Work Text:
I Know You Heard Me
Harry has made a lot of frankly terrible decisions in his life, like dropping out of uni to become a roadie for a post-punk band, shaving his head on a dare, and buying a Harley only to trade it in for a Vespa. The list isn’t short.
(He has a wild smattering of terrible tattoos, although he’s actually fairly proud of those, relatively speaking.)
So he’s spent a year or so working on himself, if it can be called that, which has involved drinking more kale smoothies than any sane twenty-two-year-old really ought to.
Not that Harry is sane.
He is an adult, though, and is finally ready to act like one. He’s got a flat and a shitty car and a medium-sized dog named Maurice.
He’s fine, realistically, he’s functioning pretty well. His jobs could pay more, his neighbors could be less disruptive, and his sleep schedule could be better.
But he’s fine.
He’s fine, that is, until he meets Louis.
:::
It’s like this:
Harry’s block of flats is a bit shit, but the area is slowly gentrifying, much to Harry’s annoyance—the shops are upgrading from Asdas to boutique organic greengrocers, and while Harry appreciates kale probably a bit more than the normal man, he doesn’t like feeling like he may be pushed out of his home at any moment. But if his rent goes up, well, that’s the situation as he sees it.
So he supplements his income, since being a part-time student and a part-time employee at a local Turkish restaurant aren’t really cutting it—not when he keeps impulse-buying Chelsea boots and burgundy nail polish.
He finds a second job at the nearest Hobbycraft, feeling like a bit of an overgrown twat amongst all the customers who know exactly what they’re looking for and exactly where to find it. Also he was never any good at scrapbooking, although his attempts at kitting are generally passing fair.
Plus he gets to lead the painting classes for the young ones, and it’s possible he enjoys fingerpainting even more than they do. He volunteers to run as many classes as can fit into his schedule, and after a few busy weeks, he finds himself fairly flush with cash.
It’s new, and it’s enticing, and he wants to buy something he doesn’t need.
He’s not really in need of much lately, since he’s just done a big shop and also replaced his winter jacket. He’s saved money on haircuts, too, since he’s just—growing it out into perpetuity. He’s trying to plan his tattoos a bit more in advance, and he has plenty of booze on hand.
So what does someone need that they don’t need? He muses walking home one afternoon—besides someone telling him what to do and maybe how to spend his money.
He’s scuffing his toes as he walks home, shuffling along the pavement slowly. He’s got an iced coffee in one hand (also an impulse purchase, albeit a cheap-ish one) and his mobile in the other—and all of a sudden, he simply spots the shop to visit next. No question or hesitation, he’s heading into Sound and Fury.
The windows are jam-packed with display merchandise, like leather harnesses wrapped around the torsos of silver mannequins, like feathery blindfolds, like pretty turquoise dildos.
Of course he’s heading in.
There’s an innocent little jingling as he opens the door, indicative of something perhaps, or perhaps nothing. But Harry wants to consider in an omen the second he looks behind the counter at the clerk-cum-Grecian-god working the register.
And then, naturally, Harry snorts to himself because his internal monologue is just as perverted as he is.
Cum.
(Honestly.)
He stutters out a strange sort of chuckle and turns to the left, towards a rack of stockings and garter belts. His chuckle goes sour, gets caught in his throat, because the display seems just as nice as the clerk behind the counter looks. And he looks fucking hot.
Harry tucks a wavy strand of hair behind his right ear, noting that it’s getting almost unmanageably long and he may be due for a trim. He doesn’t love haircuts, finds that they somehow seem to pressure him into complying to others’ expectations and that they never end up the length he requests, but it’s really his own issue to work through in due time.
Right now he’s trying to manage not having a panic attack in front of a hot guy while perusing racks littered with lacy, beautiful things.
Harry wants. So badly, he wants.
“Can I help you?”
Harry stills, with his fingers caressing the front of a pair of purple panties. His voice inexplicably dies in his throat and his face goes slack.
“Oi, love. I know you heard me,” the clerk adds, laughter apparent in his voice. He rounds the counter, much to Harry’s joint dismay and delight, and he saunters closer.
“Um. Yes.”
“Um, yes, I can help you? Brilliant!” he crows, planting one hand on Harry’s shoulder. “I’m Louis, and I live to serve.”
Louis, the hot guy, has messy-pointy hair that is nice-looking enough to probably be purposeful. He’s wearing paint-on skinnies and a white t-shirt that literally says t-shirt on the left breast.
Harry’s throat goes very, very dry. “I—that is, yes. See, the thing is, I don’t know what I’m looking for.”
The clerk—Harry belatedly realizes he has a tag that says Louis but the tag is on the guy’s back—chuckles. “Well, luckily, what you’re looking at is a knowledgeable owner and proprietor! Name a whim and we’ll figure out how to fulfill it, just us two.”
Harry gulps and casts his glance around at the displays closest to them. He feels himself pale. “What the shit is that?” he hears himself exclaim before clapping both hands over his open mouth.
Mercifully, Louis (his name is Louis) laughs at this, not even unkindly. He picks up the shiny metal pinwheel thing, spinning the wheel with one finger. “It’s a Wartenberg wheel. It’s a sensation tool, a, uh, about having a sensory experience.”
Harry purses his lips and nods once. “A painful one?” His voice might have gone a little bit high pitched, maybe.
“Usually? But not necessarily.”
Harry inhales sharply and nods once. “Something not so poke-y, perhaps.”
“Love to!” Louis grapples enthusiastically for Harry’s hand before dragging him sideways across the shop. “How about these pretty little paddles? Much more thud-y, these are. Not poke-y.” He drops Harry’s hand and picks up a hefty wooden slat, etched with the word Daddy.
“Daddy?” Harry mutters, fingering the D with on fingertip.
“Yes?” Louis replies, arching another eyebrow.
“I, uh, didn’t—” Harry descends into a quiet chuckle. “Not yet, I don’t think.”
“Fair!” Louis crows, yanking the paddle back into his possession. “Doubtless you’ve at least heard of bondage, yes? Now here we have beautiful options,” Louis adds, gesturing with one finger. “Cuffs, rope, tape—metal, leather, fabric, synthetic plastic stuff that’s absolutely body-safe according to the FDA?”
“Tape? Is that, like, an okay thing?”
“Oh, it’s—it only attaches to itself, it’s very handy.” Louis detaches his hand from Harry’s and immediately yanks on the sample, try me display spool of bright blue tape. He pulls off a length and eyes Harry with high eyebrows. “Wrists together then.”
Harry complies and watches Louis unwrap a longer length of tape that looks shiny but doesn’t stick to his skin or hair. Instead it wraps neatly around his arms four times and attaches to itself, with Louis’ careful attention. Harry’s throat goes dry get again. “That’s fun,” Harry murmurs, writhing his wrists against one another. “Do you have this in pink, maybe? Or magenta?”
Louis gently unwraps the tape. “Absolutely I do have pink. Black with sparkles too.”
Harry heaves a sigh. “Honestly, at this point, I trust your judgment.”
“Both it is.” Louis smirks. “Can I show you a few more things?”
“Show me the world,” Harry agrees with a shrug.
“Oh! In that case, have you heard of sounding?”
Harry blanches. “I’m way more of a novice than that, Lou.”
“You’ve heard of it, then.”
He bites the inside of his cheek. “Not—I mean, yeah.”
“So what’s your speed, then? You’re a novice, you say, but not only a novice?”
“Do you have—outfits, maybe?” Harry asks quietly, dropping his gaze to the floor.
“Oh, babe. Do I ever.”
Louis grabs Harry’s hand once again, pulling him gently towards a colourful back wall. He preens a bit, shooting Harry a bright smile, and boy does he have plenty to be proud of: the wall is covered in glittery swaths of fabric, in sailor-suits, in fancy stockings. He sees a lot of beautiful things, really, and not all of them are Louis.
Louis lets go of Harry’s arm and turns to smile. “See something you like?”
“Oh,” Harry breathes out, feeling his chest go just a little bit concave. “Yes. Uh, yeah.”
“Great!”
Harry bites at his bottom lip. “Everything’s very pretty,” he says, trying to hedge a bit, trying to avoid confronting his interests and his wants and his desires.
“Like you, eh? We do have pretty things.” Louis shoots him a wicked grin, and his stomach flip-flops. “Hm, so. Do you have a colour, a theme, a style, a notion? A greatest hits of wishes?”
Harry blurts out, “Pink.” Pink is his instinct, and pink is his go-to. He feels pink behind his ears and beneath his fingernails, at the dips in his collarbones and the tips of his elbows. It’s on bow of his lips and the entirety of his tongue. He feels pink.
“Pink it is.” He hums once to himself, seeming content with the request. “Pretty in pink it is. Any particular style you’re instantly interested in, love?”
And here, Harry’s mind goes plank, partly because he’s being complimented and partly because the world has too many choices in it. “Actually, um. Maybe. Something more kinky? Instead?” is all he can sputter, at a loss.
“Grand! Let’s do it.” He caters toward a wall covered in riding crops and canes, and those items are also not his speed yet.
“Nope, still hard nope. Noping out,” Harry balks.
“Limits, fair.” Louis snakes out a hand and grasps Harry’s left wrist. “Let’s go softer.” He bodily leads Harry again, this time to a non-threatening tree-like stand covered in fluffy cuffs.
“Little harder than that?” he suggests.
“I just like to be sure,” Louis says, smile wide on his face. His stupid-beautiful face. “How do you feel about leather?”
“Uh. I guess I’d like it to be vegan?” Harry’s voice goes embarrassingly high-pitched with this.
“You’re in luck.” Louis lets go of Harry’s wrist, which is a sad detail but a manageable one. Because he still has Louis’ undivided attention. He’s not entirely used to undivided attention. He’s used to people walking away, used to people telling him that his stories are dull—and maybe they are—but Louis’ is on him.
And Louis is working.
Louis is doing his job.
Harry is a customer, who’s owed nothing more than good service. He in turn owes it to Louis not to be a lusty creep, and to be generally polite.
(He’s got this.)
“I want a collar, please,” Harry states, calmly and smoothly, with his heart beating fast and hard.
“Lovely.”
Louis sorts Harry out alarmingly quickly—finds him a pink collar, one without a weird charm or decal, one with only leather and clasps. He’s efficient and businesslike. Because he’s working.
Harry nods along but gapes a bit as he pays, is a bit is this really it and then he just—leaves.
Once he’s home, he cracks open his ancient laptop. It’s not the first time he’s researched sub/dom dynamics, but he’s usually not so intentional about it. He’s only done exploratory work, looked into what other people’s desires are. And while that was helpful and also kind of hot, there’s a lot he’s not into.
He knows certain things, like he’s not into 24/7 domination, or being used as, like, furniture. Partly because he has bad knees. But he likes the dotage and the devotion of being somehow owned and taken care of—the thought of being collared takes a weight off his shoulders, and it hasn’t even happened yet.
And that’s all well and good, he thinks to himself with an internal sigh, except he has no one to be collared by.
That, however, is a concern for another today. Today, Harry is busy with research.
:::
The rest of the week is taken up with feeling both vaguely lightheaded and mildly overwhelmed, combined with being constantly half-hard.
Given that his trouser of choice skews on the impossibly-tight side, this verges on socially inappropriate. What also verges on socially inappropriate is Harry’s deep, unyielding desire to go visit Louis.
That desire, he sees fit to indulge in.
First, he tries to think of something to buy—something he doesn’t already own, of course.
He racks his brain for something not totally cost prohibitive that he’s also actually into. Initially he can’t think of anything, so he inevitably turns to porn, although it’s never really solved any of his problems before, except blue balls. It doesn’t really solve his dilemma now, either, even after he comes twice.
So he goes for broke and simply visits the store again, hoping divine inspiration will strike.
“Back for more?” Louis calls as soon as Harry enters.
Harry smirks a bit. “Yes. That is my style.” Then he snorts internally at his own pun. Style.
“Well then. How can I help you today?” Louis leans forward onto the glass counter and steeples his hands together, his eyes bright.
And, again, Harry could make a terrible, off-colour joke, but instead he just stiffens his back and puts on a charming, winsome smile.
(He only has an inkling about what “winsome” means, but it sounds damn delightful.) (Maybe he ought to dig out the electronic pocket dictionary his gran gave him for Christmas when he was twelve. She’s never really got any better with gifts, come to think on it.) (Not the point.)
He blurts the first thing that comes to mind. “Coffee.”
“Okay, coffee. Coffee what? Coffee-flavoured condoms, we have, but not lube. We may still have coffee-scented wax, like for wax-play? Haven’t tried that scent meself, but it sells like hotcakes, so it can’t be too shit.”
“N-no, I mean, those all sound lovely, to be sure, but I meant—um, no pressure, obviously, but if you’ve got some time and the inclination, would you maybe want to get coffee, sometime? With me?” he clarifies.
“Oh!”
“And I know you’re at work, and I’m sorry if this is inappropriate or if I’m making you uncomfortable. You can totally say no without me, like, being a creep. A creep to you.”
Louis blinks and then narrows his eyes a bit. “So you’re—straight up asserting your non-creepiness without considering you might appear to be compensating for something?”
“…Not until just now.” Harry cringes. “Nope.”
Louis chuckles. “Well, Curly, you’re in luck. My coworker just arrived to relieve me,” he says, pointing over his shoulder, “and I could use some caffeine.”
Then it’s Harry’s turn to rapidly blink. “Wait, seriously? That worked?”
In return, Louis shrugs. “Surprisingly, yes. Now let’s get to it before I change my mind, yeah?” He couples this with a wink, though, so Harry isn’t too worried. “Just let me get my jacket and then I can clock out.” He spins on one heel and fist-bumps the guy who’s come to relieve him—a shock-blond wearing a basketball jersey over dark skinnies. “Ni, I’ve got a hot date. You’re in charge, but only until Bri gets here. And before you ask, yes, it is because I trust her more than you.”
“That’s just because she hosted that hen party you didn’t want to plan,” Ni (Ni?) responds, rolling his eyes as he walks towards the cash-out area, the spot with the computer and till.
“Rude. It’s also because I know you keep holding competitive dildo races even though I’ve asked you not to!” Louis calls, going into a doorway behind the counter. This leaves Harry to stare at Louis’ coworker and bite the inside of his own cheek.
“Hello, hot date. I’m Niall.”
“Hiya. I’m Harry.” He sticks out his hand for a shake.
Niall shakes it a bit limply, but he does shake it. “Harry! Well, Harry. Best of luck.”
“Th-thanks?”
“Yup!”
With that, Louis whirls back in and grabs for Harry’s hand, yanking him out the front, conversation be damned. Harry trips over his own feet as he’s forced to follow Louis out of the shop.
“So—you’re the take-the-lead type, then?” he stammers, feeling his face flame up pink.
“I’d have thought that was obviously, Curly,” Louis throws over his shoulder along with a bright smile. “Don’t seem like you’d complain, though.”
“I didn’t, uh, didn’t want to presume?” Harry offers a small, unsure smile Louis’ way.
“I respect that. Anyway, the tea shop is this way, yeah?”
“Tea? Yes, tea, right. Righto.”
Here, Louis stops in his tracks. “You—you do drink tea, don’t you?”
“I’m from Cheshire. Of course I drink tea.” He affects an offended stance, propping on fist on his hip. He has no idea if this is a fever-dream or a hallucination, but if it’s neither, he’s going to work this as hard as he can.
“Well. I didn’t mean to presume.” Louis cocks an eyebrow and resumes his manic dash towards caffeine.
Much like the run towards the tea shop, the date is a confusing, stumbling blur. The stumbling is mostly Harry attempting to be charming while stumbling over his words, inevitably charmed by Louis’ mere presence.
It’s like this:
Louis knows everyone inside the shop, which prompts Harry to mention that he used to work at a bakery and was Barbara’s absolute favourite clerk, which is patently untrue, but makes for a cute story. He knows this because Louis laughs and tells him that he absolutely adorable. Louis then orders them both tea after checking that Harry doesn’t prefer coffee, and he orders a croissant, a muffin, a cake-pop, and a cookie. “Anything for you?” he asks sweetly, linking his arm through Harry’s as he picks up his tea.
Harry blinks at his owlishly. “Y-you’re joking, right?”
“I am indeed.” He manages to pick up almost everything before handing Harry both their teas. “Table by the window okay?”
“Perfect.”
And it’s like that: Perfect.
Harry worries that the conversation will die midway through their heaps of pastries, given the typical cadence of his speaking voice (read: morbid and slow) but Louis’ own pace weaves in every time Harry hits a lull. Harry finds out that Louis has owned the shop for about nine months, and he apparently doesn’t scare Louis off when he points out that nine months is the same gestation as a human pregnancy.
“That’s true, Harry, that’s true. And if I didn’t have six younger siblings and already know that fact, I’d say that we learn something new every day,” Louis replies with another wink.
“I can do better, I swear!”
“I have no doubt.”
Louis finishes the cookie and muffin while Harry picks apart the croissant with nervous fingers, and then Louis tries to shove the cake-pop into Harry’s open mouth when he’s halfway through a sentence.
Harry coughs up a few sprinkles. “I-I was speaking.”
“Yes, but your gob is so magnificently spacious I thought you could talk around it. My mistake.”
“Apology accepted.”
After two hours and only one more choking hazard (this time Harry nearly snorts tea out his nose because Louis makes a dick joke), Louis has to leave.
“The twins have a check-up and I said I’d take them. Or maybe it’s an eye doctor appointment? I don’t actually know, I just agree to whatever my mum asks of me.”
“That’s—that sounds like a good system.”
“It is. Hasn’t steered me wrong yet. Here, gimme your mobile.” He makes grabby hands at Harry’s arm and waits impatiently for Harry to unlock it. “Save my number so we can do this again?”
“Yes. Yes, please.”
“Good manners. I like that in a boy.” He shuffles Harry’s fringe and sails out of the tea shop in a gale of laughter.
He said he’d text, but Harry immediately realizes that he has Louis’ number, not the other way around. So he agonizes for two minutes before shooting off hey, it’s H! Had fun, let’s do it again soon!
Not too clingy, but still interested, he hopes.
:::
And hopes and hopes, after getting a sweet but perfunctory It was lovely to see you! and oh it was the eye doctor, after all
He tries to play it cool for a few hours, even though his palms are sweating. He eventually sends back hope everything went okay! and throws his mobile across the room.
:::
The mobile doesn’t stay across the room for long, obviously, because Harry is obvious. He’s not so obvious as to leave his messages open, because the annoying little ellipsis would give away his absolute infatuation and also because he’s got a little more aplomb than that.
(No he hasn’t, he just doesn’t want to appear pathetic in front of his crush.) (And he’s already a little ashamed that he keeps referring to Louis as his crush, but that cannot be helped right now.) (So instead he’s helping what he can help, which is his strong urge to text incessantly; he’s dubbed over it by narrating his every action.)
He decides to deep-condition his hair, eat some carrots and hummus, paint his nails, and snapchat his sister. He seriously considers painting his dog’s nails but isn’t sure if it would count as animal endangerment, or possibly just in poor taste. Some of the deep conditioner falls in his container of hummus as he paints his left big toe, but he doesn’t so much mind because it’s technically edible and body-safe.
He’s not stupid enough to eat it, though. He’s only just stupid enough to snapchat his abject dismay to Gemma, his mum, both of his old flatmates from uni, his cousin George, his friend Liam, and his coworker Daisy.
It’s fortunate that he finds gentle mockery endearing, not only because pretty much everyone he knows finds him slightly ridiculous (a point of pride of his), but also because he can add it to his growing list of kinks. He probably ought to have figured the embarrassment thing out sooner, since he was always the type to appreciate having his figurative pigtails pulled. And to having his hair pulled, literally, during sex.
Harry decides to start a list, just so he has things to research during his spare time, such as it is. He’s unsure if he should keep an ongoing googledoc or just put pen to paper in his journal. After a few moments’ consideration, he decides that it seems like something he’ll want to have ready access to.
He’s not above seeing the ways in which he can, occasionally, be ridiculous.
In the end, his list is about thirty items long and his cheeks are warm and pink.
He likes the feeling.
:::
He doesn’t like, four days later, that he still hasn’t heard from Louis. However he hasn’t reached out, and that part is on him.
Classwork keeps him distracted for a bit, in a frustrated way—he is so close to earning his degree that the thought of graduating nearly has him crying tears of delight—and he really does enjoy working arts and crafts with kidlets.
It’s his own self-doubt that’s really undoing him, however. He’s been told he comes on too strong, that not everything needs his undivided intensity, that he needs to temper himself sometimes (granted this was from his ex Adrien who cheated on him for half a year, all while blaming Harry, so, grain of salt.)
(Actually, fuck that grain of salt and pour a whole barrel.)
With a nervous exhale, he thumbs open his mobile and types would you like to hear a fun fact? and then ready or not: the ability to taste the tannins in wine is genetically linked, so if someone really enjoys red wine they’re probably genetically insensitive to the bitterness of tannin.
What he receives is this your way of asking me for a drink, Styles? and all he can do is smile.
:::
They meet up the next evening for tapas, Harry making good on his promise to teach Louis about red wine, more specifically sangria. Louis compliments his boots and his obscure knowledge of how to grow wine grapes. He laughs loudly when Harry admits to falling down a wikipedia-hole that lasted his entire afternoon econ class.
“In your defense, Professor Chamberlain lives so far up his own arse that he wouldn’t notice if someone straight-up died during lecture.”
Harry blinks, wondering if he caught the reference correctly.
“What, not a fan of your green-eyed namesake? I’m appalled. What sort of Brit are you?”
“No, I’m—yeah, just jealous of his cool scar and immunity to death.”
Louis’ face clouds for a moment then clears. “We should all be so lucky.”
“I mean, I could show you the bitchin’ stitches scar I got from a scalp lac as a kid, but it’s not super sexy.”
This, thankfully, makes Louis laugh again. “Oh, dangerous man. Tell me all about it.”
Harry does, haltingly, and eventually tells Louis he actually invited him to tapas so that Louis could have his fill of ordering lots and lots of different dishes. “You know, in case that’s your thing.”
Louis looks at him, mouth open. “I haven’t only got one thing, but I admit—the attention to details is definitely doing it for me.”
“Plus I wondered if you’d give in to your desire to feed me.”
Louis squawks. “It’s not my fault you have a mouth like—” he waves vaguely. “That.”
“Like this?”
“You know! Stop fishing for compliments. I’m not that kind of girl.”
“Man, I’m glad you’re not.”
“Mm. How soon do you think they’d kick us out if I tried to figure out how much food you can catch in that sinful gob of yours?”
The answer is twenty minutes, and Harry still tips ridiculously well, which also makes Louis laugh, loudly.
:::
And they get on like a house on fire, really they do, except it seems to Harry that he’s always the one reaching out, and he’s not sure if he should be concerned.
He’s also not sure if he’s accidentally harassing the person who owns the local sex shop, like some kind of creepy weirdo would, that maybe Louis is just being nice or something. Because, despite it all, he has a tiny, petty little voice in the back of his head that’s always reminding him he’s not perfect. Which is all well and good, in terms of keeping him from getting an inflated ego, but is not so good when it comes to knowing what someone else is thinking. (Because it keeps him from asking, because he thinks he’s being annoying.) (And maybe he is.)
So he texts Happy Saturday! and he gets back three fish emoji, and he has no idea what that means, so he plays coy (laughing to himself, because koi) and offers to meet Louis at the aquarium, or to take him for sushi.
They go for sushi within three hours, and Harry can’t keep looking at Louis’ eyelashes or he might actually implode.
“What?” he asks belatedly, realizing Louis asked him a question.
“Uh, what—I mean, what’s your deal, what are you looking for? Besides a really pretty collar, which—”
Harry cuts Louis off before he can finish his sentence. “I haven’t used it yet.”
Louis nods slowly. “Okay.”
He gives Harry a few moments to collect his thoughts. “Well, I’m not sure. I like you, you’re—shit, gorgeous, hilarious. You give me good vibes, I dunno. You love your family, and it seems you’ve got a mouth on you.” He shrugs, cheeks pinking up a bit. “I’m interested.”
Louis nods, a small smiling growing on his face. “Well. All right.”
:::
They fuck in Harry’s flat, once on the couch and, after catching their breath with a couple of drinks in his crap kitchen, they move to Harry’s bedroom. All of their clothes and belongings are littered through Harry’s flat, boots and skinny jeans and even Harry’s mobile (because right now, who’s more important than Louis?). So by the time they make it to Harry’s room, they’re both naked and Harry feels a bit breathless all over again.
Louis pauses when Harry stands stock-still and runs a hand through his hair. “What—what are you up for, love? What do you want?”
And Harry knows he’s currently too sore from getting fucked to do that again right-quick, so instead he ducks his head down and asks something that makes him feel a bit frightened. “Can I eat you out?”
Louis laughs, bright and clear. “Oh, darling, yes.” He tosses himself onto Harry’s bed and fluffs the pillows before looking back to Harry, expectant. “Well?” he asks, leaning back on one elbow.
He walks to the bed and settles between Louis’ legs, parting them gently. He rubs the pad of one thumb over the head of Louis’ dick, watching his face to see the quiet intake of breath. Then he ducks his head down, moving Louis’ legs so they can hook over his shoulders, and he breathes gently against Louis’ rim.
“Come on, love, get to it,” Louis says, but his voice breaks a bit, emboldening Harry. Louis plants a hand in Harry’s hair, raking through his roots roughly while his breath begins to go ragged. It’s all that Harry needs, and it inspires him to lick out quickly, the flat of his tongue working its way around Louis’ rim. He moves it in circles for a few moments, listening to Louis’ ragged breathing, aching for Louis to yank his hair harder.
And then, eventually, he moans.
Louis has yanked his hair particularly hard, and he has particularly enjoyed it, and he just—moans.
It seems to ripple-effect into Louis, who immediately squirms under Harry’s mouth and hands, his chest going concave. “Shit.”
This leads Harry to hum a bit, and he almost smiles when Louis convulses and continues to swear. But instead he controls himself and carefully moves his tongue past Louis’ rim, circling it carefully around before darting deeper inside.
His one hand settles again against the head of Louis’ cock, mostly just thumbing against the tip and the precome gathering there. He starts out gentle, gauging Louis’ reactions as they build, listening to him breathe with increasing harshness.
Louis begins to fist at the sheets of Harry’s bed, and his leg muscles tighten against Harry’s shoulders. He starts to buck up and down, fucking himself onto Harry’s tongue and into his fist, his own hand still yanking at Harry’s hair.
Just as he comes, Louis whispers, “Good boy.”
:::
They sleep in late the next morning, which has Harry scrambling a bit so he won’t miss his shift. He’s still the consummate host, or at least he tries to be, offering a smoothie, yoghurt, toast, and tea to Louis.
“Just toast and tea, love,” Louis requests, leaning against the counter wearing just a pair of Harry’s tatty joggers. Last night he stood there, too, having a drink completely starkers.
“Can do.”
They function mostly in silence, Harry revolving around Louis like he’s the sun. His stomach feels weird and his spine feels loose, and part of his worries that he has to leave Louis with just the right tag-line as he leaves so that he’ll be enticed to stay, so he’ll be convinced somehow.
But Louis is quiet this morning, keeps ruffling his fringe and sipping on his tea. Before Harry even realizes, it’s time for him to go and Louis’ back in his own clothes, and then they’re both out the door.
Louis gives Harry a lingering kiss good-bye.
:::
Harry tries not to obsess, but of the things he’s good at, he’s likely the best at obsessing. So he obsesses, a bit, while he works and attends his courses and tutorials. He periodically texts Louis ridiculous things, asks about his day and his family and his work, and he flirts shamelessly.
He asks Louis out again but Louis can’t go, has familial obligations. So Harry turns things lighter, asking about Louis’ least favourite food and also his favourite spot in the city to spend his downtime. (Because, just maybe, Harry has plans).
As is the way, Harry’s plans get derailed by a massive two-week head cold, which he handles with due misery. He complains to his mother ad nauseum, and she eventually relents during a particularly pathetic Facetime stream, agreeing to order soup and supplements for delivery from Tesco. He almost cries with relief.
He eats nothing but soup and other liquids for five days, prostrating himself either in his bed (with its still unwashed sheets, which no longer smell like Louis) or on his sofa in front of episodes of Downton Abbey. He goes through two boxes of tissue before he starts to feel remotely okay, and then the cold moves to his sinuses—so he’s no longer constantly snotting, but his entire head is blocked.
It’s not pretty.
But it gives him time to think. So while his head is literally blocked, it is figuratively wide-open, leading him to daydream and create fantasies. They all lead back to Louis lately, but the themes vary. One of them involves him getting choked until he sees stars, but that might be because he currently can’t breathe very well.
The most compelling daydream involves getting spanked to within an inch of his life and being forced to endure it.
(He’s not quite sure what to make of that thought.)
:::
Once he’s on the mend, Harry has a lot of coursework to catch up on, as he was only able to get short extensions. Such as he can, he also throws himself back into his jobs with vigour, now that he has energy enough to stand upright for five minutes put together. He tries not to run himself too ragged, and every time he feels too poorly he calls his mum who reminds him about the necessity of self-care.
“Yes, mum, self-care is important,” he agrees, knowing she means that he should buy himself some hot tea and maybe take a nap. What he does instead is visit Louis at the shop, because it’s the thing he thinks may help the most right now.
He takes a deep breath before opening the door, but open the door he does, because he’s not one to do things by halves. “Go big or go home,” he murmurs to himself, startling when he realizes that Niall’s staring at him with amused pity.
“Hiya, Harry.” Today Niall is wearing a football jersey over skinnies and Adidas hightops.
“Hi, Niall. How are you?”
“I’m all right. Getting ready to head to an open mic night, actually. Do you fancy coming along too?”
“I—see, that is—”
Niall rolls his eyes. “Only fecking with you. He’s unpacking some deliveries in the back, I’ll go get him.” He chuckles gently as he rounds the counter and heads towards the back.
Harry can feel his cheeks flushing, but he waits it out. He watches Niall swoop back around the counter carrying a guitar case before he fans his way out the door. Louis follows from the back room at a leisurely pace, grin wide on his face.
“Hi, love,” he says, reaching up to ruffle Harry’s hair before he moves back behind the counter. “What brings you by?”
At this, Harry swallows down the insecurities that immediately fly to mind (he doesn’t want me here, he thinks it’s weird that I showed up, I’m coming on too strong) and soldiers forward. “Just, uh, to see you. I’ve been so busy that you and I haven’t really had a chance to, uh. See each other.”
Louis nods. “Yeah, I noticed.”
“You did?”
“Yeah. Everything okay?” Louis’ eyebrows knit together, and for a moment all Harry can do is stare at Louis’ eyelashes, which are catching the bright fluorescent lighting in a way that is frankly unfair.
“Oh, yeah. I mean, shit, wait. No. No, why did I say that? No, I came down with a massive headcold, actually. It was—kind of crap, actually.” Harry frowns.
Louis moves around the counter again, moving his hand to Harry’s chin in order to tip it down. He peers into Harry’s eyes for a few silent moments before putting the back of his other hand to Harry’s forehead. “Sounds super crap, even,” he adds before backing away a bit.
“Yeah.”
“So you’re here, now, like—why?”
“Do-do you not want me here?”
Louis sighs. “That’s not what I meant, sweetheart. You could have called me.”
“But. I didn’t want to bother you.”
He grimaces a bit. “Love, you did want to bother me, though, I reckon.”
Now it’s Harry’s turn to sigh. “Didn’t think I ought to.”
“Fuck. I didn’t do this thing right, did I?”
Harry scrapes a hand through his hair, knowing that will make him look wild and foolish. He doesn’t care. “What d’you mean?”
“I dunno.” Louis scratches the back of his neck. “It’s just that you’re so new to kink, innit, and I thought you deserved the space to figure it all out, like, in your own time.”
“Right. But. I don’t want space, do I, I want you.”
Louis laughs a bit. “Well. That declaration solves everything, then, doesn’t it?”
Harry blinks four times. “Does it?”
And then Louis laughs again. “Listen, babe, I close up in three hours. Meet me back here, how about?”
“I—yes. I can do that.”
Harry spends the first part of the three hours trying to work on coursework with a medium level of success. Then he showers for a little too long, so much so that the water goes cold, and he doesn’t really have enough time to fix his hair the way he likes it to look. An increasing portion of him is hoping that it doesn’t matter.
He dresses without much care but packs a satchel with overnight necessities, along with lots of condoms and lube and his collar and a novel and his journal. As soon as he arrives at Sound and Fury (and he’s starting to think the name has a double meaning, if he knows Louis at all, and he likes to think that he does), he spots Louis outside of the shop, having already closed it up.
Louis wordlessly grabs his hand and yanks him sideways, and eventually Harry snorts, realizing they’re working their way back towards Harry’s own flat. It only takes a few minutes, and when they reach the door, Louis stamps his feet once. “Open up, yeah?”
Harry rolls his eyes and unlocks the door, leading Louis up to his flat. Once they’re inside, Louis slams the door shut and yanks Harry by the arm, pulling him into the bedroom.
“I have something for you,” he says without preamble, dropping Harry’s hand, “but I want you to refuse it if it makes you uncomfortable.”
“Okay.” Harry sets his bag down before holding his hands out expectantly. His stomach is jumping, but his hands stay steady. “Ready.”
Louis takes a steeling breath. He reaches into the bag in the hand that wasn’t previously holding Harry’s own hand, drawing out something pink.
Pink.
It’s floaty and gossamer-light and it looks like a skirt.
“It looks like—a skirt?”
“It-it is a skirt. If that’s okay.”
“Is it okay that it’s a skirt?”
Louis laughs, dropping his shoulders as he does so. “Is it okay that it’s a skirt for you?”
“You got me a skirt?”
He shrugs a bit. “I saw you looking at all of them, that first time, and I know you want hard stuff—”
“I do, I know I can handle that and I want to—”
“—right, and I figure we can do all that eventually, but, right now, it’s just. You’re so pretty, aren’t you?”
eventually and pretty and all that keep running through his head, and it’s all Harry can do to stand up straight. “Oh!”
The skirt is gauzy and full, layers of floaty pink fabric. It looks almost like a petticoat or something a ballerina might wear, and his hands drop to the bottom hem of his shirt so he can strip it off. He yanks it over his head, tossing it across the room. He makes eye contact with Louis as he thumbs open the top of his skinnies, as he bends down to shuck them off his legs. He steps out of his boots before taking off his jeans entirely.
“Pants too, love, or the effect is ruined,” Louis says, raising an eyebrow.
Harry nearly trips out of his boxers, kicking them off his leg. Then he waits expectantly, watching Louis with the pink skirt in his hand. “Dress me?”
“To your wishes, love.” He opens the stretchy waistband with both hands, lowering it so that Harry can easily step into it. Then he raises it to Harry’s hips and snaps the waistband against his waist. “You’re a vision, aren’t you?”
Harry looks down at himself, already sensing that his chest is flushing pink along with his face. Wordlessly, he moves to the bed, sitting down on the edge of the mattress.
Louis undresses himself, watching Harry watch him, and then he moves to the bed as well. He presses carefully against Harry’s shoulders, knocking him backwards against the bedspread. “Move up, love.”
Harry moves to sit up by the pillows, leaning on one arm. “How do you want me, though?”
Louis nods slowly. “Think I want you to ride me, baby.”
Harry’s head snaps up. “Yes please.”
Louis chuckles. “Then let’s have you lean back a moment, shall we?”
They’re both silent as Louis opens Harry up, and Harry relishes the feeling of the soft fabric ghosting against his legs. When Louis is three fingers in, stretching him wide, Harry groans out that he’s ready.
Louis moves himself towards the headboard, leaning against it with a pillow behind his back. He rolls on a condom and says, “Come here, love.”
Harry clambers forward, moving the skirt away from his legs. He settles around Louis’ thighs and sinks down slowly, the fabric rustling quietly as he does so. It feels both slow and too fast, the pace he’s set for them, but then he looks up into Louis’ eyes, and they’re shiny-bright.
“Hi.”
Harry bites his bottom lip, waiting to feel—ready. “Hi yourself,” he finally says, sunk down fully onto Louis’ lap. “Shall we?”
Louis laughs and buck his hips up. “You’re going to tell me if this is too much, baby. Aren’t you?”
“I am.”
“And you’re going to enjoy yourself,” he adds, dicking into Harry once, hard.
“I am,” Harry agrees, going breathless, his eyes falling shut.
“Then let’s.” With that serving as the warning, Louis begins to hammer into him, pounding until the only sound in the room is their panting breath and slapping skin. Then, without warning, Louis flips them so that Harry is beneath him, his legs still wrapped around Louis’ middle, mostly. He fucks into Harry all the harder before leaning towards Harry’s ear to murmur filthy things. “Pretty boy, taking my dick so well, aren’t you?
Harry can’t see fit to respond, still panting and mindless with it all, can only see fit to wrap his arms around Louis’ neck. He can feel his body rocking back and forth, can feel his cock hard against the muscles of his lower stomach, but mostly he can feel Louis hard and forceful inside him.
Every demand he might normally have leaves him, so all he can focus on is getting irrevocably fucked.
His arms are both around Louis’ neck, so he can’t touch his own dick, but Louis eventually snakes a hand down to reach him. At first he roughs against Harry through the skirt’s fabric, but eventually relents—he traces fingers down Harry’s leg, pressing his cock relentlessly into him all the while, and Harry is nearly blind with sensation. Eventually finds Harry’s bare dick, making a mess of the precome at the tip.
“I—can’t much—” Harry begins, but then Louis comes into him and that surprises him into coming as well. They tense, and Harry’s vision goes white while he spurts violently onto his own stomach while Louis pumps him through it.
Harry melts onto his own bedspread and Louis collapses on top of him. It takes ages, but eventually Harry realizes what he wants to say. Louis pulls out, takes off the condom and ties it, tosses it away—all while Harry gathers the courage to communicate again.
“I like you,” he says just as Louis collapses back into bed.
“I like you too,” Louis says, breathless.
“And I enjoyed that.”
“Yeah.” Louis smiles. “I figured you heard me about that, took it to heart. So. Where do we go from here?”
Harry takes a deep breath before moving again towards Louis’ lap. He plants a solid kiss onto Louis’ lips. “I’m hoping now you know.”
Louis snorts. “Hoping maybe you do too, finally.”
“Hoping it’s the first of many things,” Harry adds lightly, moving his face into the crook of Louis' shoulder.
“Many things indeed.”