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Put Your Hands on Me in My Skintight Jeans

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Most nights, Louis hates this job with a burning passion. Like, really, really, deep-down-in-his-bones hates his job. He’s a waiter at a gay nightclub, and being that he’s a reasonably attractive, petite, curvy young lad, this makes him fodder for the type of men who like to frequent gay nightclubs. It’s not that Louis doesn’t like attention from men (he wouldn’t have nearly as much good dick in his life if it weren’t for this job), and Louis has no illusions as to why he’s the best-tipped waiter in the place. It’s just he’s already awfully tired of hearing the word ‘twink’ tonight and it’s only half ten.

At least he’s staffing the VIP lounge tonight. This is usually slightly better than working the floor, because although the people who tend to inhabit VIP lounges are usually douchebags, at least there are fewer of them to shoot down before Louis can get on with his work. Plus, VIPs are typically at least 30% less sweaty and creepy than the common folk, so they’re a delightful change of pace.

That doesn’t mean Louis is off his guard, though, as he readjusts the apron tied around his waist and prepares to greet tonight’s VIPs, who’ve just arrived. He tries to peer through the doorway to get an advance peek and be prepared, as he always does; it’s good to pinpoint who the perviest ones were so you could stay out of ass-grabbing range, and to figure out who’s in charge. Powerful men life to be addressed first, Louis has quickly come to learn. Find out who’s paying the bill and bat your eyelashes until they run it up, and at the end of the night, you pocket a nice fat percentage.

There’s no sneaky advance reconnaissance tonight, though, as the doorway is blocked by a massive, burly bodyguard. He isn’t any of the club’s bouncers, which means he must be under the VIP’s employ, which doesn’t bode well for Louis’ night. In his experience, the more security someone totes around, the meaner and more uptight they are. Louis grits his teeth and prepares to enter to see a fat, balding man with a temper and a cocaine problem who’d give him grief all night and then skimp on his tip. Fantastic.

“Excuse me, no one gets through here,” the bodyguard says when Louis approaches, reaching out to stop him with a firm hand on his shoulder. “This area is closed.”

Louis glares down at the hand --he does not enjoy being touched without his permission-- but bites his tongue to stop the sass from spilling out and probably costing his job. “I’m the assigned waitstaff this evening,” he says rather calmly considering he wants to break this bodyguard’s fingers. “I’m here to get drink orders from Mr. Styles and his party.”

The name is the only information he’d gotten from the manager, but it seems to do the trick. A deep voice from inside the VIP room calls out, “It’s okay, Rob, let him through,” and just like that, Tall Dark and Scary is dropping the offending hand and stepping to the side so Louis can pass. He does so with as much dignity as a twink waiter in a gay nightclub can, eyes sweeping the room at once to find the man in charge.

It takes a strong effort on Louis’ part to keep his mouth from popping open in surprise, because when he traces the atmosphere of the room and the body language of the guests back to the epicenter, the man blinking expectantly up at him is none other than Harry Styles, international popstar. It almost seems impossible that he’s the one in charge here, given that he’s wearing sparkly boots and a Hawaiian shirt and a wide-brimmed hat and is waving dorkily over at Louis, and that is just not the type of person you expect to come equipped with mountainous security teams that jump at the sound of your voice. Then again, Louis thinks as he straightens up a little bit, everyone in the world knows Harry Styles. When you’re that famous, Louis supposes you can wear whatever you want and people will still do your bidding.

Which reminds Louis, he has a job to do which doesn’t involve low-level ogling, no matter how cute the client. “Good evening, Mr. Styles, I’ll be taking care of your accommodations tonight. Is there anything that I can get for you or your guests?”

“Hiiii,” the man says, drawing the word out ridiculously, dimples flashing as he smiles. “Thank you so much. Erm, does anyone want anything to drink? It’s on me.” The group, which consists of about ten men and women lounging calmly on the room’s numerous couches, all start rattling off drink orders which Louis hurries to write down on his notepad.

Curiously enough, the popstar himself waits until everyone else has ordered before even attempting to catch Louis’ eye. “And for you, Mr. Styles?” Louis asks in his very best, most professional voice.

“Uhm, just Harry please. Can I get a martini? Is that too many drinks?” he tacks on with a frown as Louis writes. “If that’s too many all at once, you can wait to bring mine. I know I brought kind of a big party, sorry.”

Louis just blinks at him in surprise. “Uh, no, it’s perfectly fine,” he says after a beat. “I’ll be right back with those.”

“Thank you again-- er, sorry, I didn’t catch your name?”

“Louis,” he finds himself answering, because the wonders never cease and apparently it is possible to be a rich guy in a club without being an asshole. “My name’s Louis.”

Harry smiles. “Thank you, Louis.”

After that Louis can’t think of anything more brilliant to say or do than just flee from the room to the bar and start fixing the party’s drinks. Once out of eyesight the reality of who he’s just seen starts to sink in and butterflies start up in Louis’ stomach. He’s waiting on Harry Styles, world-famous millionaire and Louis’ favorite singer. He’s had this man as his phone’s wallpaper in the not so distant past, and yet here he is in the VIP room of Louis’ workplace wearing a fucking straw hat and acting like a cupcake.

(Louis tries not to let the slight wheezing in his chest interfere with the calm look on his face as he delivers his tray full of drinks.)

Harry quietly thanks him at least twice more as he hands out the drinks, and politely declines when Louis asks if there’s anything else he can fetch for the party. It wouldn’t be the first time a celebrity had strolled in here and asked him to get ahold of something a little stronger than alcohol, or perhaps something pretty for their arm. If anything the tabloids said is true, Harry Styles should have a noseful of cocaine and a lapful of half-naked boy by now, what with the fact that he’s a man-eating party animal and all that.

But Louis is beginning to see, with every trip he makes back into the room to clear empty glasses and deliver refills, that the media’s perception seems to be completely upside down. Harry is never anything but polite and friendly, slowly sipping his drink even as his friends chug with the unmistakable intent to get wasted. In fact, the whole lot seems well behaved, everyone staying cheery and amicable despite their growing drunkenness and not a single one attempting to touch him without permission-- though he does receive several confessions of love from an Irish lad with dyed blond hair.

He’s at the bar once more waiting on a daiquiri when that low, slow voice sounds behind him again. “Can I get a martini when you have a moment, please?” Harry is calling to the bartender over Louis’ shoulder, a smile lighting up his features as he glances down and realizes it’s Louis’ he’s hovering behind. “Oh. Hello, Louis.”

“Mr. Styles! I would have been happy to get that for you, sir, I’m so sorry,” Louis rushes to get out, eyes scanning nervously for his manager. If it seems like he’s slacking on the job and not properly tending to the VIPs, he’s cooked. “Let me get that for you right away and bring it back to your room.”

“Harry,” the man corrects gently, almost automatically, and then shakes his head. “It’s alright, really. I told Rob to keep an eye on my merry band of drunkards so I could slip out and see what’s going on out here. Not much sense in coming to a club just to be shut in a back room, is it? Like, if we just wanted to sit around and be drunk we could have done that in our houses.”

He’s managed to pinpoint the one thing Louis’ never understood about the VIP room, and it makes it hard to hide his smirk as he replies. “Well, that’s a fair point. Maybe it’s just for the company of charming waiters like myself. I’m not something you usually find just lying around the house,” he adds in a moment of cheeky insanity.

Harry looks like he might be about to reply back with something equally cheeky, if the grin on his face is any indication, but he’s interrupted by a dramatic gasp and a high pitched ohmygod from behind him. A second later there are two young girls and a rather effeminate young boy pressing up beside him, hands tugging at his arms and bodies crushing in on him. “Harry Styles?!” one girl exclaims, reaching up to touch his face. “Oh my god, it is you. Can we have a picture? Oh my god I’m shaking--”

There’s a hot little flare of irritation in Louis’ chest that probably has a little to do with the fact that they interrupted his conversation and a lot to do with the way they’re grabbing on Harry like he’s a piece of meat. “Um, excuse me, please back away,” he says in his sternest, most authoritative I-work-here voice. “Mr. Styles is here as a private patron.” Whatever that means.

“I’ve bought all three of his albums, though,” the boy reasons with a sneer in Louis’ direction. “The least he can do is sign an autograph for me.”

“I don’t care if you bought out his stadium tour, he doesn’t owe you anything,” Louis fires back, and he’s definitely heated now. “He might be a platinum artist but he’s still a human being with rights to privacy, and if anything, you owe him the courtesy of backing off and letting him enjoy his evening without being pestered by inconsiderate fans. Now please back away before I call security to have you escorted from the club.”

There’s a pause while the trio visibly size Louis up and try to decide whether it’s worth the fight to get their fifteen seconds of glory. They must not like the odds they see in Louis’ gaze, because with a few put-out huffs they turn on their heels and disappear back into the crowd, leaving Louis to give an unsteady exhale and fix his fringe before turning back around. Idiot teenagers.

Harry gazes down at him with a curious expression. “You didn’t have to do that, you know. I would have taken a picture with them to stop them from causing a scene.”

“Yeah, but then they would have posted them and the whole world would have come running and your nice evening out would have been ruined,” Louis answers with a shake of his head. “They ought to respect you more. I hate people who think they’re entitled to things just because they’ve supported a celebrity.”

“So you do know who I am,” Harry says slowly, a grin sliding across his face. “I was beginning to wonder, when you didn’t ask for an autograph or a picture yourself. Most people do, but now I guess I know why not.”

“Oh I’m plenty a fan of yours. Stalker boy isn’t the only one who has all your albums.” Louis tries not to blush at the confession. “Just didn’t think you came out tonight to be accosted by people.”

“Didn’t think I came out to get saved by handsome men, either, but the night appears to be full of surprises.” Now there’s definitely blood rushing to Louis’ face, and Harry seems to delight in it as he licks his lips. “Will you dance with me, Louis?”

“I shouldn’t.” Louis really, definitely shouldn’t. He super shouldn’t.

"Please?" Harry asks with that dimple on display, and Louis is toast.

Louis take off his apron and drapes it across the bar, taking the hand Harry offers him with a cautious look. "I can take a fifteen minute break but that's it," he warns. "Just a few quick dances."

"Whatever you say," Harry smoothly replies.

He's less smooth on the dance floor, simply leading them to the center and then putting his hands on Louis' waist like they're in primary school. Louis resists putting his arms around Harry's neck to complete the look, instead wrapping his hands around Harry's biceps and swallowing hard when he feels the taut muscles beneath his shirt. They're more vaguely bopping to the beat than actually dancing but Louis doesn't mind. There's a popstar holding him close, cheek to cheek, and the music is good, and the night is alive, and Louis is rather content.

“If my boss sees us dancing like this, he’s going to have my head on a platter,” Louis says into Harry’s ear, huffing out a little laugh. “I’m supposed to be waiting on the VIP room, not dancing out here having fun."

He can feel Harry smile where their cheeks are pressed together, then he’s turning so his lips graze Louis’ ear as he replies. “Well,” he says slowly, voice dripping with honey, “isn’t it your job to give me whatever I want?”

Something about it makes Louis’ fingers tighten reflexively on Harry’s arms as his stomach drops, and he jerks his head back to search that porcelain face. Harry’s looking at him ravenously, eyes roaming his face and down his body, and  Louis can’t help but give his head a nervous little shake. “Look, Harry --Mr. Styles, I don’t know how far you think my position of serving you goes, but I don’t --I mean, I’m not a--”

It takes a second for the words to click, probably because Louis is doing a shitty job of trying to say them, but when his meaning eventually becomes clear, Harry’s eyes fly wide open and his face turns to mortification. “No, no no no no, that’s not what I meant! I just meant that I asked you to dance so you shouldn’t get in trouble since you’re supposed to be waiting on me. I didn’t mean that you have to --that I think that you’d be obligated to --sorry,” he finishes miserably, face aflame.

A little knot of anxiety loosens in Louis’ stomach, though not for the reasons he’d expect of himself. It’s not so much that he’s relieved he won’t be forced to sleep with a client; he’s been in that pinch before and he knows his rights and knows exactly where to send a knee for maximum rejection. Rather, Louis feels himself relax a bit more knowing that the Harry he’s seen all night who wouldn’t hurt a fly was the truth after all. Louis isn’t sure he’d be able to stand it if at the end of all this he found out that Harry was just another asshole after all.

“I’m not a bad person,” Harry murmurs into Louis’ ear when they relax back into each other, like he’s reading the smaller boy’s worried thoughts. “Not like the media says I am. I don’t do drugs or act like a diva or sleep around.”

“I know,” Louis answers seriously. After a beat he smirks and leans up on tiptoes to make sure this bit is for Harry’s ears only. “You’re not really doing your reputation any favors dancing with me like this, you know. People might get ideas about your intentions.”

“I can’t help it,” Harry practically whines, but when Louis pulls back he sees a grin on that dimpled face. “I’m not a good actor, if you follow my career you know that. I can’t pretend I don’t like you.”

Louis does his best to play it aloof, just giving a little hum. “You like me?”

Harry doesn’t answer, but there’s a sparkle in his eye and he bites his lip when he looks at Louis’ mouth, so that at least serves as a little warning before he leans in for a kiss. His mouth is just as soft as it looks, all pink and puffy from where he’s perpetually playing with it, and he’s gentle in the way he caresses Louis’ lips with his own. He’s in control of the kiss but doesn’t overpower Louis even when the slight man melts into him, keeping his movements slow and easy. His tongue teases at Louis’ lip, and he isn’t demanding entrance, he’s just tasting, savoring, seemingly delighting in the flavor of Louis on his tastebuds.

The song changes into something heavier, Sail by AWOLNATION, and as the bass drops the mood shifts, too. Louis grips Harry’s biceps a little harder and steps forward into him even more, lining them up along every inch of their bodies. Harry’s hands trail down from waist to hips, thumbs hooking through the belt loops on his jeans to hold him close. Even their kiss changes, lips no more hurried but perhaps more intimate in the way they find themselves biting and tasting a little more than is probably appropriate in a public setting.

Louis is the first one to start grinding. He’s not proud of it, as he is a grown man who can control himself and whatnot, but he has an attractive man wrapped around him and his favorite song is on and his cock is starting to get a little too interested to ignore. He pushes his hips forward in search of friction and Harry reacts instantly, moaning right into Louis’ mouth and grinding back like he’s just been waiting for permission. Maybe he has been, because after a second Louis’ brain catches up with his nerve endings and he realizes that he’s not the only one getting excited.

He tangles the fingers of one hand in the curls at the back of Harry's neck and feels a hand slide into his back pocket in answer and this is definitely too much, too intimate for the dance floor. People might be looking --they'll definitely be looking if they realize who Harry is-- and for all Louis knows there are phones out right now snapping pictures of them. He can't really be bothered much to care, though, just keeps his grip on Harry and grinds up into him like he might be able to climb up him if he tugs those luscious locks hard enough.

The assault on Harry's poor scalp proves to be the tipping point and he breaks the stream of kisses at last to place his mouth a centimeter from Louis' ear. "When do you get off?" he asks breathlessly.

Hopefully very soon, and with you. “I’m assigned to the VIP room tonight and you’ve got it reserved until close,” Louis answers breathlessly, “so technically I guess I leave when you do.”

“It’s the oddest thing, but I suddenly feel like maybe it’s time to leave.”

Louis grins, perhaps just a tiny bit wickedly. “Have to pay your tab first, lover boy. And tip your waiter.”

“Here’s a tip,” Harry cheekily returns. “Bring the check quick so we can get out of here.”


“You know you have to put the key into the lock for it to work, right?”

“Well maybe if I didn’t have some oaf sucking bruises on my neck like he’s an abstract artist and I’m a fucking canvas I’d have better aim,” Louis fires back in his defense, voice remarkably sassy considering that he’s been struggling to open his door for a solid minute now. Harry is pressed up against his back, one hand on each hip, teeth grazing appreciatively over his own handiwork. In reality, the process of clearing the VIP room, getting Harry’s posse into cabs and shaking Rob long enough to escape in Louis’ car was really quite snappy, but there’s an ache in Louis’ stomach that protests that it’s been far too long.

Eventually he manages to get the door open and they spill into the entryway of Louis’ flat with matching sighs of relief. Harry backs off of Louis’ neck long enough to take a look around. “You have a lovely home.”

“Which I’m sure is the size of your closet, and worth less money,” Louis snorts. “Just don’t look at all the laundry and empty takeout containers lying around, okay?”

“Deal,” Harry breathes, pulling Louis in for another hot kiss. There’s a type of urgency in it-- it’s as if they’re not necessarily desperate to get where they’re going, but rather desperate to not be deterred from their journey. Louis finds himself slipping his hands up the back of Harry’s shirt, the warmth soaking into his palms even as the definition of his muscles gives Louis chills. Harry’s kisses stutter for a moment. “Am I allowed to look around for a bed, or will I accidentally see your boxers on a bedpost?”

“Bed’s this way,” Louis laughs, backing them towards a doorway into the flat’s only bedroom. “No boxers on the bedpost, I promise. I like to keep my bed tidy, at least.”

“Expecting company?”

The backs of Louis’ knees hit the edge of his mattress and he topples back onto it as he registers Harry’s smirk. “Cocky, aren’t we? Maybe I just like having a comfortable bed. The whole world doesn’t actually revolve around you, you know that, right?”

Harry just laughs again, eyes crinkling shut as he crawls on top of Louis, but his body language exudes anything but the cockiness Louis accuses him of. There’s confidence, sure, hands slow and tantalizing as they ruck up Louis’ shirt and graze the warm insides of his thighs, but there isn’t a single twitch of his fingers that hints at taking. He’s giving, smoothing Louis over with tingling touches, all the while asking for more.

“I ought to not sleep with you just because you’re wearing that ridiculous hat,” Louis declares as fingertips graze one of his nipples, flicking the offending item off Harry’s head and to the floor. “I can’t hardly take you seriously.”

“I like my hat,” protests Harry, but when Louis grabs the hem of his shirt and tugs it up and over his head, he lets him. “It’s whimsical and it makes a statement about one’s ability to be a part of society without conforming to all of its wishes.”

Louis toes off his shoes and curls his bare feet into the duvet as he rakes his eyes over Harry’s bare torso. “I know that you’re talking but all that I can hear is your abs calling my name.”

“Right, well that sounds like a more important conversation anyways,” Harry grins. “Far be it from me to distract you from that.”

He lets himself be nudged onto his back and scoots himself to the center of the bed, watching with hungry eyes as Louis settles in between his legs. Louis hums quietly and sets to work divesting Harry of his boots and socks, tossing them aimlessly from the bed. Once they’re gone, one dainty hand comes to rest on the bulge in the front of Harry’s jeans, eyes flicking up to meet his in a silent bid for permission. Harry swallows hard and lets out a shaky breath as his answer.

Maybe Louis has a contact buzz from that club full of drunk patrons, but when he’s flicked open the button at the top of Harry’s jeans and the urge strikes him to lean forward, he lets the flight of fancy take him over. He leans in until his lips brush denim, until he can smell just a hint of sweat on Harry’s skin, and takes the pull of the zipper between his teeth. The tangy flavor of metal fills his mouth as he drags the zipper down. It feels a bit like a ridiculous porn star move and Louis finds himself desperately hoping that he isn’t blushing as hard as he thinks he is, but then Harry’s breathing is interrupted by a groan and the duvet rustles as he fists his fingers in it and Louis just savors the taste.

The rest of Harry’s jeans are pulled down with much less finesse, until Harry is naked except for a grey pair of boxer briefs and Louis finds himself with his mouth hovering over Harry’s crotch once again. There’s this moment where Harry realizes he’s about to have his cock in Louis’ mouth, and he sort of relaxes into the pillows a little more in anticipation. Louis can feel it, can feel the way his muscles slide around beneath his smooth skin, and as lovely as Harry looks sprawled out on Louis’ bed, Louis just wants to make him squirm.

He crawls back up Harry’s body and captures his mouth in a kiss, sloppy and slow and wet enough to distract Harry from having his hips straddled. He takes notice soon enough though, thighs twitching immediately when the denim of Louis’ jeans starts to grind against the cotton of his pants in slow, firm figure eights. Big hands come up to hold Louis’ back, pressing him close, fingers scrunching up the fabric in Harry’s absentminded clutch. Louis breaks away long enough to mutter, “If my shirt offends you that much, just take it off already.”

The suggestion is immediately taken to heart, Louis’ work tee pushed up his body and pulled clumsily over his head. Its absence doesn’t seem to change Harry’s enthusiasm, however, his nails now scrabbling at the soft skin of Louis’ back as Louis grinds down harder. “Christ, you’re such a tease,” Harry wheezes, hips trying to buck up into Louis’ as much as he can with the boy pinning him down. “You’re killing me.”

“What’s the matter? You can dish it out but you can’t take it? Dancing around looking like you do, making people drool over you when they can’t have you, but god forbid someone gives you a little tease?”

Louis’ hips grind down harder and Harry’s nails dig in so deep that Louis knows there will be scratches on his back in the morning, but Harry looks up at Louis with a defiant gaze. “I can take it,” he declares. “I can take whatever you give me.”

That determination melts away fairly quickly, however, as Louis’ hips never falter and a sheen of sweat breaks out on Harry’s skin. His hands grip Louis’ thighs, thumbs digging into the flesh, not quite pushing Louis away but hovering right on the precipice of ‘please stop’ and ‘give me more.’ “You alright there, babe?” Louis asks wickedly.

“Like you aren’t enjoying this as much as I am,” Harry huffs, and breaks his cool demeanor at last. His hands move to the fasten of Louis’ jeans, and there’s an odd clicking noise that indicates that he may or may not have just busted the zipper of Louis’ best work pants. One warm hand slips inside, cupping against Louis’ body only to find that Louis is only half hard, far from the throbbing state of arousal he’s got Harry in.

There’s another frustrated huff and then Louis is being pushed onto his back, Harry’s face buried in the soft skin of Louis’ stomach. “That’s not fair, you’ve got jeans on,” he says stubbornly, pout turning to a smile when Louis throws his head back and laughs. “You’re a tease and a cheat.”

“Not a cheat,” Louis smirks, “just cleverer than you.”

His jeans come off quickly, guided by Harry’s expert hands. Louis finds himself thinking that if anyone knows how to make quick work of skinny jeans it’s Harry Styles, considering that his are practically spray painted on, but then his boxers come off too and his cock is in Harry’s mouth and he stops thinking about anything other than that.

It only takes about three good sucks for Louis to go from half-hard to definitely interested, shivering a little in delight at the feel of a warm, wet mouth lavishing attention on him. He’s almost lazy in the way that he drapes his legs over Harry’s shoulders, smiling at the way Harry’s head bobs a little faster in response. He’s got this determined furrow to his brow, like he’s taking an exam on how to suck a dick and is concentrating very hard on getting the answer right. Louis reaches one hand down to tangle in the curls atop Harry’s head but doesn’t push, just lets his hand ride out the waves of Harry’s motion.

Soon enough Harry picks up the pace, each slide of his lips down Louis’ length becoming just a touch more forceful, like he’s fucking himself down onto Louis’ cock. Louis feels his stomach quiver. “Hey H-Harry?” he stutters, and the hum Harry gives in response doesn’t help him in gaining his composure. “Do you like to top?”

Harry is pulling off in an instant, Louis’ cock bouncing comically against his spit-slick chin as he answers a quick, “I’d love to. I mean I do. Like to. And would like to with you, also. Specifically.”

“You do talk some shit,” Louis mutters, but it’s through a grin. He rolls one shoulder off the bed and leans over to the bedside table, pulling open the drawer to retrieve a bottle of lube which he lays on his stomach right above where the fine hair of his happy trail begins. “God, I hope your fingers are good for more than playing guitar.”

They are. They truly, definitely are, skillful and firm as Harry slicks them up and presses them one by one inside of Louis. He’s surprisingly methodical about it, all his motions precise and calculated as he eases Louis open and searches for his prostate. It would be odd, the perfectionistic way Harry goes about it, if it weren’t for the fact that when he does find the right spot, each twist of Harry’s wrist sends Louis howling and digging into the mattress with his heels.

“You look so good like this,” Harry mutters, eyes fluttering shut and face coming to rest in the crease at the top of Louis’ thigh. He takes a deep breath. “Incredible.”

“That’s possibly the least flattering angle you could ever view someone from,” Louis laughs in reply, flicking Harry’s ear. “You’re just saying that so I’ll let you fuck me.”

There’s a hiccup in Harry’s methodical strokes, and in one fluid motion his fingers are gone from inside Louis and he’s leaning up until their faces are just inches apart. “Is it working?”

Louis gulps. “Condom, please.”

The victorious grin that spreads across Harry’s face only lasts for a moment before a flicker of panic takes over. “Oh, uh, do you have any? I don’t think I-- I mean, I didn’t--”

“Harry Styles, caught condomless?” Louis drawls with a sneaky grin, twirling one of Harry’s curls on his finger. “I would have thought you’d carry a whole roll of them on you at all times, what with you sleeping with four hundred and ten men in a year. Can’t afford to be unprepared.”

“They pulled that number out of their arse,” Harry mumbles with an embarrassed flush. “It was more like three. And I’m not usually one for hook-ups, I always forget to bring a condom--”

“Calm down, popstar, I was only teasing you,” hushes Louis, leaning up for a soothing --if still smirking-- kiss. “There’s some in the drawer, help yourself.”

Harry does, sitting back on his haunches once the foil packet has been retrieved and rolling the condom carefully down his length. Louis feels his stomach flutter as he watches, observing the careful movements and the flexing muscles and sending a quick thank you in his mind to both the universe and the manager who scheduled him to the VIP room tonight.

When Harry leans over him next, it’s to kiss Louis gently as he spreads thick thighs apart and positions himself between them. “Tell me if you need me to stop,” he says politely, one hand gripping his cock and rubbing the head lightly over Louis’ entrance. “Don’t wanna hurt you.”

“How thoughtful,” remarks Louis as he takes a steadying breath and focuses on relaxing his muscles into the sensation, “but I think I can take it.”

He probably should have expected it from a musician, the way that Harry would rock into him with such perfect rhythm. There was nothing sloppy about it, all even thrusts and smooth timing, body working into Louis’ like a well-oiled machine. The only sign of his own pleasure was the way his breath was shaky against Louis’ mouth as they kissed, all of the sloppiness he wouldn’t show in his hips coming out in the crush of his lips on Louis.

The first time the head of Harry’s cock brushes over Louis’ prostate just right, Louis’ resulting gasp is enough to make Harry freeze, eyes whipping across Louis’ features. “Are you alright?” he asks quickly.

“I’ll be fine once you do that many more times,” Louis hisses. “I’m sensitive. God that feels fantastic. Haven’t bottomed in ages.”

Harry frowns even as he moves his hips once more. “If you wanted to top, you could have said so. I don’t mind either way.”

“Nah, wanted to feel you inside of me. I’ll keep that in mind for next time, though.”

The words seem to break Harry a little bit, his hips stuttering for a second before picking up a faster rhythm, pumping into Louis with even more enthusiasm. A chill runs down Louis’ spine and he arches his back, one hand flat against the headboard above him and the other at Harry’s waist. Harry has his hands on the bed on either side of Louis, arm muscles taut as he holds himself up.

When Louis gives a satisfied hum of a moan, Harry pries one hand from the mattress to wrap it around Louis’ cock. He starts to tug in time with his thrusts, fingers slipping between Louis’ thighs when he finds the slide of his palm is too dry. The moment his slickened hand returns to Louis’ length, the smaller man bucks up into his touch, their movements together suddenly a touch more frantic. Louis’ hand on the headboard is bracing now, helping him to fuck back onto Harry’s length. The bed starts to creak, swaying with Harry’s ever-quickening rhythm, harmonizing with the groan that comes tearing from Harry’s lips.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he moans, sounding too filthy for words. “Gonna make me come. You can’t even just lie there and let me fuck you, you’ve got to torture me more with those hips.”

“I’m no pillow princess,” Louis countered, his voice almost lost in a breathy laugh. He makes extra sure to meet Harry’s next few thrusts with his wriggling hips. “I give as good as I get. And you’re doing a damn good job, so.”

Harry starts to laugh but the sound is cut off, his breath catching in his throat as a shiver runs through him. He ducks his face into the crook of Louis’ neck and starts pumping his hand faster, eager twists of his wrist telling his intentions. “Want you to come for me,” he rasps low, hips digging deep into Louis. “Come for me while I fuck you, Louis, so I can come too.”

As if on command there’s a tug in Louis’ lower belly, but he blinks the sensation away and tangles his fingers in Harry’s hair, giving the curls a tug as he slides his legs wider. “Come on, then, popstar, take me. Fuck me so hard you can’t help but come inside me and make me ache for days.”

It’s filthy. It’s porn star filthy and Louis can feel his face heating up, but then he feels Harry gripping his thighs and his hips stuttering and can hear Harry gasping in his ear as his thrusts become disorganized jerks deep into Louis, Harry seeming to curl around Louis as he comes somewhere deep inside him.

There’s an apology on Harry’s lips when he looks back up at Louis, his hand twitching guiltily around Louis’ still-hard cock. Before he can say a word, Louis wraps his hand around Harry’s and guides him to stroke him one, two, three times. Their mouths meet clumsily and then Louis’ clenching tight around Harry’s softening cock as his own spills hot between their stomachs while he hisses with release.

All Louis can hear is his own pulse roaring in his ears. It’s thunderous, overwhelming, that single sound blocking everything else out. It makes him jump when Harry’s breath slides coolly over the skin on his collarbone, nerve endings protesting the continued workload when they’re already fried. Harry doesn’t seem to notice, or at least doesn’t care, pulling out of Louis gently and laying down on his stomach right beside him, close enough that most of his gangly limbs remain on top of Louis while still allowing Louis to breathe without the crushing weight of all that boy on his chest.

After a minute Louis becomes aware of the ragged breathing coming from where Harry’s faceplanted in Louis’ favorite pillow. “Y’alright?”

“I’m excellent, thank you, and you?”

Louis’ snorts. “I’m not thrilled about having to wash the sheets tomorrow on my day off, but otherwise I think I’ll live.”

Curls shift and one sleepy eye and half a smirk peek out from the pillow. “Were you worried I’d kill you?”

“Well, you just never know,” Louis grins. “You could be a serial murderer for all I know. Hard to believe anyone would connect murders all over the world with your tour schedule. And even if they did, you probably have more lawyers than you do pairs of skinny jeans.”

“Never underestimate a gay man’s closet.”

Louis’ giggle gets away from him and turns into a full-on cackle, muscles contracting with mirth until he wiggles the wrong way and a cacophony of sore body parts vie for his attention. “Ow, shit. That’s been too long, then. I’m fraile.”

Harry is already sitting up with a groan himself, easing the spent condom off and tying it as he stands. “Which way’s your loo? I can grab a washcloth for you. Bit of a mess, sorry.”

“Round the corner, under the sink, thanks.” Louis watches Harry shuffle out and stretches his limbs with a stifled yawn, feeling joints pop and skin slide just a touch unpleasantly. Luckily Harry returns quickly, and instead of tossing the rag to Louis as he expected, gingerly wipes Louis clean himself. His brow furrows with concentration as he carefully wipes away every trace of mess, then folds the cloth and places it in the hamper by the door. “Thank you,” Louis says again, surprise coloring his tone. “Look at you being such a gentleman.”

“It’s only polite,” Harry answers with a blush, laying on his back beside Louis, only their ankles brushing. “My sex mentor taught me to always clean up after myself.”

This time Louis manages to smother his laughter with one hand, only a few muffled chortles escaping. “Did you just say- your sex mentor?”

“My friend Niall. He titled himself, I swear.” Harry runs a hand through his curls and grins at the ceiling. “We’ve been best friends since we were teenagers. I was kind of a late bloomer but he was always good with the ladies, so he took it upon himself to teach me everything he knew about sex. Until he found out I was gay, anyways, then he was kind of out of his element.”

“I’m just trying to picture little teenage you listening raptly while your older and more experienced friend tells you to clean up after you come,” Louis says, yawning. “What a pal.”

“That wasn’t even the worst of his sex education lectures. I remember this one time, right after graduation, he tried to sit me down and have a conversation about what to do if you…”

Louis doesn’t mean to fall asleep, he really doesn’t. He wants to stay awake and hear the end of this story, to hear many more stories, to learn more about the intriguing creature that’s stumbled into his bed tonight. He wants to be awake for every second of this. But Harry’s voice is low and smooth, and his hand where it comes to rest on Louis’ hip is warm, and Louis is absolutely powerless against the sweet, gentle pull of sleep that slowly lowers his lashes to his cheeks and fades everything else --however magical-- to black.


The bed is empty.

Louis’ sleepy subconscious registers that before his conscious mind even has time to catch up with remembering why it might be anything but empty. He’s already flopping an arm out across cold sheets when his memory starts to wake up, bringing up images of curls and sweaty skin and bright green eyes. The second it clicks, Louis is upright in bed, head on a swivel in search of last night’s guest.

“Harry?” he calls out into the flat, but he knows as soon as he opens his mouth that there will be no answer. The silence confirms his theory, and as he walks out into the living room, the emptiness makes him groan.

“Way to blow it, fuckface,” he berates himself in a mutter, one hand rubbing over sleepy eyes. “No wonder he left, you fucking fell asleep on him. Genius.”

Not that Harry really had any reason to say. He was a big, important person with many things to do, and Louis was a waiter in a nightclub. They’d had a one-night stand. It wasn’t as if they’d gone on a date or anything, so it was perfectly reasonable that Harry hadn’t hung around.

(There’s a part of Louis’ mind that he’s too sleepy to entirely drown out that insists there had been something more between them, but he’ll deal with that ridiculous notion after some tea.)

The microwave is heating up a soggy frozen sausage biscuit, and Louis has his nearly-dead phone plugged in as he scrolls the night’s notifications. Instagram likes, facebook comments, and one particularly entertaining twitter trend about bad haircuts. The microwave dings to announce the readiness of breakfast and like a terrible cliche, a horrible idea pops into Louis’ head.

The instant Louis types Harry’s name into the search bar on twitter he regrets it, because he’s met with hundreds of tweets featuring pictures of the popstar currently out and about in the city. He’s in last night’s rumpled clothes, hair tied back in a messy bun, waltzing around the shops downtown like nothing’s happened. Like Louis isn’t standing naked in his kitchen having a small crisis.

“He gets gourmet donuts from the best bakery in town, and I get this rubbish,” Louis sulks as he removes his sandwich from the microwave. He takes one bite and bins it, sighing. He knows he’s being bitter --really, breakfast envy?-- but it doesn’t make him any less inclined to wrap himself up in sweats and curl up on the couch with trashy TV on and have himself a pity party because god damn it, he kind of wanted to see Harry in the morning.

Which is exactly what he does. There’s a show on TLC about people that eat terracotta and laundry detergent that makes him feel relatively normal in comparison, and his oldest, comfiest tee shift is just soft enough to soothe the burn of rejection. After half an hour the bitterness fades into a glum sort of acceptance, and Louis tucks his toes between the cushions with an almost happy sigh.

A knock on the door rudely interrupts Louis’ self-snuggle, but he pulls himself up to answer it anyway in case it’s a package that needs signing for. “If you’re selling something, I’m not in the mood,” he calls out in warning.

The door swings wide, and green eyes blink at him in surprise. “Uh, I already bought the food and everything, actually.”

Louis slams the door shut before his brain even fully registers the to-go bag on Harry’s wrist and the paper cups clutched in each hand. “Harry?” he asks inside of his door.

“Erm, hi. I mean, good morning.”

Louis continues to blink at the door between them. “I woke up this morning and you were gone.”

Harry clears his throat in the hallway. “I wanted to go get breakfast. For us. There’s this great bakery right down the street.” A pause. “If you don’t like breakfast, we can, uh… you don’t have to eat breakfast. Do you like breakfast?”

“I have ketchup on my shirt.”

“Oh.” Another pause. “Okay.”

“And you came back.”

“Of course I came back,” Harry answers after only half a beat. “I wouldn’t just leave without saying anything. That would be rude.”

“Rude like slamming a door in the face of someone who brought you breakfast.”

Harry’s laugh is so quiet that Louis can barely hear it through the barrier between them. “That’s-- well, it’s not usually one’s first response. You could always open it again, though. If you, erm, if you wanted.”

“I have ketchup on my shirt,” Louis reiterates, with emphasis.

“I don’t care, if that helps,” Harry says simply. “I just wanted to see you again.”

Harry breathes a sigh of relief as the door opens again, but it’s quickly cut off as Louis throws his arms around Harry’s neck and kisses him. It only takes a second for Harry’s arms to wrap around him, too, warm paper cups pressing gingerly to his shoulderblades. “You had me going there for a minute,” Louis murmurs against Harry’s mouth. “Thought you were sneaking off to avoid the awkwardness of us establishing that was a one time thing.”

“I don’t want it to be just one time,” Harry protests as best he can with Louis’ tongue teasing at his lower lip. “I want to do it again,” he kisses Louis, “and again,” another kiss, “and again.”

A little rush of heat runs through Louis’ body and he has the presence of mind to walk them backwards into the flat and shut the door behind them before slipping his hands greedily into Harry’s back pockets. “But you brought me breakfast,” he argues weakly, memorizing the way Harry’s chest is starting to heave with his excited breaths. “It’s going to go cold.”

Harry is uncharacteristically graceful as he deposits his offerings on the kitchen table and uses his tea-warmed hands to ruck up Louis’ shirt, ketchup stain be damned. “Fuck the muffins.”

“If it’s all the same to you,” Louis laughs through a moan while Harry starts to nibble on his neck, “I’d rather fuck you.”