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This is all Janice’s fault, Harry decides at the end of the day.

He’s just finished up his last class for the day — he’s had lectures and tutes back to back since ten-thirty — snow’s been falling for most of the afternoon and he’s got a bright pink magazine tucked under his left arm.

20 Ways to Spice Up Your Sex-life, it says in bold, bright letters.

“I don’t want to get in your head or anything,” she had clearly lied as she slipped the magazine to him at the end of their Gender and Humanities class. “But just in case...”

She shot him a meaningful look, nodding like he’d already thanked her.

Harry, who had never been particularly eloquent whilst under pressure, had just kind of gaped. Her words from earlier in the class spun around his head like the dull tolling of church bells, monotonous and loud and incredibly preachy.

He should clarify.

Ordinarily, he actually enjoyed his gender studies class. Most of his uni classes were fairly boring, full of long text book readings and disinterested tutors. The other students weren’t much fun either, normally too nervous or too bored to eve thing about starting a real conversation. But not his Gender Studies class. Their tutor was loud and enthusiastic and refused to take no for an answer, had abandoned the first week ‘get to know my name’ games in favour of a much nicer speech. (“You’re all adults,” she’d said on the first day, “and if you don’t want to talk, I’m not gonna make you. But we’re all going to have a way better time if you suck it up and chat because no one likes a silent classroom.”) Harry had quickly learnt to look forward to their Wednesday sessions, and the incredibly ‘lively’ discussions they had each week on politics and equality and human rights.

This week had been less enjoyable. After quickly discussing the week’s readings and a lively debate about ‘Fifty Shades of Grey,’ the tutor had split the class up into groups of four and asked them to discuss ‘the changing dichotomy of modern romance and its impact on the idea of the perfect relationship.’

Which was awesome. Because Harry was already in the perfect relationship. This was Harry’s shit.

He and Louis had been dating for almost sixteen months. Theirs had been a whirlwind romance, an exciting rollercoaster ride that began when Harry spilt his drink all over Louis at the bar and Louis had just smirked, quirked a brow and said ‘would you like to lick it off?’

(Which, admittedly, is actuallykind of gross because the idea of licking warm beer off another human being was actually massively disgusting — but that hadn’t stopped Harry’s dick from chubbing up at record speed. He’s into boys with cute eyebrows, okay?)

But they’d moved on from awkward bar encounters with masterful precision — they’d done the dinner dates, and the meets the friends, and more dinner dates and the meet the parents — and now here they were: with a new one bedroom flat, a shared Netflix subscription and matching slippers.

The perfect relationship.

“God, listen to you,” Karen says, after Harry had proudly explained. “People in relationships are so fucking smug.”

Harry pouts.

“Yeah,” Josh says from Harry’s other side. “S’cause we’re getting laid every night.”

Karen shoots him a flat look. “Your right hand doesn’t count,” she says.

Josh’s chest puffed up indignantly. Harry interrupts, before the situation can escalate. “I’m not—I’m not boasting, I’m just saying that, like, I think we’ve, you know, worked it out?”

That’s what Janice had chimed in.

“You’ve only been dating for like a year—”

—sixteen months—”

“—how can you possibly think you know everything?”

Harry frowned.

“I don’t,” he says, only pouting a little bit. “I didn’t mean it like that, I meant like, we’ve figured us out. Like, we know each other, you know, and we’ve got a routine and...”

“How often do you have sex?”

Harry balked.


Janice shrugged, looking nonplussed. Karen and Josh, who had been arguing about Karen’s hand comment quietly in the background, fell silent to hear her repeat herself.

“How often do you have sex?”

There was a challenge in her eyebrows that couldn’t go unanswered. Feeling slightly indignant, Harry folded his arms across his chest and lifted his jaw slightly. “I don’t know,” he says. “Like a few times a week?”

And, sure, he was exaggerating a little. But that was just because this week had been kind of busy. Louis’ had picked up a few extra shifts at the bar and Harry had been spending more time in the library so he could study without getting distracted. But that didn’t mean anything.

“I read that for a relationship to stay healthy, couples should be having at least one orgasm a day,” Janice says.

Harry gapes at her.

Karen snorts.

“Where the fuck did you read that?” Josh asks.

Janice reaches for her bag, but Harry doesn’t pay her any mind. His brain is too busy, spinning around and trying to make sense of what she’s just told him. One orgasm a day? That’s — that’s just unrealistic. He and Louis both have jobs, and they’re both full times students, and Louis worked nights — neither of them have remotely enough time to ensure they’re both getting off every day. The last time they’d managed was Sunday morning when Louis had crept into the shower with Harry and jerked him off and Harry hadn’t even had time to repay the favour — had kissed Louis hurriedly on the cheek, promised to get him back next time and still been late to his shift at the bakery. 

Janice smacks the bright pink magazine down on the table, and surveys them all smugly. “It’s all in there,” she says.

Harry forces himself to remain calm.

“Cosmo,” Karen says. “You got this from Cosmo?”

Janice shoots her a dirty smile — the condescending kind that Gemma mastered at a very early age — and flips the glossy magazine open. She brushes through the pages for a few seconds, before coming to a stop. Then she begins to read:

When you climax,” she says, “a host of feel-good chemicals are released in the body that stir a sense of euphoria, reduce stress, enhance relaxation and lead to an increased feeling of well being. Dr. Vanessa Kim, PhD, sex therapist and author of ‘An Anatomy of Modern Pleasure’ suggests that, incorporating a daily orgasm and fostering a healthy and regular sex life can help couples survive the trials and tribulations of modern day relationships.”

She stops and lifts her head, raising a pointed eyebrow in Karen’s direction. “Is then good enough for you?”

Karen frown. “Don’t you think that if you consider your relationship to be ‘trials and tribulations’ you should probably be breaking up, anyway?” she says. 

Once again, Harry doesn’t notice. He’s a little caught up in the panicked loop of ‘holy fuck, holy fuck, holy fuck, holy fuck,’ that’s circling through his brain.

What if their sex life is dying? What if that means their relationship isn’t working?

Holy fuck.

What if Louis breaks up with him?

“Alright class!” Their tutor calls them all to attention. “That’s it for the day — make sure you do the readings for next week and answer the questions I’ve posted online. Email me if you’ve got any issues.”

Most of the class had scarpered within seconds, ready to get home and finally take a break. Harry, in his frankly terrified state, decided to take a moment and pause.

And that brings him to now: walking home with snow in his hair and a bright pink magazine tucked under his arm, his relationship’s saving grace.

Fucking Janice.


TIP #31: Pocketful of Pleasure — When he’s least expecting it, tell your man you need some change. Then stick your hand in his pocket and start rubbing his penis through the fabric, pretending that you’re really digging around for that coinage you need. When he’s good and hard, whisper something Mae West-ish in his ear like, ‘Is that a roll of quarters in your pocket or are you just glad to see me?’ He’ll practically burst out of his pants.


Harry feels cautiously optimistic when Louis gets home that night.

He’d gone into work on his day off to cover the afternoon shift at the bar. He’s always a little less tired after those shifts — his hours are usually much later — and he always seems pleased to interrupt Harry when he’s making dinner.

Tonight, quesadillas are on the menu.

(It had been hard to focus, once he’d finished the magazine, and Harry’s always enjoyed making quesadillas. They’re just the right amount of complicated; exactly what he needs to take his mind off of everything.)

Louis wanders in around six thirty, drops his pack on the island in the middle of the room and crowds up behind Harry. He wraps his hands around Harry’s waist and leans up onto his tiptoes to press a sweet kiss to the back of Harry’s neck.

“Hey, babe,” he says, sounding lovely and soft and fond.

Harry is going to keep him, or fucking die trying.

He turns the heat for the stove off, shifting the pan to one of the cool plates before he turns around in Louis’ arms.

“Hey,” he says.

Louis leans in, buries his cold nose in the dip at Harry’s collarbones. “How was your day?” he asks, his hot breath spreading out across Harry’s t-shirt. “Did you learn anything exciting?”

Only that our relationship is destined to crash and burn, Harry thinks.

“Nah,” he says.

After a beat, Louis pulls away. He still looks a little tired — but not in the awful, irritated way he can after he’s had to work the midnight shift.

Now’s your chance, Dr Kim says. An orgasm is exactly what your boy needs.

“So Liam’s—” Louis begins to say.

But, there’s no time for Liam now. Their relationship is on the line, inspiration has stuck, and Harry can’t let idle chit chat get in the way of the bigger picture.

“Do you have any coins on you?” he interrupts, his voice a little loud in their small kitchen.

Louis frowns. “No? What the—”

Harry shoves his hand down the front of Louis’ pants.

Louis squeaks.

Harry pauses.

It’s only now, with a healthy grip on Louis’ soft dick, that Harry realises Louis’ said no which means that he’s just stuck his hand down Louis’ pants with no goal in mind.

Don’t panic, he thinks quickly. Whatever you do. Do. Not. Panic.

“Uh—?” Louis says.

Harry panics.

Hastily, he jerks his hand, gripping Louis’ girth a little tighter. Louis makes another startled, squeaking noise and his wrist comes up to clutch at Harry’s wrist.

“Harry—” he says, sounding very breathy and very, very confused. “What the hell are you—?”

Harry casts his mind back to ninth grade drama and thinks about the way Mrs. Donovan used to shout at him: “Improvise!!”

“Are you sure?” he says, trying not to sound as desperate as he feels. “You don’t have any... coins?”

Harry wasn’t very good at drama, as it happens.

Louis’ face scrunches up hilariously. “No, what the fuck, Harry—?”

His grip on Harry’s wrist tightens and loosens, and his hips jerk a little, like he can’t quite decide between thrusting into Harry’s hand and pulling him away.

His dicks getting hard though, Harry notes optimistically. Maybe hope isn’t lost.

He fists Louis’ length with a renewed determination. Mae West, he thinks. That’s what Dr. Kim said. Say something Mae West-ish.

It would really, really help if he knew who Mae West was.

 “I’m just checking,” he improvises. He lowers his voice a little, going for that throaty, husky timbre that works so well for George Clooney.

“For coins!?”

Louis wouldn’t be this shrill with George Clooney, Harry is absolutely sure. He tries again.

Mhmmmmm yeah,” he practically purrs.

“Why the fuck would I have coins in my pants?” Louis demands.

He sounds indignant, but Harry’s not worried. A little bit of attitude from Louis is only to be expected, Harry thinks. What’s more important is the way that Louis’ fingers are digging into the tendons of Harry’s wrist, his hips humping forward a little. There’s a pink flush creeping up his neck, as well, turned on and confused all at once.

It’s incredibly hot to watch.

Harry leans forward instead of answering Louis’ question, rests his mouth at base of Louis’ neck and nips gingerly at the soft skin there.

Louis lets out another little noise.

“Harry—Haz,” Louis says. The frustration in his tone is suddenly gone, replaced with an odd sort of distress taking its place. “Haz, you have to stop — Liam is—”

Harry’s head jerks up.

“Liam?” he says. Why the fuck is Louis talking about Liam when Harry’s got his hand on his—?

“—JESUS CHRIST, GUYS—!” Liam shrieks from the kitchen door.

Ah, Harry thinks. Right.


TIP #12: The Kiss Connection — Share a passionate 10-second kiss every single day. A lot of couple keep having sex but stop really kissing. And that’s a shame, because it’s such a wonderful, intimate act. So just go up and lay one on him. Instantly, you’ll feel passionate instead of platonic. What a rush!


So he started a little ambitiously, it seems.

After Liam had recovered from the shock (alleged shock, Harry argues, because honestly he and Louis are hot so really Liam’s got nothing to complain about), he’d stayed for a couple of hours to share Harry’s quesadillas and play FIFA with Louis. Louis had been red in the face for about an hour, spluttering awkward explanations as best he could — but he’d been pretty livid as soon as Liam had left.

But Harry wasn’t discouraged.

Thousands of women read Cosmo every day, so clearly it can’t be completely wrong. And Dr. Kim is perfectly clear in her instructions — Harry had just been a little panicked.

Preparation is the key. And romance.

His and Louis’ sex life had never been just about the sex. Sure, it was good sex — amazing, mind blowing, best Harry’s ever had kind of sex — but that had never been all their was. Because the boy who Harry took to bed, the boy who looked so many kind of exquisite spread out and panting, was the same boy who flushed pink when Harry bought him flowers and loved cuddling after sex almost more than sex itself.

This wasn’t just a simple seduction. This was Harry seducing the love of his life.

So, upon a second read-through of the pink magazine, Harry decides to scale it back a little. He thinks about their relationship, and then things that have always worked in their relationship and he finds a tip that he can work with.

He comes up with this:

Harry likes to kiss. He likes to kiss Louis in particular. And, at least in theory if not in practice, Louis likes to kiss Harry right back.

Going by this, it’s easy to assume that tip number twelve would be child’s play compared to what Harry’s already tried. A hasty grope in the kitchen and a little accidental exhibitionism did not a romance story make — and this was Harry’s steady middle ground.

A way to up the ante, if you will, by slowing things down.

Sure, an orgasm a day was a little difficult to handle but a kiss? A kiss should have been easy.

And, like, they did kiss. On Friday morning, right before Louis rushes out to his lecture, he pauses in the kitchen to press his lips to Harry’s. It’s a light thing, something simple, followed by a hasty, “see you tonight,” before he vanishes out the door. And Harry does the same, whenever he’s the first to leave their flat. Or in bed, right before they go to sleep, when Louis presses his minty mouth against Harry’s and jokes about the flavour of their toothpaste.

But Harry’s fairly sure that’s not what Dr. Kim’s talking about.

A ten second kiss, she’d written. Ten seconds. A proper snog, if you will. Meaning that their rushed goodbyes and toothpaste kisses didn’t quite cut the mustard.

Something has to be done.

Harry books it from the uni campus when his one o’clock class finishes and races to the nearest station. He doesn’t have much time — it takes about twenty minutes to get to the pub where Louis’ works, and twenty minutes to get back and he’s got another class that starts at four — but it’ll be worth it, he thinks.

As he sits on the train, he feels a swelling pit of excitement settle in his belly. Part of it, of course, has to do with the magazine. His first two attempts weren’t exactly successful, after all. He’s probably allowed to be nervous now that he’s trying again.

But there’s a little more to it than that, Harry thinks.

He’s travelling across the city (kind of) in the name of romance, just to get to kiss Louis a bit. It makes him a little giddy, actually, thinking about it like that. It’s probably a bit ridiculous of him — because it’s nothing, not really, nothing more than a slight inconvenience — but it feels a little bit like a prince on a quest.

There’s not much he wouldn’t do, he thinks, to go and get his prince.

He feels giddy the whole way there, in fact, strung up on how silly all of this is. He’s smiling, can feel the big loping grin spread across his whole face, as he pushes the pub door open.


Harry grins as he walks inside, slipping in between the tall stools on his side of the tall bar counter, and leaning close. Louis, standing on the other side with a glass and a sodden dishtowel in his hand, looks bewildered.

It’s the happy kind, Harry notes — stay calm, you’ve got this, go get your prince, his brain sings the kind that pushes at the corners of Louis’ lips, has him fighting back a smile.

“What are you doing here?” Louis asks.

The pub’s pretty empty, actually. It’s half past three in the afternoon — which means they’ll have probably just finished with the last of their lunch patrons, and are getting ready for the five o’clock rush.

“Just thought I’d pop my head in and say hello,” Harry says sunnily, leaning forward and resting his arms on the bar top.

“I thought you had class this afternoon,” Louis says.

“I do,” Harry shrugs. “I wanted to see you.”

Louis grins a little helplessly. He looks pleased — and Harry immediately knows he’s made the right decision. Who gives a shit about a rushed tube ride when he can see Louis smiling like that?

He watches, entirely besotted, as Louis fights to remain practical.

“Babe, it’s a twenty minute tube ride,” Louis says. “Doesn’t your class start at four?”

Harry glances down at his watch. The longer hand is turning steadily, creeping closer and closer to showing three thirty five.

“Yeah,” he says. “I don’t have much time.”

Louis narrows his eyes suspiciously. “Did you forget your keys?” he checks warily.

Harry grins. “Nope.”

“Did I forget my keys?”

“I hope not,” Harry says. “I certainly don’t have them for you.”

At this, Louis looks completely nonplussed. He’s still got an incredulous little smile on his face, but it’s a confused, exhilarated thing. Like he can’t for the life of him puzzle out what Harry’s doing there.

(That seems like a fairly poor sign, Harry’s subconscious chimes unhelpfully, but he powers onwards.)

“I don’t get it,” Louis says, giving voice to all the emotions playing across his features. “What are you doing here then?”

Harry grins and shrugs once more.

“Like I said,” he says, trying to sound as casual as possible. “I wanted to see you.”

Louis flushes at that, his cheeks turning a pretty pink.

He could probably look at him all day, Harry thinks, suddenly wishing he could find a seat and stay there til the end of Louis’ shift. It would be nice to walk him home at the end of the day.

But he really doesn’t have the time.

“M’really sorry,” Harry says, “but I kind of do have to rush.”

He straightens from the bench and walks closer to the side of the bar.  

Louis follows after him, looking perplexed. “Rush what?” he asks. He walks around the corner of the bar and leans his hip on the door, looking impossibly fond. “Haz, I honestly have no idea what you’re on about—”

But now that he’s within arm’s reach, Harry really can’t be expected to resist. He brings his hands up to cup Louis’ jaw and kisses him soundly.

Louis lets out a surprised little ‘mmph!’ noise as his body goes lax, relaxing into Harry’s hold. His hands come up instinctively, curling around Harry’s hips.

Harry had worried on the way there that he wouldn’t be able to tell how long a ten-second kiss ought to last. He’d toyed, momentarily, with the idea of counting it out in his head.

It was a stupid idea, obviously, because he really likes kissing and he really likes kissing Louis and he can’t be held responsible at all if his brain goes a little offline. How can he be expected to concentrate when he’s got Louis wrapped up in his arms, tasting like coffee and cinnamon and him.

Still, this is where Louis’ works so after an indeterminate amount of time, Harry pulls away.

He presses a kiss to Louis’ nose, just because he can.

“Alright then,” Harry says, reaching up to tug at a fly away tuft of Louis’ hair. He tucks it neatly behind his ear and grins down at him. Louis looks dazed, his lips red and thoroughly snogged.

High-five Dr. Kim, Harry thinks.

“I should get going,” he says. “I’ll see you tonight?”

Louis blinks a couple of times.

“Uh,” he says, and Harry basks in the way Louis’ voice breaks a little, “yeah.”

“What time do you finish?” Harry asks.

Louis has to think about it a little. Harry fights not to feel impossibly smug. “Five,” Louis says finally.

“Awesome,” Harry says — and it’s a little rushed because he really does have to go. “I’ll grab some Chinese on the way home, I’ll be finished by half six.”

Louis nods. He still looks a little muddled.

God, Harry thinks. Fuck doing this once a day, he’s going to kiss Louis like that every hour if he can.

It’s absolutely impossible to leave without another kiss, so he darts back in. This is one of their kisses, something quick and sweet and just for parting.

“See you at home,” he says, and then he turns and heads back for the tube station.

A glance at his watch tells him he’s going to be a little bit late for his class, but it doesn’t really bother him. Tip number twelve was a resounding success — and he grins all the way back to uni.


So the kissing?

It works.

It works in a way Harry hadn’t even thought possible, and suddenly he and Louis are making out on the couch in their spare time and interrupting breakfast for heated snog sessions over bowls of cereal. It’s like Harry’s reminding Louis how much they both like to kiss, and suddenly neither of them can get enough of it.

It’s soft and intimate and lovely and all of the things Janice had made Harry doubt — so it’s no wonder that suddenly Harry looks at the pink magazine in a bit of a different light.

It works, his brain says again and again. Which means, if he does them right, the other tips will work as well.


TIP #7: Let Go — Loudly!When you’re sexually excited, really express yourself. Let yourself go in the sexiest way possible — and make sure he knows what you like. If you’re embarrassed, just know you’re doing your partner a favour. The more you express your pleasure, the more you make him feel like an absolute stud. BONUS: your orgasms will be even more powerful if you really let ‘er rip vocally — and a naughty compliment certainly won’t go amiss!  


Dirty talk is not Harry’s forte.

It’s not that he doesn’t have the voice for it — because, hello, his low timbre was practically made for gasping wet obscenities — it’s just that sex is distracting and stringing coherent thoughts together is hard enough when he’s balls deep, so he can get a little clumsy about it.

But Dr. Kim is remarkably clear.

And, like.

She is the professional.

And if it makes Louis feel like an absolute stud, then Harry is all for it. It’s simply a matter of execution. And now that Harry knows how important it is to practice, he takes his time.

He begins with porn.

While Louis’ at work, he hops on his laptop and gets to work. The Google results for ‘dirty talk’ are colourful, to say the least, but he picks up a few helpful pointers.

The heavy breathing and moaning is a bit of a no brainer — his and Louis’ coital experience may not be littered with poetic symbolism or anything, but it’s sure as hell seen Harry groan like the best of them — but he’s not exactly sure that that’s the kind of sexy Dr. Kim is talking about. Sometimes Louis lets out these little noises when Harry fucks him, breathless, little ‘uh, uh, uh’s’ that drive Harry round the fucking bend and Harry’s absolutely sure that him panting wetly into Louis’ ear doesn’t meet that standard.

Still. Moaning and groaning. That he can do.

The rest is a little more complicated.

He discovers quite quickly that there’s a sort of ranging scale of dirty talk — that begins with the more innocent ‘oh yeah, like that baby’ and escalates all the way up to ‘yeah take it you fucking slut’. And it’s that end of the spectrum that Harry finds slightly intimidating.

The woman on the laptop screen appears to be enjoying herself — throwing her head back and replying with a few, frankly obscene orders of her own — but every time Harry tries to imagine Louis’ in the same position, his brain can’t quite make it fit.

Cause, like, it’s incredibly hot to imagine Louis lying on his back, his legs spread wide and his eyes glazed over while Harry fucks him through the mattress, but the fact is, no matter how out of it Louis gets after a thorough dicking, if Harry starts throwing words like ‘slut’ around Louis’ more likely to smack him upside the head than anything else.

Probably safer to stick to the basics.

The best kind of dirty talk, Harry concludes after a couple of hours of solid porn consumption, is a healthy combination of observations, like: ‘wow, you’re so wet’ and ‘your cunt was made for me’ and ‘look at your tits bounce’ (three examples which, admittedly, aren’t much help in this particular situation) — and compliments, like: ‘I love your arse’ and ‘your dick is, like, massive,’ (two examples which Harry can assure you ARE relevant to this particular situation, thank you very much.)

He practices in the mirror over the next few days, testing out different combinations of what Cosmo has taught him is his ‘come hither look’ and his ‘bedroom eyes’. It’s a bit weird, trying to seduce your own reflection — but the end result isn’t too bad.

He clears his throat, dips his chin (that’s what all the guys do on those Spanish television dramas that Louis likes so much) and tests himself out.

By the following Wednesday, when Harry decides to put all his research to good use, he’s quite happy with the end result. His moans are good. And sure, his language could use a little polishing — but there’s only so many ways he can say ‘oh yeah’ and he doesn’t want to complicate it too much.

Louis’ watching the footie in the living room, drinking a beer with his feet propped up on the coffee table, when Harry walks in. They’d eaten dinner together, but Louis’ had grabbed some chips to eat while watching the game — he’s clearly finished them in record time, the bowl sitting empty next to his feet.  

Harry should probably clean that before they get to the hot, loud sex.

He makes sure to swing his hips a little when he walks across the room. He’s got his skinny jeans on, hadn’t thought to change since getting home from uni, so he’s sure his bum looks at least slightly appealing. (He doesn’t want Louis looking too close anyway, since Harry’s slipped their bottle of lube into the back pocket.)

Think sexy thoughts, Dr. Kim had instructed. Making sure that you’re in the mood is the perfect way to get him in the mood.

Sexy thoughts, Harry thinks. Sexy thoughts, sexy thoughts, sexy thoughts. Sex, sex is sexy, what else is sexy, lingerie — Louis in lingerie, Louis’ dick in lingerie — Louis’ dick, dicks — bananas — that time in year eleven when Harry had to roll a condom onto a banana and flicked himself in the eye —

The corner of the coffee tables smacks into Harry’s shin and he hisses, stumbling a little bit.

This is getting away from him.

Louis’ brows come together in the middle. “You right, babe?” he checks.

“Yup!” Harry replies, far, far too quickly. “Yup, I’m fine!”

Louis’ frown deepens, but he doesn’t say anything else. He simply eyes Harry suspiciously as he lifts his half empty beer bottle to his lips. His very pink lips, which curve wetly around the neck of the bottle like —

Okay, yeah. Hello, sexy thoughts.

Harry grabs the empty chip bowl and flees to the kitchen. Which, he immediately realises, is an incredibly counterintuitive move.

How can he be this fucking intimidated by the idea of seducing his own fucking boyfriend?

Come on, he thinks. Dr. Kim would be ashamed. How is Louis going to be swept back up in the romance of spontaneous sex if Harry is hiding away in the kitchen — now is the time for action, damnit—

Resolute, he tries again.

Harry’s gonna get back in there and fucking seduce the shit out of Louis.

He walks quietly over to the back of the couch, presses his hips against the back and folds his arms down across Louis’ torso. Nosing in at Louis’ neck, he tongues at the soft spot below Louis’ ear.

Louis makes a soft, surprised noise, but he tilts his neck to the side, stretching out the lines of his exquisite, long neck. Harry presses the advantage, scraping his teeth along his skin until he can nip at the bottom of Louis’ ear.

The next noise Louis makes isn’t soft at all, but high and whiny and a little desperate.

He brings his hand up to clutch at Harry’s collar, pulling him closer for a fraction of a second before pushing him away. Which — is confusing, to say the least.

Louis clears it up though. He shifts on the couch, reaching for the remote to switch off the telly with one hand, while he beckons at Harry impatiently with the other.

“What the fuck are you doing all the way over there,” he demands, twisting his body to make room for Harry on the couch. “Fucking — get on me.”

Harry is more than happy to oblige. 

No sooner has Harry’s bum hit the cushion than Louis is scrambling into his lap and yanking Harry’s shirt up. His hands trail hotly over the newly exposed skin, pausing onto to toy happily at Harry’s nipples. Once the shirt is off, Louis seats himself properly, his thick thighs settling over Harry hips and roughly pressing their stiff dicks together.

It all happens very quickly, which is why the first breathy groan that Harry releases for the evening is completely involuntary. Wrenched from him by his fucking siren of a boyfriend.

“You’re the fucking best,” Harry tells him romantically.

“Shut up and kiss me,” Louis orders.

Harry shuts up and kisses him. He sneaks his hands beneath the hem of Louis’ shirt and presses his fingers in at the dip of his waist. It’s easy to clutch at him, pull him closer as Louis’ fingers tangle messily in Harry’s hair. Louis’ mouth is wet and soft and open, his tongue poking out only to soothe the sting left when Louis’ nips at Harry’s lips. His fingers curl at the nape of Harry’s neck, curving forward to cup the underside of Harry’s jaw sweetly for a second before they travel down to scratch at Harry’s chest.

“God, you’re fucking glorious,” Harry says, when they part for a quick breath.

Louis’s lips quirk upwards, wicked. “Mmhmmm,” he says, managing to look sweet and fond and devilishly sexy all at once. “Talk dirty to me.”


If that isn’t a sign from Jesus, Harry doesn’t know what is.

Spreading his hands out across the small of Louis’ back, he pulls Louis impossibly close, pressing their groins together. Louis lets out a sweet, weak little noise.

Louis spreads his legs a little wider, the air gets a little warmer and the kiss turns heated. It’s organic, the most natural thing in the world, the way they begin to rock at each other, hips shifting on the couch as they chase the perfect friction. Harry’s jeans — initially a tool for the greater good — are suddenly more difficult than they’re worth.

Louis seems to agree.

“Fuck,” he hisses, tearing their lips apart again with a wet gasp. “Fuck, okay. Fuck.”

He scrambles off Harry’s lap and whips off his shirt and shucks his pants in record time. He doesn’t waste any time after that, climbing back into Harry’s lap even as he begins to paw at the button of Harry’s jeans. (He’s not exactly mindful of the maddening pressure his insistent fingers have on Harry’s cock, either, but it’s not like Harry’s going to complain.) After a second of struggling he beats the button, pulling Harry’s pants down just enough to free his cock before he’s pressing his hips down again.

Harry can’t help the heavy, throaty noise that escapes him — which is good, in a way, because it distracts Harry from the warm clutch of Louis’ bare arse crack long enough for him to remember that there is a goal here. He has a plan.

“Oh, fuck, Lou,” he hisses — and he’s still not coherent enough to think what he’s saying through, but it works. Louis rolls his hips forward again, catching Harry’s dick in the small space behind his balls and letting out a wrecked little ‘uh,’ noise.

Harry fucking loves that noise.

It’s hard to take his hands off Louis, but worth it when he manages to extract the lube from the pocket of his jeans. Louis bats his hand away almost immediately, apparently too impatient to let Harry open him up. He covers two fingers and reaches behind himself and it’s a fucking tragedy that Harry doesn’t have surround vision and can’t see him sink a finger in.

He can see it on his face though — the slight catch of Louis’ breathing and the twitch at his brow. Harry drops his hand to Louis’ dick and jacks him a few times, just to see it on Louis’ face when he feels both their hands at once.

It’s barely a break, and Harry’s mind is still swirling with lust and heat, but it gives him a second to try and straighten his thoughts. Talk dirty to me, Louis had said.

“How’s it feel?” Harry asks.

The words feel a little abrupt in the small space, like they’re too much for their dim and sweaty living room, and Harry can see the way it startles Louis, breaking the concentration on his face. But he recovers quickly, the muscles of his bicep clenching as he moved his hand behind him at a rhythmic pace.

“S’good,” Louis hisses.

Harry squeezes Louis’ dick, breathes in the responding ‘uh.’ “Yeah?” he says.

Louis’ biting his bottom lip something fierce, his brow furrowed, but he nods. “Mhmmm,” is all he manages.

His hips are pressing back now, humping onto his own hand. And Harry thinks he’s been very patient so far, but now it’s his turn.

He reaches around, pressing his dry fingertip right at the spot Louis’ wet ones disappear. Louis lets out a lovely little mewling sound.

Harry leans forward and tongues at Louis’ nipple. “Fuck,” he says, pressing his fingers down just to hear Louis again. “You ready for me?”  

Louis pulls his fingers out and drops them to Harry’s dick without hesitation.

“Mhm, yes, yes, yes,” he chants and the spreads the remainder of the lube all over. He brings his hands up to wrap around Harry’s neck, pressing a desperate kiss to Harry’s lips while Harry lines his dick up.

Then he starts sinking down, and Harry can’t remember any words for a couple of seconds.

He grasps at Louis’ hips, forcing himself to stay still while Louis adjusts. Focus on the plan, focus on the plan, focus on the plan.

“Fuck, Lou, you feel so good,” Harry says, biting wetly at Louis’ neck.

They’re pressed so tightly together that he can barely hear the words, but Louis evidently does. He rocks for a second, testing the stretch before he begins to rise again.

“Yeah?” Louis pants.

Harry digs his fingers in, guiding Louis as he starts to build a rhythm. “Fuck yeah,” he says.

It takes a few seconds, but soon they’re rocking together almost as desperately as they had been when they’d been fully clothed. Louis’ arse is a blissful wet slide on Harry’s dick, his nails digging in at Harry’s neck as he pulls them close together and Harry thinks with a sudden moment of clarity that it might, might be the talking that’s gotten them there so fast.

Which is awesome. Harry made talking dirty his bitch.

Mmmhmmm yeah,” he pants, his fingers digging into the meaty flesh of Louis’ bum. He rocks his hips up enthusiastically feeling suddenly and blissfully emboldened, Harry thinks back to his practice in the mirror and decides to up the ante. “Yeah, like that. Look at your fat arse.”

Louis drops heavily, and goes completely still.

There’s a pause.

There’s a slight chance Harry fucked that up.

It’s hard to get a read — the lights are dim and Harry’s a bit distracted by hot—tight—wet on his dick — but it’s clear he’s taken Louis a little off guard. His face, which had been so loose and desperate five second ago, is now an adorable mixture of incredulous and indignant.

“Did you just—?

“Uhhhhh,” Harry says.

Fat arse!?”

Harry splutters a bit. “Well, look at it!” he says hastily. His hands drop from Louis’ waist and fly a little wildly as he gestures at Louis’ glorious posterior. “It’s just all — there and — and bouncy, like!”

Louis’ jaw drops open.

It’s adorable. Harry doesn’t have time to appreciate it though, because he’s too busy panicking. His dick, still engulfed in Louis’ bum, does not seem pleased with the abrupt halt in the evening proceedings and is making it very difficult to think.

“Come on,” Harry says, desperately. He reaches his hands around to grope at Louis’ cheeks and pull — stretching Louis’ hole out on Harry’s dick and making the older boy gasp. “Come on, you know that I love your arse.”

Louis’ clearly very confused. “I can’t,” he says. “I can’t believe you—”

Harry interrupts him, thrusting upwards and palming Louis’ cheeks at the same time. “You like it,” Harry says, watching carefully to see how Louis reacts. There’s a suspicious pink flush creeping up Louis’ chest, which makes Harry think that — “you like how mental I go for your bum.”

Louis lets out a lost little noise, but begins to move his hips on his own again. Not that Harry’s taking his hands away from Louis’ bum, no sir.

“Look at you,” Harry says. It’s almost a good thing that he’s suddenly so nervous, because it adds a low scratchy tone to his voice that makes Louis shiver. “You look fucking wrecked, Lou.”

Harry’s not sure where this is coming from, to be perfectly honest. But it’s hot. And it’s working.

God,” Harry pants, “Fuck.”

Louis’ starting to bite his lip again, the blush creeping onto his cheeks and for a second Harry flounders because he doesn’t have a clue what else he can say but then —

God,” Louis snaps suddenly, sounding frustrated and confused and turned on. “Fuck, shit, just fuck me already.”

And Harry thinks vaguely ‘yup, this is what a religious experience must feel like,’ because it suddenly becomes crystal clear that holy fuck, Dr. Kim was right.

Louis fucking loves this.

Fuck yeah,” Harry groans, and he plants his feet as firmly on the ground as he can and thrusts upwards roughly.

He meets Louis on the downstroke. He can faintly hear the hallelujah chorus, but he pays it no mind — devoted entirely to the sweet, angry boy bouncing up and down on his dick.

“Moan for me,” he demands, because Louis’ makes amazing noises and he likes this so there’s no real reason he shouldn’t.

“No,” Louis gasps.

No real reason, save for the fact Louis’ a stubborn arse.

“Come on,” Harry urges. “Fucking moan.”

“Fuck you,” Louis says. “You called me fat.”

Harry huffs out a wet laugh and bites at Louis’ collarbone. He can’t believe he hasn’t done that yet, played with all that flushed and sweaty skin that’s pressed so close.

“I called your arse fat,” Harry corrects him. “Because I love fucking your — fat — fucking — arse.”

He punctuates each word with a particularly harsh thrust, and there’s a beautiful, clarifying moment where Louis’ eyes shutter close and his mouth drops open and he lets out one of his beautiful little sounds.

“God, fuck you,” Louis huffs out, loud, incredulous, almost like he’s angry at himself for reacting this way. “Fucking, fuck you.”

Mhmmmmm,” Harry says, sounding absolutely ridiculous. “That’s the plan, baby.”

His voice gets louder now, as his heartbeat starts to race. This is so much better than good; this is so much, almost too much. It’s exhilarating, watching Louis fight back a grin while he writhes around on Harry’s cock.

“God,” he says, and now he’s just being an idiot for the sake of it. “God, Louis, yeah, you’re so good.” 

Shut up,” Louis says, “shut up, shut up, shut up.” 

God, he’s a fucking vision. He’s a vision, and Harry’s in love and he wants to keep fucking this boy for the rest of his life — but more than that he wants to make this boy laugh.

So Harry takes a deep breath, closes his eyes and fucking goes for it.

OOHHHH YEAAAHHHHH—-!” he buries himself inside Louis on a particularly brutal upstroke, and throws his head back. “OHHHHH FUCK, LOUIS, YES——MMMPHH—!”

“Holy fucking fuck,” Louis hisses, smashing his fingers furiously over Harry’s mouth. “What the fucking shit, Harry——!?”

Harry doesn’t let this dissuade him. He believes in Dr. Kim. Also, Louis still hasn’t stopped bouncing on Harry’s dick.

MMMHMMMMMM,” he says, muffled only slightly by Louis’ fingers. It’s bouncing off the walls, way, way too loud for their tiny little apartment. “MMHM BABY YEAAHHHH.”

“Shut up——!” Louis practically shrieks, his voice high and hot and scandalised. “Oh, my god, shut up, shut up, shut up!”

Harry’s too far gone now.


And there’s something gleeful swelling in the pit of Harry’s tummy (and no it’s not his orgasm, even though that’s rocketing closer with every second) because that’s when the damn breaks and the little lines pulling at the corner of Louis’ eyes give way to laughter — no fuck that, he’s giggling like he can’t even stop himself and even though he’s still pressing his hand across Harry’s mouth he looks so fond and radiant and beautiful and holy fuck, Harry thinks, Dr. Kim’s a fucking genius.

Harry digs his fingers, clutching at the meaty press of Louis’ bum and changing the angle ever so slightly.

Louis lets out a hilarious noise when Harry gets his spot, a beautiful mixture of hot and turned on and amused and embarrassed. It’s almost as good as the ‘uh, uh, uh’s’, and Harry wants to hear it again and again and again.

He keeps up a constant commentary, shouting at almost the top of his lungs. There’s a grin on his face, he can feel it stretching his cheeks to the point of pain, but he can’t even help himself.

Louis looks mad, humping Harry’s lap the way he is — torn between shutting Harry’s up and controlling his hysterical little giggles. Their pace is getting frantic now, and Harry can feel the beginnings of his orgasm curl his toes.


“Harry — holy shit, stop, stop — oh, my god, the neighbours are going to — oh, my god, Harry!”

Three things happen in quick succession:

Harry nails Louis’ prostate again, pushing in deep and holding Louis down. Louis throws back his head, stretches his long neck out and comes. And a loud thumping noise echoes down from the roof.

Louis’ gone, his eyes glazed over, blissed out, as his dick spurts white hot ropes of come across Harry’s stomach. His fingernails scrape down Harry’s chest and surprisingly, that is what pushes Harry to follow seconds after, spilling himself in the hot confines of Louis’ perfect, perfect arse.

Louis slumps forward, completely spent, and drops his head on Harry’s shoulder.

There is a pause.

The thumping continues.

“Oh, my god,” Louis says, his voice a wet puff of air that spreads over Harry’s collarbones. “Oh, my fucking god, I can’t believe you did that, you fucking loser.”

Harry can’t hear him because Harry’s brain is stuck on a continuous loop of Louis’ scandalised, giggling orgasm.

Harry is the god of sex.

“Mr. O’Grady heard us,” Louis says.

Fuck yeah he did, Harry thinks.

He’s still balls deep, but he doesn’t mind staying there for a while longer. It’s an absolutely lovely thing, to have Louis shaking and panting in his lap as he comes down.

The thumping stops.

Harry’s probably going to have to make Mr. O’Grady cupcakes, or something.

“You are such a fucking loser,” Louis says again. After a beat, he shifts. Harry’s dick slips free as Louis leans back to glare down at him suspiciously. “Stop looking so fucking smug,” he orders.

Harry smiles smugly. “Can’t do it,” he says. “I’m the god of sex.”

“Jesus Christ,” Louis says.

“Close enough,” Harry says — god, he is on fire tonight.

Louis dismounts him with an incredibly unimpressed look, but he doesn’t fool Harry. There’s a wobbliness to his knees and a slight limp to his gait that Harry put there because he’s the best boyfriend in the wide world.

Louis returns in a couple of seconds, a wet cloth in his hand and an apathetic look on his face.

Harry grins up at him beatifically.

And, well, he might be a god of sex. But he’s also Louis’ boyfriend. And he probably should have known better.

Louis slaps the cloth down on Harry’s poor, overworked dick with merciless precision and force. And it fucking hurts; the chill of the cloth and the moment of impact stinging at his balls like a motherfucker.

“Jesus Christ, Louis—!” Harry whines.

Now it’s Louis’ turn to look smug.  

“That’s for calling my bum fat, you fucking knob.” 


TIP #6: Pop His Cork — Try the oral-sex technique that I call The Screw. As you’re moving up his shaft with your mouth, turn your head a bit from side to side, letting your tongue follow a corkscrew pattern. When you get to the frenulum — the part of the shaft just beneath the head — be sure to like it for a few seconds before moving all the way to the top. Then repeat, moving down his shaft. What will drive him wild about this is that you aren’t just going up and down — you’re also going sideways. It’s 3D!


“Harry?” Louis’ voice calls softly from the bedroom.

Harry’s in the bathroom, brushing his teeth. He’s got a mouthful of foamy toothpaste, so he can’t really respond.

“Mmhmmmm?” He tries anyway.

“What’s this?”

There’s something playful to the lilt of Louis’ voice that catches Harry’s attention. Quickly, he spits into the sink and gargles, rinsing his mouth and spitting again before heading back into their bedroom. He grabs a hand towel on his way, presses it to his mouth to wipe at the water on his lips.

“What’s what, babe—?” he asks.

Then he looks up.

Louis is sitting, cross legged, in the middle of the bed. He’s naked, save for his boxers and the thick rimmed glasses sitting on his nose.

Spread out in his lap is a very familiar, pink magazine.

Harry flees.

He slams the bathroom door behind himself and the sound of it echoes through their small flat.

A heavy silence falls in its wake.

“Harry?” Louis’s voice floats through the door.

Harry climbs into the bathtub, hugs his knees to his chest and contemplates his life choices.

This is all Janice’s fault.

“Yeah?” he says.

“Are you going to come out?” Louis asks.

Louis, who’s sitting outside — at least, that’s what the closeness of his voice suggests — and  probably flipping through the pages of that damned magazine, reading all about how their relationship is totally and completely inadequate. Louis who, as on as Harry opens that door, is going to have no choice but to make the smart decision and break up with him.

“No,” Harry says.

Louis sighs. “Right,” he says, “are you planning on coming out sometime soon?”

Harry shakes his head, before promptly remembering that Louis can’t see him.

“No,” he says. “I’m never coming out ever again.”

It’s a bit petty, sure, but he doesn’t do well with pressure.

“What will you do for food?” Louis asks.

Harry’s leans back, lets his head thunk against the cold porcelain. Of course, Louis is going to play along with his dramatic tantrum. Because Louis’ perfect.

He thinks about the question for a moment. Their bathroom is well equipped — the ensuite is one of the many reasons they’d chosen this flat in the end. “I’ll drink from the tap,” he says after a moment. “And then the shower. And if things get really desperate—”

He eyes the toilet warily.

“—Finish that sentence and I’m never kissing you again,” Louis warns him — because apparently he’s a mind reader on top of everything else.

But it lights a spark of hope in Harry’s chest.

“But you’ll kiss me again if I don’t?” he says.

Louis’ pauses, and it’s the most terrifying three seconds of Harry’s life. Then: “Well, I can hardly kiss you with you hidden behind that door, now can I?” he says.

That’s a fair point.

For a few extra seconds, Harry sits still and breathes. It gives his brains the time it needs for a hasty regroup, before he takes a deep breath and stands up. He steps out of the bathroom, his chin held high like his own reflection is judging him, and walks over to the door.

He hesitates, but he’s only human.

“You’re not going to break up with me?” he says, his voice incredibly small.

Louis hears it though.

His voice is soft, gentle and quiet even through the wood. “No, love,” he says. “I’m not going to break up with you.”

Harry takes a step back to open the door, and then stares resolutely down at his own feet.

“Hey,” Louis says quietly.

“Hey,” Harry says.

The way that Harry’s looking, determinedly down at his toes, makes it easy to see when Louis lifts the pink magazine up. “Cosmo?”

Harry sighs. “Yeah.”

Louis reaches up and settles a gentle hand on Harry’s chin. Steering his jaw, he directs Harry’s eyes up and meets his gaze evenly. (Harry can’t quite decipher the emotion on Louis’ face, not while his thoughts are whirling around so wildly, but he thinks he can see something fond in the line of Louis’ eyebrows. Hopes.)

There’s definitely a hint of smile when he asks: “where the fuck did you even get this?”

Harry fights to stifle an awkward smile, suddenly feeling how hot his cheeks are compared to Louis’ cool fingertips. “Girl at uni,” he mumbles.

Louis’ brow quirks. “A girl at uni?”

Harry nods. “Yup.”

“A girl at uni told you to spice up our sex life?”

That’s not the whole story, obviously, but it’s not far off. Harry just shrugs.

Louis looks back down to the magazine. The pages are well word and — god, one’s even dog-eared — no wonder Louis knew exactly which pages Harry had been reading. They’re quiet for a moment, as Louis scans the words.

“Pocketful of Pleasure?” he reads out incredulously. “Really?”  

Harry shrugs again.

Louis keeps reading.

“When did you hand feed me?” he asks.

“You know,” Harry says. “During the Rovers game? On Saturday?”

Louis frowns. “We had fish and chips.”


“You fed me fish and chips.”


“To spice up our sex life you fed me fish and chips.”

It doesn’t sound as romantic when he puts it like that, Harry thinks. It had been perfectly lovely on the night; Louis had played with Harry’s hair and everything.

“Is this why you called me fat?” Louis demands then.

“I didn’t call you fat!”

Louis snorts. “You said, ‘look at that fat arse’!”

“I didn’t want you to get bored!” Harry interrupts out indignantly. Louis falls silent, which is good because as soon as Harry starts the adrenaline kicks in and suddenly everything is pouring out of him in a hot, wordy mess. “And Karen was calling me smug and Janice was saying that we were probably going to break up because you’re supposed to have one orgasm a day and she told me I had to like, keep the relationship alive, or whatever—”

“—and you thought the way to do that was to tell me I had a fat arse,” Louis says dryly.

Harry deflates.

“I just don’t want you to get bored,” he says again, this time sounding far smaller.

Louis sighs, reaches up with one of his hands and cups Harry’s face. He strokes his thumb softly across the crown of Harry’s cheekbone.

“How could I possibly get bored?” he asks, “when I’ve got you wandering around and shoving your hand down my pants whenever a magazine tell you to.”

Harry flushes and he pouts. He feels oddly exposed, arguing about something so silly. “If you’re not going to be serious, Lou...”

Louis shushes him.

“I am being fully serious, Harold,” he says, his gaze resolute. “I might never be able to look Mr. O’Grady in the eye again, but I certainly can’t say that I was bored, now can I?”

He drops the magazine to the floor, and reaches out with his now free hand to twine his and Harry’s fingers together.

“You don’t need a magazine to keep me around, babe,” he says. “You got me here all on your own.”

Horrifically, Harry’s eyes start to well up. “Yeah?” he says.

Louis’ face goes impossible soft. Harry loves him very much. “Yeah,” he says.

They gaze at each other for a few silent seconds, while Harry wills the tears away. Louis’ here, he thinks, and he’s not going anywhere. Louis’ thumb swipes over his cheek again. When Harry meets his gaze again, something wicked is forming in his eye.

He tugs Harry in the direction of the bed. When they reach it, he drops Harry’s hand in favour of stretching himself out in the middle of the bed. Rolling onto his back and holding himself up on his elbow, he spreads his legs enticingly.

“Get over here, Casanova,” he demands. “I want to try out Tip Number Six.”




coda/deleted scene:

TIP #16: Finger-Food Foreplay — Have a romantic dinner without utensils so you can feed each other. There’s something sensual about placing food in your partner’s mouth. It’s such fun — especially when you serve stuff that’s not supposed to be eaten with your hands, like salads or pasta. After a meal like this, serve yourself for dessert.


“Hey, Lou?”


“You want a chip?”

(Louis doesn’t even look away from the telly when he reaches for the food Harry’s offering — which is marginally annoying since Harry is literally lying in Louis’ lap — but it’s a Rovers game, so Harry understands. He takes the chip though.)

“Yeah, thanks, love,” he says.

(He threads his fingers through Harry’s hair at around half time. Harry falls asleep fairly soon after that.)

(Food foreplay sounds fucking messy anyway.)