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you got me shakin'

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“Alright babe, just slowly now, yeah? In and out, slowly, that’s right...”

Louis does just that, scissoring his fingers inside himself as languidly and with as much self-control he can sum up. This is going very nicely.

“So hot, so sexy, baby. Can’t see you, but I know you look so good; your thighs open, your cock heavy on your tummy. Want you so bad.”

Louis almost wants to scramble out of bed and into the next room over at this point. Maybe he, Harry, and whoever he’s with can have a threesome. Those are good.

“Faster now, okay? Faster, faster, faster, oh yeah, so good,” Harry groans, and what the fuck is his lover doing that is so good? Louis has to know, seriously. He’s gonna come first, though.

And he does. Come, that is; after Harry moans especially loud and then Louis is heaving with come all over his chest and Harry’s voice is gone and.

Louis is so sad. This is so sad. Who listens in on their neighbor’s sex? Louis Tomlinson does. This is so sad.

He cleans himself up and he can hear Harry bustling around his own flat—the only downside of paper walls in this god damn apartment complex—and he is trying to rationalize what he does. Sure, he could probably go out and get laid at the club down the street that drag queens stumble out of, but he could also stay at home and listen to the sweet voice of Harry Styles having sex with someone that isn’t him. And is that creepy, too? That Louis knows his neighbor’s full name? Probably.

Raspberries would be really nice right about now.

niall bring me raspberries,” he texts, and ah, yes, this will be nice. Niall is a good little retriever.

on it mate !’ Niall thinks he lives at Louis’ flat.

Before Niall gets there, Louis runs and jumps back on his bed because it’s right opposite Harry’s bed in his flat (he did not the research how the flats in the building are set up). He hopes Harry is also relaxing in bed. By himself.

“Hey, sexy lady.”

Fuck. How many times can Harry have sex in one day? (Twenty. That was two weeks ago). And now it’s a girl. Louis didn’t even hear the last one leave.

“You want my big cock, yeah? I wanna lick your clit."

Okay, no. No. Ew. That is gross. Harry is supposed to be nice and gay.

A few minutes later, Louis hears Harry's murmuring voice and then slamming. Slamming and banging, like Harry is jumping around and then—

"Ew! Gross, gross, no, no, ew! I like dick."

And like. Maybe Harry has multiple personality disorder.

There’s a bang at the front door and it’s Niall so Louis takes two deep breaths and adjusts his jeans. When he gets to the living room, Niall is standing in the middle of it with a giant red bucket of oranges.

“Niall, you are holding a giant red bucket of oranges,” Louis tells him.

“They were for free, Lou. And they’re better than raspberries, aren’t they?” Niall sits down on the slouchy green couch and digs in like they’re fries or something. But they’re not. They’re oranges.

“I hate oranges. They have gross skin that I have to peel off, and that white stuff—”



“The white stuff is called pith.”

“Fuck you.” Louis removes the bucket from Niall’s clutches and places it on the coffee table so he can sit on Niall’s lap. “Fucky fuck fuck you.”

Niall laughs because he laughs a lot and pets Louis’ fringe. But it’s not enough, it’s never enough, because Niall will never fuck Louis and he tells him just that. (“I couldn’t, Lou, you’re just too hot for me.”) (Okay, maybe he didn’t say that.)

“Just go give them to your sex fiend neighbor. I’m sure he could do with a few more balls.” Niall laughs again even though he’s not funny.

“No. He’s having sex with a girl right now. Mind you, he just freaked out and said he liked dick.”

“I can’t hear anything, though. Here, let’s check.” Niall scoops his hands under Louis’ bum and lifts him over to his bed so they can both climb on and cup their hands around their ears and listen through the wall. “I hear nothing.”

“Me neither. Still, he won’t want oranges.”

"I swear louis, if you don't bring this bucket of oranges over, I will, and I'll tell him you've been wanking to the sounds of him and his plethora of lovers."

Louis swears about a zillion swears and storms to get the bucket and runs next door.

"I—have a bucket of oranges. For you. And your family? Oranges.” Louis is standing in front of the door with the bucket tucked under his arm.

Harry stares down at the red bucket. "Thanks. I'll mail them. To my family. That's—nice of you."

Louis nods, and he's just about to turn around and leave because the conversation is over but no, he's stupid and he says, "Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?"

And Harry says, "What?"

So Louis says "I," and closes the door in Harry's face and books it back into his flat. Safe, safe, thin-walled flat, safe.

"Niall, Niall, I just basically said Harry was incestuous, fuck, fuck."

"How the fuck."

"I don't fucking know. I asked if he kissed his mother with his mouth. I didn't mean to? I meant like, because he's always talking dirty? Fuck."

Niall claps him on the back. Louis sobs.


Louis needs a haircut so badly he might smash his mirror and use a shard to slice some hair off. (Scissors are of no use.) There's a nice barber shop in the strip mall down the road; squishy brown seats, red and blue swirly thingys, and Greg is really good at cutting hair. Louis likes to get shaved there, too. It's like the 20's kind of.

"Hey, hey, hey!" Greg shouts when Louis walks in, and Louis yells "hey, hey" back and takes a seat. Louis is favored there. He can choose his very own seat.

"I'll be with you in a mo', yeah?"

"My hair's not getting any shorter, Greg," but Louis' just joking.

He looks through TigerBop and Teen People (or whatever they're called) magazine while he waits and then the bell by the door rings and—

And Harry Styles walks in with his hair and the red bucket.

Oh God, oh God, oh God. What what what. He has to act fast. Acting fast, yes, would be a very wise decision.

There is a big bowl-shaped thing attached to a tall thing that looks like something you should put over your head. So Louis squeaks and puts it over his head. It could turn on and squish his head, but that’s a risk Louis is willing to take.

"Styles! What can I do ya’ for today, mate?" Greg says and no Greg you're supposed to say 'no I’m closed go away' or 'I'm allergic to oranges so leave please.’ Greg doesn’t.

“Um, Louis gave me a bucket full of oranges, but I don’t fancy the white stuff—”

“Pith,” Louis grumbles. Quietly.

“—that I have to peel off. So, do you want it?”

Greg laughs really loud and he knows it’s because Louis can hear everything. “Louis, hey? That’s who again?”

Greg is being stupid. Louis doesn’t like Greg anymore. Greg is a—

“My really hot neighbor, remember? I even sat you down that one night and told you how bad I wanted to suck his—”

“Styles! Styles, why won’t we just. We’ll just. I.”

Louis is going to die. Going to die, die, die. Probably, this isn’t even real life. But like, it has to be, because now there’s a loud noise blaring in his ears and his scalp is also being burned off.

“Fuck!” he shouts and searches for whatever button he pressed in the first place and the magazines drop and he’s cursing and there’s a stupid hair drying machine killing his head.

There’s the distant sound of Greg’s hysterical laughing and someone’s (Harry’s) nervous laughing and Louis is going to tear up, he is.

“Do you need help there, Lou?” Louis doesn’t reply because if he does he’ll cry and also his hair will burn off. Harry is whining like a sad dog behind them. Louis can see why; if Harry found out Louis listened to his sexual activities, he’d be whining like a dying dog, even.

Greg turns off the demon device and Louis clutches his head because it’s too warm but at least there’s still hair there.

“Gonna sue you, Greg,” Louis grumbles, “gonna sue you and also kill you.”

“With a bucket of oranges, or?”

Louis slaps Greg on the stomach and storms over to the door, passing by Harry but not looking at him because. No. He does, however, shake his bum at the door because if Harry thinks he’s hot he might as well show him what he’s missing. Screw Harry and all of his stupid sex partners.

The door clips Louis’ heel on the way out and he screams more curse words than he thought he knew.


There’s a drag queen with purple eye shadow and green hair sitting on Louis’ lap and he doesn’t know how she got there. Also, there are four more drag queens sitting round his table with their hands on their cheeks in curiosity while Louis tells them about Harry Styles.

Lana, the one with candy-floss pink hair, looks very suspicious for a moment and then shouts. Louis likes Lana. “Harry Styles!” she says, “I know Harry Styles. He’s a famous boy, isn’t he?”

What. “What?”

“You don’t know about him?” Sonja snaps her purple bubblegum and a bit of it gets stuck on her lip.

“What about him?”

“He’s London’s most famous phone-sex operator.”

Oh, no. Oh no and shit and fuck and really? Really? “Fuck. Can I. Can you. That’s why he. Another round, please?”


There’s a long, gold dress flowing around Louis’ body and a cherry-blossom pink wig on his head. It’s really itchy, but. Harry Styles is a phone-sex operator.

When he tries to hand back the items his new friends had given him, they wave it off and say that he’ll see them again and he’ll need the wig and dress again, too. So he stumbles home with a pink wig in his hand and a dress bunching up around his bum. Harry Styles is waiting at his door and Louis screams.

“I, I kind of got locked out of my flat by accident. Can I kip at yours, please?”

Louis should be more drunk. “Sure.” Louis is wearing a dress.

“Were you hanging out with Lana?” Harry waits patiently while Louis opens the door.

“I suppose I was. Do you like my dress? You’re a phone-sex operator.” And, well, that wasn’t supposed to come out, but it did.

Harry giggles. “I suppose I am. It’s not really well-hidden, is it?”

It’s just. What is Louis’ life, honestly.

The door clicks open and Louis trips in and frustratedly rips off his dress in the living room. Harry’s watching but Louis really, really doesn’t care. He doesn’t care so much that he snaps his fingers in the shape of a ‘Z’ and hisses, “I don’t care, Harry Styles.”

Harry mumbles, “Me neither,” and goes to Louis’ bed, which, like, fine, but how is Louis supposed to sleep in the same bed as that man? He has sex with people thirty times a day. Over the phone, but still.

Louis gets into the bed. It’s nice and comfy; having a living, breathing human beside you is very nice. Super nice, even.

“Do you want to have sex?” Harry asks. And, okay, wow.

“My phone is dead.”

Harry actually laughs at that. Which is good because Louis thought it was rather mean.“Low blow.”

Louis falls asleep.

Louis wakes up at 3:35AM to a meowing in the bathroom. Normally, this would be okay; Bub his cat likes to meow. Only Bub died a month ago, so. Bub's come to haunt him.

"I'm so sorry for not feeding you that one time," Louis whispers into the cold, dark air. This is also a problem. There was a one Harry Styles in bed with him earlier.

Also there's now moaning in the bathroom. There's only one possible explanation.

Harry Styles is a werewolf.

While Louis is having a major breakdown, thinking okay my neighbor who is in my bathroom is a werewolf and might eat me fuck, he hears, he hears, "Meo-o-ow, yeah daddy, harder, meo-o-o-ow."

Louis has seen and heard all there is, now.

“Harry! Harry, what the fuck,” he calls, and Harry’s little head (actually it’s huge) pops out in the hallway and he says politely,


“Why the fuck are you meowing in my bathroom?”

Harry shrugs. “People have weird kinks, mate.”

“But it’s three in the morning.”

“Donno. It’s my job. Can I go finish?”

Louis should say yes and go back to sleep but he doesn’t. He tells Harry no and to finish what he’s doing back in the bed. Harry climbs back in.

“Meow like daddy told you to,” comes a tinny voice from Harry’s phone and—and Louis may not be prepared to see this in person. But Harry does it anyway; lips parted and eyebrows together like he really does enjoy this. And maybe he does like meowing for strangers. Louis shouldn’t be getting hard.

Then Harry—he sucks on his middle finger while moaning and then, yeah, Louis is allowed to be hard now. That’s really, it’s really hot.

“I want your dick in my mouth so badly,” he slurs around his finger, but it still sounds sexy and erotic and wow, Louis can tell why he’s the most popular phone-sex person in London. Fuck. “Want it deep down my throat; want you trembling for my tongue.”

Louis shoves a hand down his pants. Is that wrong? It’s wrong. But Harry is moaning and practically deep-throating two of his fingers so like. It’s okay.

Harry notices the hand down his pants and licks his fingers and Louis swears he sees him wink. That means it’s okay. It’s okay.

“You gonna come, daddy?”

Louis’ not gonna come. And frankly, he doesn’t want to think about anyone else over the phone coming, so he flicks his wrist in a way that makes him gasp and Harry reach a hand out to grip his thigh and. Does this count as sex? Wanking yourself off while a phone-sex operator talks dirty to someone else? Louis asks too many mental questions. Harry’s off the phone now.

“Do you want me to help you?” Harry asks him and crawls so he’s in between Louis’ legs, and really, it was stupid to ask, because he’s just pulling down Louis’ pants anyway and curling a fist around him. Hopefully he’s good at actually doing this because it’ll be a major let-down if he’s all talk and no action.

Turns out Harry is very good at this. He pinches Louis’ thighs, really lightly, and it feels so good that Louis’ whining like a live dog, this time. It’s tickly, too, so his stomach swoops and twists but it’s just so hot that he’s bucking up and whimpering and Harry’s looking up at him through dark eyes and just. Just.

“I could hear you getting yourself off through the walls, you know,” Harry tells him, and Louis doesn’t have a mind to feel embarrassed. There’s a massive hand on his dick. A hand that’s dry and causing painfully good-feeling friction but then Louis’ slit leaks out precome and Harry’s swiping his thumb over it so he can have more lube. Of sorts.

“It’s—I’m, I,” Louis says. Louis is stupid. Harry’s hand goes faster, and it grips tighter, with these steady and strong and heavenly tugs that make Louis’ eyes roll back and fuckfuckfuck this feels, this feels so good. “I’m gonna—stop, I’m gonna, please—”

“Shh, little one,” Harry soothes, and, and, and. And Louis comes so hard his toes curl until they’re cramping and his chest his convulsing and Harry’s sitting in between his legs, and then he’s licking up the come on his stomach. “Mm, tasty.”

“Are you serious? Are you a sex machine? Were you programmed to say these things?” Louis gasps, wringing his hands in his hair and watching as Harry literally licks every last drop on his tummy. It tickles and now it just makes him want to twist away but he won’t because that would be rude.

“You caught me. If you take my shirt off, there’s a control panel on my back.” Harry smiles all calm and sated like getting Louis off relaxed him, and that’s really neat. Or maybe he just, did he just—

“Did you come, too? How?”

Harry giggles. “I was rubbing against the bed, duh. Now, I hate to leave you high and dry, but I have to get back to my flat and sleep in my own bed so I’m not tempted to blow you.”

“Wait, what? You said you locked yourself out.” Louis has just been lied to. That doesn’t happen; people don’t lie to Louis Tomlinson. He’s too holy for that.

“Yeah, well.”

And that’s that. Apparently.


There are two male voices in Harry’s flat when Louis wakes up. The one that’s not Harry’s is really annoying and Louis wants to stick five flower stems down its throat.

Louis should bake today. He should bake some cookies and bring them over to Harry to show who’s boss around here. He doesn’t (does) have sugar, so he’ll just pop over to Harry’s and borrow some. No one else will have the sugar he needs. He pulls a jumper over his shoulders and sweats that have big, deep pockets and then he’s on his way. To get the special sugar.

“Harry, Harry, let down your hair,” Louis calls in his best manly, hero-ish voice, and fluffs his hair and hopes his skin still has that just-woken-up soft glow. His hopes are completely lived-up when Harry opens the door and beams really, really wide.

“Louis,” he coos, he does, and opens the door for Louis to step in. And that’s when Louis sees him; the one who has the annoying, stupid accent. “How are you today, friend?”

Louis stands next to Harry and Harry stands next to Stupid Man and Stupid Man stands next to Louis. It’s a love-love-hate circle. “I am swell, thank you. Who’s this, then?” He waggles his fingers at Stupid Man.

“Nick Grimshaw, pleased to meet’cha.” Stupid Nick reaches his hand out and Louis pats the top of his palm. No need to get too comfy yet.

“You have a mighty tall quiff.”

Stupid Nick flinches a little and then shrugs. “I guess so, love. You have a mighty small nose.”

“Is that supposed to be an insult? At least my mouth isn’t fucking—”


“Small noses are cute! You’re very cute; small nose, small hands, small body—”

Louis is fuming. “Do you want to see my arse? That’s not very small, fucking look at it—!”

Harry steps in between Stupid Nick and Louis with a hand on both of their chests. Louis breathes hard against Harry’s hand. “Guys. I don’t know what’s going on, but like, stop it?”

“I have to express my assertiveness in this animal kingdom,” Louis mutters, but no one hears him. Shame.

It’s really awkward then; Harry’s head darting back and forth between Louis and Stupid Nick while Louis glares at Stupid Nick’s hipster glasses and Stupid Nick actually tries to get a look at his arse.

Louis must do something. So he doesn’t startle anyone, he whispers, “Harry, I need your sugar.”

Stupid Nick laughs at him. “You are just the cutest little thing.”

That’s the last straw for Louis. He does a loud close-mouthed scream and runs away to Harry’s kitchen, digging through the many cupboards to find the small white pouch he’s looking for. When he does, he climbs onto the dinner table and says, “The lion has captured his prey! Ha, Stupid Nick!” and then he’s jumping down and leaving. Two points for Team Louis.

Late at night after Louis has burned his cookies and when Stupid Nick and Harry are talking and Louis is in bed, he hears Nick say, “Well, he is small,” and Harry reply, “Yeah, fuck, I know.”

Somehow him being ‘small’ is okay as long at Harry likes it.


A couple days later Louis has Harry pinned to his bed with his hands above his head and his cock in Louis’ arse. It’s nice, so nice, because he thought Harry would have been the one tossing him around and fucking him. (Harry’s still fucking him, but).

“Go, go, go,” Harry is muttering, but Louis just continues to bounce as slowly as he wishes with tiny bursts of “oh”s falling out of his mouth on accident. (Ha, not on accident).

“Shut up, okay?” Louis tells him, and he swears Harry’s face flushes ten shades deeper and he nods silently and fuck. He doesn’t even remember how they got into this position. Okay, he does, but it’s fuzzy because he has a thick cock rubbing against his prostate.

Louis had come over with his platter of burnt cookies. Harry had beamed and said thank you even though when he picked one up it crumbled in his hand and left a black, charred mark on his fingers.

“Thank you so, so much for these; it’s really sweet,” Harry said and patted Louis’ shoulder like they were brothers or something.

“Can I just—let’s fuck?”

And that’s how it happened.

And that’s why now Louis is pitching forward so he’s leaning entirely on Harry’s chest so he doesn’t shudder and fall over, Harry is panting incredibly hard into his ear, and there are two big hands squeezing at his ass and urging him to move faster. Louis is very content with all of these things.

A breathy “fuck, tight, shit,” comes from Harry so Louis decides he really does need to shut Harry up. He leans back so he’s straddling Harry again and brings one hand to his big mouth, sliding three fingers inside and pressing down on his tongue, and uses his other hand to lightly grip around his neck. No, Louis does not have a choking kink; he simply is using effective methods, shut up.

There are a few garbled sounds from Harry but otherwise he’s quiet, staring up at Louis with pretty owlish eyes and his mouth stretched obscenely with Louis’ fingers in it. Basically, it looks so hot that Louis can’t help but roll his hips forward and back faster to work Harry’s cock inside him in a way that’s mostly self-indulgent but seemingly is doing it for Harry, too.

“Fuck, Harry,” Louis groans in a far too embarrassingly horny tone and fuck, that’s it, when Harry pinches his hips and shoves himself up one last time, Louis is gone. He clenches and comes pulls his hands away to dig his fingernails into Harry’s chest with a cry of, “Shit, shit, shit, shit.”

Harry’s absolutely shaking underneath him, holding Louis’ hips down so Louis isn’t tempted to climb off or something (he’s not) and Louis can feel the slight throbbing and warm feeling of Harry coming inside him. Fuck, it is good.

Louis stays astride Harry and enjoys the feeling of a big dick inside him until Harry whines and wriggles underneath. Stupid big giant.

“I had to tell Petunia she was adopted this morning,” Harry says after they’ve caught their breath, trailing his finger on the come on his stomach, which should be gross, and it is.

“Who the fuck is Petunia?”

“My goldfish. I think she’s upset with me; she swam to the other side of the tank and hasn’t moved since.”

That makes Louis want to snap at Harry. He should be talking about how good Louis is at riding, not thinking about a stupid goldfish. “Oh.”

“Yeah. You’re good at riding.” There it is. There it is. Harry’s psychic or something.

“Uh huh. I know that. You’re good at... having a big dick. And being quiet like a good little Harry.”

Harry giggles and scoops up the come on his fingers and licks it. Louis groans and nearly faints.

They get out of bed twenty minutes later and find that Petunia has left her corner (“It’s because of us fucking; you have a perverted fish”) and then Louis has work and Harry does too.

Before Louis leaves, he asks, “Will you lift me?” just to see if Harry is full, 100% boyfriend material. This is important.

Harry doesn’t seem to think it’s too weird and deftly throws Louis over his shoulder so Louis has to scramble to grab onto Harry’s back and cling. Yes, yes; Harry Styles is boyfriend material. Except for the fact that he has phone sex with other people a hundred times a day.

“Set me down, Harry.” Harry does. “Thank you. Now, um. Now what?”

“I, like. I have another job. I basically do the whole phone-sex thing for fun.”

Louis hides the elated feeling in his chest by screaming into his fist. “Oh. So.”

Harry coughs. “I’ll see you later, yeah? You have places to be and stuff. Toodaloo, sweetums.” Louis is directed out of the flat and towards his own, and he barely has a moment to say a goodbye back before he’s pushed into his living room and the door is closed behind him.


The day at the library is long and hard. It was field-trip day for the kindergartners so Louis had to be smiling, kind, and curse-free for the entire day. No matter; now Louis can go home and scream swears and whip his cock out and be as awful as possible for as long as he wants. And maybe Harry can be awful with him.

Just as he’s about to open his door, there are big hands on his crotch and a certain something pressing into his bum. “I hope to God you’re Harry Styles.”

“And if I’m not?” Harry asks, pushing his hips further into Louis’ bum so he’s pressed against the door.

“Then I’m gonna need you to step away from the merchandise.”

“Good thing I’m Harry, then.” And then he’s being lifted again and brought into his flat and shoved on his bed. Louis sends a quick prayer to whoever invented oranges.

Later, when Louis is draped over Harry and heaving to catch his breath, he is trying to ignore the ache in his heart that had started when Harry whispered to him,
“You’re so stunning.” Because, like, great, but he also knows it means absolutely nothing to Harry but sex. Sex sex sex.

“Hey, Lou?” Harry rolls them over so he’s half on Louis and half on the sheets.


“I quit my job. The phone one.”

“Why did you do that?”

Harry blushes. “As nice as it is to make people come, I don’t too much fancy meowing or barking over the phone anymore.”

And. Ah, this is good. Probably. Maybe.



“D’you much fancy being awful with me?”

It goes really quiet. Harry’s breathing has evened out whereas Louis hasn’t because he hasn’t exercised in over a year and his eyes are closed and. And.

“I’d love to.”