching Harry hollow his cheeks out around the toy, his eyelids fluttering shut as if he’s enjoying himself too much.

“Fuck,” Louis groans, when Harry pulls off of the dildo and a string of saliva connects the tip of it to Harry’s lower lip, swollen from biting and sucking.

“Tastes good,” Harry whispers, voice husky and low and teasing. “Passionfruit.”

God, of course it is, that little twat, and now Louis is thinking of all the things he wants to-- actually, now Harry is tilting the camera down so that the frame is full of his smooth chest and his crotch, and his pale legs that seem to go on for forever and ever, and then Harry is pulling the seat of his panties to the side, and then he’s sinking down onto the dildo, and Louis isn’t thinking of anything at all.

Harry puts on a show. He lowers himself slowly, little whimpers escaping him as he goes, and Louis knows that, if he could see Harry’s face, it would be screwed up in concentration, because Harry wants to do his best, wants to be good. But Louis can’t see Harry’s face, can only see Harry’s thighs subtly trembling as he’s filled up, can only see the dark spot from where he’s leaking pre-come onto the front of his pretty panties.

“Fuck, so good,” Harry’s saying somewhere, starting to roll his hips down onto the dildo. He hasn’t even taken it all the way in yet, but God, does this kid ever shut up, he’s going to give Louis a bloody heart attack before he’s thirty. “So full, but not as full as I’d be if you were-- oh, fuck -- if you were here, Daddy.”

Harry’s been riding the toy slowly, raising himself up and down at a measured pace, one hand holding the base steady, the other steadfastly ignoring his own cock-- tracing across his abs, brushing over a nipple-- but he lets out a soft squeak as the toy brushes up against something inside of him and reaches down to pull his leaking dick out of the lace and accidentally fucks himself too fast, crying out as he’s filled up to the hilt. Harry’s thighs tremble with exertion, and Louis’ hand speeds up on it’s own accord, though the friction on his dick is a poor substitute for the clench of Harry’s thighs around him.

“Oh, fuck,” Harry’s whimpers, voice coming out grainy and cracked through the speakers on Louis’ laptop. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, feels so good, feel so full.”

“Fuck, Harry,” Louis groans, feeling his balls start to tighten and tugging himself faster and faster as Harry spreads his legs wider, leans back on the bed so that he’s tilted more towards the camera, and starts to ride the dildo in earnest, his cock bouncing against his stomach.

“Daddy,” Harry groans, on screen. “Oh, fuck--”

Harry lets himself let go, falls back onto the bed and spreads his legs wide, everything a blur as he fucks himself faster and faster with the toy.

“Harder, harder, harder,” Louis chants, speeding up in time with Harry.

“Oh, fuck, yes!” Harry cries, and he’s coming, making such a mess in his pretty pink panties, and fuck it, but Louis is coming too, for what feels like forever, pants and jeans shoved halfway down his thighs and come spurting onto the hem of his favourite vest.

“Fuck,” Louis groans, collapsing on his bed and staring up at his ceiling.

On one hand, Harry is a camboy. On the other, Harry is a camboy.

Louis reaches over to his bedside table for a box of tissues and half heartedly cleans himself up. Harry seems to be doing the same, wiping himself down in a sort of daze, eyes a bit glassy and unfocused.

Louis wants to jetpack with him.

The side of the screen is still filling with comments, though they’re slowing down, a bit. I fingered myself so fucking hard to this, reads one. I came so hard, the hardest I’ve come in a while. Harry seems to be scanning the messages over, almost expectantly, almost like he’s-

Louis smiles in spite of himself, shakes his head, pulls his laptop closer, and types: nice manscaping. where’d you get it done? xx

The result is instantaneous. Harry’s face breaks into a huge smile, dimples deeper that Louis had remembered. Louis scrambles for his phone, pulling up a text to a number he’d entered in two days ago.

it’s a little late for pleasantries, seeing as your dick’s been wrapped around my face and i’ve just watched you fuck yourself on camera, but i’d quite like to see you again, too.

Louis watches as Harry, on the screen, twists behind himself to grab his mobile off the bedside table, watches as he laughs delightedly when he reads it.

“Master of your own destiny,” he says, eyes sparkling, and then he waves goodbye, and the connection cuts off.

“Master of your own destiny,” Louis repeats, to himself, and he lets himself fall asleep.

***

“Faster!” Louis yells up to Harry. “Faster!” 

“This is a two-person effort!” Harry calls back, but he speeds up at Louis’ word, like always.

“Fuck, yeah!”

“Quiet down, we are in public!” Harry laughs.

“Oh, yeah, take it, baby,” Louis moans, extra loud, and Harry peers over his shoulder at Louis, dimples in full force.

“You’re such a knob,” Harry sighs. “Should we should turn back? I think Jake and Zayn wanted a go.”

Louis shakes his head, moves faster. “Jake and Zayn can buy their own.”

“But what if Niall’s eaten all of the food?”

This, at least, is a fair point. “You have my permission to steer us back!” 

“How very gracious of you.”

Harry takes the next turn up ahead, legs a blur as he pedals harder still, and Louis whoops, punching a fist up in the air as they zip along the cycling route at Hampstead Heath.

It’s late August, and Harry’d only bought the tandem bike a week ago, but it’s already a shared favourite toy, surpassing, even, the pink vibrator with eight settings. It’s meant to be a gift, a congratulations from Harry to Louis for finishing his three-month trial period and officially earning his own chair in the Oxford Circus branch of Bleach London, but Louis knows that Harry’s been looking for an excuse to buy one for much longer than three months.

“I have to take advantage of my disposable income while I still can,” Harry’d explained when Louis had commented on the extravagance of the gift. Harry got hired full time as an editorial assistant a month previously, and he’s weaning himself off the shows, and, thus, a sizeable amount of extra money-- but there’s hardly any time for it, now, between getting set up at the new job and fixing up their new flat.

It’s a lovely day to be out and about, a lazy Sunday afternoon picnic on the Heath. They’re speeding back towards their group-- Louis can just make out their group, spread out on an odd assortment of quilts and blankets, Niall and Jake having a kickabout, Eleanor and Barbara munching on pasties wrapped in white paper, Perrie and Zayn and Ed clustered around a guitar.

“Hey, Haz?” Louis calls up, to the front of the bike. 

“Yeah?” 

“Just so you know, I am. Happy.”

Harry laughs, “That so?”

The wind is in Louis’ hair, he’s not seen a vagina in four months, Harry’s red thong is poking out of his tight jeans, and Louis got nine hours of sleep last night.

“Yeah,” Louis affirms. “Very, very happy.”