Archive of Our Own ^beta

It's not every day that you spot a random movie star on the street, Louis thinks with a grin. He had just been going about his business, picking up oranges at the local grocery shop, when a large group had gathered, squealing, outside the front window. He hadn't been sure what the commotion had been about, but sure enough, when he turned his head, he spotted a particularly familiar face in the corner of the shop. It was famous actor Harry Styles, looking at a no-name brand of coffee beans and comparing the ingredients against another type on the shelf beside it.

To be honest, Louis wasn't - isn't - impressed. Really, he felt a bit scornful toward this movie star character when he watched him pass out of the doors of the supermarket without saying so much as a word to the fans who were squealing at him. Imagine that, Louis thinks to himself as he bicycles back toward his quaint London flat. You have your face on posters throughout the city and you get affronted when someone recognises you in the street!

He goes home that evening, makes himself a decent chicken parmesan, and eats dinner on the couch next to his flatmate, Niall.

Halfway through his own plate, Niall swallows down a particularly large bite to flash his phone screen at Louis and say: "Oh, did you see? Harry Styles was in town today." On his phone, he's pulled up TMZ's latest headline on the incident, with numerous paparazzi photos littered throughout the needlessly long article below. In one photo, Harry is just leaving the supermarket, a baby blue baseball cap lowered over his face, his rope tote bag swinging against his side. In another, he's spotted through the tinted window of an Uber driver's car, talking to someone over the phone. Louis thinks he can see nail polish on a finger or two, but the quality is so grainy that ultimately he can't tell.

Not like he cares. Pfft. Why would he ever?

⏭

He has bigger worries on his mind, anyway. Like Niall later that night, steering him out the front door of his flat in the skimpiest, sluttiest outfit known to man.

Throwing his hands up - but not fighting, per se - Louis demands to know the meaning of this. "You've got to get laid," is all Niall puffs out by way of reply before they're both in Niall's beat-up truck that he's had for God knows how long and has never brought to the mechanic once. On their measly salary, it's too much. They need to eat.

Louis sighs as Niall turns on the ignition - but then again, he doesn't throw himself out the side door, either. He easily could. He can tell by the light - or lack thereof - beneath the locked button on his door that he's free to leave at any time.

The truth is, Niall is right - something Louis would never admit in a thousand years. He does need to get laid. His unrealistic anger against a puffed-up celebrity he's never really cared about really comes from some deep-seated, unrelieved frustration of his. Sure, he can get himself off however many times he likes, but it's nothing like another girl doing it for him. It's nothing like another guy leading him to the bathroom of a bar and fucking him senseless. (He speaks from experience, of course. Undoubtedly the best orgasm he's ever had.)

So, without protest, he lets Niall slam down on the gas and drive them through the dark London streets. There's a particularly dirty district they've been to together once or twice before, and by the roads Niall's taking now, Louis knows that's their destination. He thinks he can already smell the weed from here.

Dear God, how long has it been since he last had a joint?

After a good fifteen minutes, Niall parks the truck outside a venue called The Red Fox. A flickering crimson sign hangs outside the door, blinking ominously at the two of them as they go in. Immediately, they're hit with a wave of aggressive club music and the body odour of some sixty bodies dancing close together. Louis almost chokes on the stench. It's very much not the sensual, arousing place he'd been imagining on the ride over.

Niall just slings an arm around Louis's shoulder and drags him in with him. "Think of it like this," he says, guiding them both toward the bar. "You won't be able to smell a thing by the time you've got some coke in you."

They order drinks which arrive fairly quickly. The first thing Louis does is clink their glasses together. "I'll drink to that," he says, before swallowing down his vodka in one go. He's had enough alcohol by now that it doesn't affect him, not really - or, at least, not in the way that makes him do embarrassing things and kill people if he gets behind the wheel. (Not like he'd ever drive drunk! Jesus, who do you think he is? A psychopath?)

He's on his third or fourth glass by the time the room begins to distort and go blurry. He can feel the bass of the song in his chest and everything is suddenly terribly hilarious. Niall will say just one thing alone, and his Irish accent will have Louis spitting out his vodka onto the floor. It appears that the feeling is mutual: one second of Louis's Doncaster slang sends Niall over the edge literally and figuratively - he falls off his stool and onto the floor, rolling around on the ground too close to some guy's dried-up puke for comfort.

Still, Louis doesn't bother to haul him to his feet. He's too busy laughing himself.

It's only when a Black Eyed Peas song starts that Niall, now securely placed back on his stool, insists they hit the dance floor. Louis groans. "Why?"

"Because it's the Black Eyed Peas, that's why!" They both remember the early 2010's. The Black Eyed Peas are no joke.

It doesn't erase the fact, however, that - "Niall, I can't dance for shit."

"Now, what kind of attitude is that?" Niall crosses his arms and leans back like a disappointed father - Jesus, don't get Louis started on the topic of his father when he's had this much to drink.

Louis just shakes his head before he becomes a crying, angry, blubbering mess. (It's happened before with Niall around. Needless to say, it wasn't pretty.) "I'd rather hang out here with my trusty ole beverage, thanks, lad."

And then Niall's laughing again, because Louis's thanks sounds a great deal like fanks, and any protest is forgotten. He just smiles and pats Louis on the shoulder as he stands, but beyond that, there's no further expectation that he get up and join him. Niall's already enraptured by a brunette in dangerously-tight skinny jeans; as far as Louis's concerned, he doesn't even exist to him anymore.

Louis watches from the bar as they dance together and strike up conversation. From where Louis sits, the girl seems genuinely interested: her eyes light up around him and her body language is totally different. It doesn't just seem physical, either, because they're both laughing a great deal; if the girl places a hand on Niall's arm, it's gentle, not sensual. When Niall leans in to kiss the girl for the first time, it's more chaste than anything. She answers with equal quiet enthusiasm.

Well, Louis thinks, turning his eyes away, good for him, I guess. Good for fucking him.

He raises his hand, calls the bartender over, and orders another round of vodka.

It's not long after that that a man swings into the empty stool beside him. Louis just laughs, a bit too bitter to be incredibly articulate. "Really, Niall, you looked like a pussy out there-"

But when he turns to face the man, it isn't Niall. The man's hair isn't blond, but brown and curly and long, so incredibly long - it goes down to his shoulders. His eyes aren't blue but a defiant green, and his mouth is a confident, sensual line.

Louis doesn't know if he wants to laugh or cry.

It's not his flatmate Niall right beside him, but movie star Harry Styles.

He just scoffs and turns his head away. Dear God, he can't deal with this at this hour. "What are the chances..."

Harry's expression, however, is one of pure confusion. He yells over the music: "What?"

Not wanting to look like a complete fool - and feeling, really, that he has nothing to hide from this man; they'll never see each other again, after all - he yells back: "I just said, 'what are the chances?' Because I - I saw you earlier! At the supermarket!"

"Did you?" And for a moment, Harry's mouth is a perfectly round, not at-all arousing O, and Louis thinks about what he could push past those lips - oh, dear God-

Then it clicks for Harry, and those pretty lips slam shut. "Ah! I think I saw you there too, mate!"

"Did you?"

"Yeah! Thought - Thought I'd never see you again!"

"Well, London's quite big!" Without a doubt, that's the stupidest thing Louis has ever said. He's buzzing off the alcohol though, so for a glorious few minutes, he doesn't exactly care.

If Harry notices, he doesn't let it on. Leaning forward a bit to be louder, he adds: "Really wanted to get your number!"

"Get my number?" Louis can't help it. He laughs. "Really? My number!"

"Yeah, your number!" And the confidence when he says it, the way he doesn't second guess himself, is not at all appealing to Louis - no, on the contrary, it physically repulses him (repulsing being sending all the blood in his body from his cheeks to his dick).

Instinctually, Louis crosses one leg over the other. "So? Why didn't you?"

"Because! There were so many paps around, and fans too! They could catch a photo of us together and the next thing you know, there'll be a hundred headlines saying you're my new boyfriend!"

Louis is almost touched. Almost. "Well, that doesn't sound too bad, does it?"

"What?" Something crosses Harry's face. "Being my boyfriend?"

"No, the publicity!" Louis laughs, trying to recover from the idea so suddenly, almost wonderfully being laid out for him. Being Harry Styles's boyfriend. How crazy would that be?  Voice shaking a bit, he adds: "I'm a working lad, Mr. Styles, if you've forgotten those exist! I need to get my name out there!"

"Ah." And Louis doesn't think it's his drunkenness to blame for how Harry's face changes - no, he's genuinely disappointed. He's looking down at his lap now, twiddling his fingers. "I see."

It's just those three words, and suddenly Louis is feeling bad for the man. He probably hasn't heard the word no in a while.

Well, Louis thinks, at least I'm giving him a reality check.

Just then Niall is stumbling over to them, the pretty brunette still holding fast onto his shoulder. His smile is woozy and his cheeks are redder than Louis has ever seen them. His eyes have a faraway look to them, as if the mere touch of this woman has transported him to another world. (Take me with you, Louis thinks, perhaps a bit unfairly.)

"Louis." He completely ignores the movie star sitting directly to his right and staggers out toward his friend, taking Louis's hand in his. In a movement, he's swung Louis up off his stool and onto the floor. "C'mon. You told me you'd get laid!"

"And I will, I will," Louis says defensively. He drags Niall's hand off of him and sighs. "How about this? I'll come dance with you and I'll find a partner that way. Fair?"

"Oh, absolutely!" He looks to the girl on his arm and smiles. "Do you think that's fair, Hailee?"

Hailee smiles back, this time with her teeth. Louis doesn't just see the sweat that makes her blouse cling to her back; he can smell it, too. "More than fair," she agrees, squeezing Niall's arm as if they've been married already for a decade. (Before they leave here tonight, Louis needs to get Niall to agree into making him the best man at their wedding. It's only fair, to use Niall's word, if he's part of the reason why they met in the first place.)

Before Harry can make any attempt to join them, Louis's disappeared into the crowd with Niall and Hailee in tow. The music has changed from the Black Eyed Peas to Lady Gaga and "Bad Romance" is blaring over the speakers. Lights of all shades of red strobe throughout the room, giving everyone a blushed, intoxicated type of expression.

Louis doesn't mind it quite so much. It helps hide his own embarrassment and drunkenness.

Desperate to throw Niall - and Harry - off his back, he sidles up to the closest hot guy he can find and begins to dance with him. Thank God, the man isn't straight - there's interest in his eyes and he not-so-tentatively brings their bodies closer. Even beneath the wild blinking of the lights, Louis can tell that he's well defined, all muscle and strength; easily, he could pick Louis up and pull him off his feet. Louis kind of wants him to. He wants him to bend him over in the alleyway outside this place just so this stupid movie star will stop making eyes at him and asking for his number.

Going into the first chorus, Louis looks this man in the eye. "I'm Louis!" he yells over the music.

At first, he doesn't think the man hears him. Then suddenly he feels a hand on his arse, and the man is grinning. "Nice to meet you, Louis," the man says with a grin. "I'm Carlos."

Carlos. A hot name for a hot guy. All simple, predictable options.

Without really thinking about it, Louis throws back his head, giving Carlos room to kiss down his neck as he pleases. Carlos does take the initiative, biting and sucking his way through the second verse, and Louis gasps and grinds a bit against him.

And then, suddenly, Carlos stops. Louis isn't sure why and disentangles himself from Carlos. Was he being too eager?

Louis is about to ask before he notices that Carlos's eyes have locked with someone else's across the room, and with a lurch in his gut, Louis follows their direction.

He lands directly on Harry Styles, who's throwing Carlos a death glare from the very edge of the dance floor.

As if realising that Louis's eyes are now also on him, Harry makes his way through the crowd of dancers toward them. It's quite easy, really; he's sort of like Moses, parting the tight clump of dancing bodies on his way to his destination. It's just his face alone which opens doors. Louis's a bit envious of that.

He's also envious of how easily he commands Carlos's attention. By the time Harry's properly reached them, Carlos is all ears for whatever he'll say, his tone dangerously low and sultry. "Well, hello there, Mr. Styles," he says, sweeping in and grabbing Harry around the waist. He doesn't need to be coaxed the same way Louis had to.

Harry, however, just looks Carlos right in the eyes and says: "Would you mind leaving this gentleman alone, please? He's agreed to come with me tonight."

To Harry's benefit, Carlos's shock is absolutely laughable. His eyes bulge and his mouth falls open as he moves his arms off the actor. Then he glances between the two of them, from Louis to Harry and back again, disbelief clear on his features. "Whatever," he mutters before stalking off.

That leaves Louis alone with this movie star he barely knows and the anger that's building up in his chest. All the vodkas he drank certainly are doing nothing for his impulse control, either. Before Harry can get a word in, Louis points an accusatory finger at his chest. "What the fuck was that, mate?"

Harry doesn't appear fazed. "Your name's Louis," he says, a bit breathless.

Louis scoffs. "Yes it is, and I was about to get laid, you wanker!"

"You still will get laid," Harry says smoothly. "That is, if you want to be."

And he does. Really, he does. His hard-on has only gotten worse since he took to the dance floor. And, well, Harry is just right there...

Before he gives in to anything, though, he has to set some boundaries. He almost lunges at Harry as he hisses: "Listen here, boy. You might be the famous one here, but that doesn't make me any less important in the bedroom."

Harry nods. "Of course."

"So you're going to listen to me, and if I want something, I will get it. Understood?"

"Completely."

"Good." Only then does he step back, a little breathless and definitely a thousand times more bothered. "I'll be in the toilet. Meet me there in five minutes. And don't be late."

⏭

Staring at himself in the fluorescent lights of the bathroom, Louis can't believe just how wrecked he looks. His hair is a mess and he's so incredibly flushed, you'd think he'd just have come back from a marathon. More than that, his neck is covered in the hickeys that Carlos gave him, blooming black and purple beneath the harsh white glow. Given that Harry's already proved himself to be quite the jealous type, he can only imagine the actor's reaction when he notices the love bites as well.

Maybe he won't care, assured now that Louis will be his. Or maybe he will care. Maybe he'll make a big deal about it. Maybe he'll wrap his hands around Louis's throat just so he won't have to see them...

Louis is definitely, absolutely getting ahead of himself here.

Looking down toward his crotch, he's also quite surprised to see how aroused he is. The sight of it and the feel of it are two different things completely, but he just can't help but feel slightly embarrassed for just how obvious it is. Not like him bossing around an internationally known movie star helped matters. If anything, it made them worse. Or better. Depends on how you look at it.

Once his five minutes are up - in a somewhat hilarious move, he set a timer on his watch - Louis looks toward the door expectantly. Half of him expects that this has all been an elaborate prank, that Harry has been messing with him the whole night and that he'll leave him high and dry. Even worse, he might stumble in here, but with Carlos on his arm.

Sure enough, though, the door blows open and the sound of Kesha briefly swarms the male bathroom. Harry's face appears, a bit flushed but not as much as Louis's - and, better yet, he's completely alone.

He's also so hard, Louis thinks he'd have seen it from a mile away.

Practically bouncing on his feet, Harry stammers a bit when he asks what Louis wants him to do first. The actor's hands are itching at his sides - whether he wants to palm himself through his jeans or touch Louis all over, Louis isn't certain. Both ideas are definitely appealing, though.

But they're not what Louis wants right now. He's dealing with an actor here, someone whose ego has been inflated from years and years in a self-gratifying business. The success of Don't Worry Darling and My Policeman shouldn't go to his head, and Louis will singlehandedly make sure of it. God save the queen, and God save Louis Tomlinson for restoring modesty to humanity.

He looks Harry straight in the eyes, his tone unwavering as he demands: "I want you to take off my trousers and blow me until I tell you to stop."

He can't say he's surprised by the way Harry moans at his commands, but he's certainly satisfied. Quicker than Louis's ever seen him, Harry sinks to his knees, oblivious to - or just not caring about - the questionable stains on the linoleum tiles. His hands shake a bit as he undoes Louis's belt, but on the whole he's calm and collected - or, at least, he's more calm and collected than Louis would've expected him to be. If he was a movie star who'd been surrounded by yes-men for half his life, being ordered around like this would've made him fly off the handle.

Or maybe that was the appeal to Harry, just as much as it was the appeal to Louis. Harry didn't have to think of a damn thing for the first time in a while, and Louis was finally in control of something.

At last, Louis's buckle is wide open and Harry is free to move on to his sinfully tight skinny jeans. He takes the zipper in his hand and ever so carefully begins to drag it down.

Frustrated by the slowness, Louis swats his hand. "Bloody hell, faster."

And when he decides on a whim to glance down at how Harry's doing, he sees his eyes blown wide in lust and his lips hanging open. His fingers shake not from nervousness but from arousal as he undoes Louis's zipper in one fell swoop and drags Louis's jeans off his hips.

For a moment, Harry does nothing. He just stares and stares and stares. (Louis takes this as a good thing - he's sure Harry has seen his fair share of extraordinarily attractive people during his time in show biz and his enrapture now is more than a compliment.) Then, without preamble, he surges forward and mouths Louis's hard-on through his boxer.

At once, Louis is caught off guard. Throwing his head back, a terrible, somewhat pathetic moan rips out of him before he's able to properly restrain himself. The moment he does, though, he's digging his hand in Harry's long, luxurious hair and forcibly tugging his head back from his crotch. "Fucking bugger, you," he mutters, chest heaving. Meanwhile, Harry is groaning a bit at just how much force Louis is applying to his hair. His eyes have the same faraway look that Niall's did earlier, though Louis knows they are for very different reasons. His mouth is still open and saliva is falling past his mouth and onto his chin. Dear God, he needs Louis so bad that he's drooling for him.

He looks down at the sorry sight with a satisfied grin. "You want to take me in your mouth, huh?"

"Please," and when he says it, his voice is dry and hoarse. He's sure that, in some measure, the alcohol he's consumed has been incredibly dehydrating, but there's also the restraint he's putting himself under, the incredible obedience he's just broken and the pain Louis is exerting over his hair.

Reluctantly, Louis releases Harry's curls in such a way that the man almost stumbles backwards from the lack of support. "Fine," Louis barks, pulling off his boxers himself. "Get on my cock, and now."

Harry doesn't need to be told twice. Even faster than the first time, his face dives between Louis's legs, taking his dick in one quick swallow. Louis is momentarily impressed, though he supposes all actors are sluts in one capacity or another and he's probably done this for an executive before, before the pleasure takes him over and he's throwing his head back again. He doesn't moan but hisses through his clenched teeth. Heat is spreading across his collarbone and his eyes have drifted skyward.

The thing is, Harry's mouth is so hot. Hotter than any other man's that Louis has been with and it's exhilarating. The tight, damp heat is something extraordinary, and when Harry begins to drag his tongue against the Louis's underside - dear God-

He grabs Harry's hair again, this time to stabilise himself. It just makes Harry moan again, the sound vibrating around Louis's dick. Louis himself allows a moan, though it's quiet and hushed and certainly far from his proudest moment. "Yeah," he gasps, just to hide his own shame. Without another word of warning, he begins to thrust into Harry's mouth, in and out until he feels his tip hit the back of Harry's throat. Then Harry's gagging and tears are starting to stand in his eyes; he sputters a bit and on reflex his throat just grows tighter, better, around Louis's cock. "Yeah, take it - fuck..."

And the embarrassing thing is Louis thinks he can come just like that. Suddenly he's seventeen again, being fucked by his first boy, and he's gone in five minutes flat. But when Harry's mouth is so tight around him like that, when his tongue is so skilled and dragging along the sensitive parts of his skin like he knows what to do to cut him open, like he knows how to cut him to the quick...

Louis doesn't feel so bad about letting out a long, desperate moan while spilling right down Harry's throat.

It shocks Harry, but soon enough he swallows and takes it. As Louis pulls his soft cock out from Harry's mouth, he watches the beads of semen slip past Harry's lips. It's attractive and oh-so arousing, and goddammit, Louis wants to know how he tastes.

Before Harry gets a chance to recover, Louis is hauling him to his feet and pulling him into a sudden, bruising kiss. He's pushing his tongue wherever he can reach it, licking his own salty taste off of Harry's teeth like it's water and he's a parched man. Harry, for his part, is equally enthusiastic despite his own fatigue, grabbing Louis's shoulders and slamming him against the wall. He begins to grind desperately against Louis, which is a good thing, because otherwise Louis would have forgotten that he's all hot and bothered too.

But, he's not coming yet. Though Louis reaches down a hand and places it on Harry's crotch, he doesn't move or squeeze it. It just stays there, a stationary, teasing warmth.

Harry pulls his mouth away. "Dear God, Louis, you're driving me crazy."

"And you're talking when you're not supposed to." To drive his point home, he applies a soft pressure to Harry's erection before immediately removing it, leaving Harry cold and wanting. He leans forward and nips lightly at the edge of Harry's nose. "You wanna know what my plan is for the rest of the night?"

Harry swallows and nods, knowing better than to speak.

Louis speaks at his silence and drags a finger along the impossibly defined line of his jaw. "Good boy," he says, and he files the term away for later due to the way that Harry's mouth falls open. "What we're going to do is you're going to order us a cab and you're going to take us to your hotel room. Then, you're going to take me to your bedroom and you're going to fuck me until I forget my name."

"Yes, sir," Harry growls, leaning forward but not kissing Louis. He knows his limits. Already, he's better than most.

And then, quite brutally - and also quite seductively - he's being pulled out of the bathroom and out onto the curb. He thinks he sees Niall and Hailee on his way but he isn't sure and at the end of the day, he doesn't care either.

While Harry calls an Uber, Louis busies himself with kissing down Harry's throat, leaving bites wherever any paparazzi can see. Harry chuckles at this but seems to guess at Louis's game and ultimately doesn't protest. Louis thinks Harry likes this scheme, too - likes the paparazzi knowing that he's been claimed by some guy or gal while leaving them wondering who.

⏭

Harry's hotel room is lavish, but Louis should have expected this. It's two stories with a marvelous sitting room and a fantastic view of London through a large bay window. Harry explains a bit tersely that this room is really quite awful - the paparazzi have a perfect view into his most private moments and it seems no amount of curtains in the world can thwart them. Louis just shrugs at this as Harry guides him upstairs. "Guess we'll just have to be OK with them seeing us fuck, then."

It must be the actor in Harry which gets him so turned on by the mere possibility of exhibitionism. Either way, he grabs Louis's hand and leads them up the winding staircase with greater fervor.

At last, they're in his large bedroom which, while having an equally-large window, has even larger curtains with which to block the view. His bed is massive, too much so for a singular person, and is covered with an innumerable amount of decorative pillows. Harry begins throwing them off the bed while Louis undresses.

"Really," Louis says as he pulls his shirt over his head, "this is a great space."

Harry scoffs. "Tell that to my management. They'll be quite glad to hear that some random bloke from off the street likes their taste in hotels."

This stings Louis more than he knows, but just one look at Harry confirms that he's saying it only to get a rise out of him. His smirk is too mischievous and his expression too satisfied for it to be a mere degrading comment.

Dear God, he wants to be punished.

The discovery makes Louis even harder in his jeans. He starts with his belt again while Harry, finally having gotten rid of the last throw pillow, is only now tugging off the ugly band T-shirt he's had on.

As Louis pulls off his jeans for the second time tonight, he strolls over to Harry. He's now bare chested too, showing off the many tattoos Louis has seen only in images off of Google. The two swallows catch his eye first, if only for the size of them, as well as the butterfly which spans across his chest. Slowly, however, he notices the smaller ones: the Hebrew letters and the NY and the bare clothing hanger.

Holding onto the skin of Harry's shoulder, Louis hisses, "I'm sure management will be quite happy to hear that this random bloke is going to be fucked senseless in your hotel bed."

And, without letting Harry show any sort of reaction to that, Louis swoops in and kisses him hard. It's filthy like before, but this time they're more crazed. They're this close to the bed, this close to fucking, and the anticipation is making them buzz more than any wild amount of alcohol.

Slowly, Louis manoeuvres them both toward the bed, pushing Harry down onto the mattress first before following soon behind him. Their bare chests are rubbing against each other and Louis is straddling himself on Harry's lap. Grinning against Louis's mouth, Harry's hands wander down the small of Louis's back before settling firmly on his arse. "You know, this was the first thing I saw of you," he says, pulling out of the kiss. Louis huffs at the loss of his lips, but Harry is grinning still, squeezing - "Your arse."

"Of course it was," Louis says. "It's the biggest part of me."

"Is it, now?" Harry's eyes go southward, despite the fact that Louis's crotch is now hidden against Harry's.

Louis just rolls his eyes. "It's my arse you want the most anyways, isn't it? You wanna fuck my arse so bad - you want my hole..."

"Yes," Harry admits, his voice hoarser than before. His eyes are dark now, almost black. "Fuck, yes... - if you'll let me..."

"Hmm..." Louis pretends to consider this, tapping his chin with his fingers. Meanwhile, Harry is shaking beneath him with anticipation, his eyes never leaving Louis's face for a moment. Finally, he says, "I don't think I should let you."

Harry groans, trying to buck up against him before Louis's hands land squarely on his hips, holding him down. "Fuck, why...?"

"Because," Louis says pointedly, biting his lip just because it makes Harry go mad, "you've been a bad, bad boy."

"What've I done?" His words come quickly, quicker than Louis has ever heard from him. Even when he isn't drunk - even in movies and interviews - he's the slowest speaker in the world. Not when my arse is on the line, Louis thinks with a grin. "I - I'll fix it. Just let me fuck you, please-"

"You were rude," Louis says, tapping a finger on the inked butterfly's head. He thrills in the way Harry shivers beneath him from the mere touch alone. "Just 'some random bloke off the street,' eh? You disrespected me, Mr. Styles."

"I'm sorry. Really, I am."

"Oh, but are you though?" He grinds down slowly, taking great pleasure when Harry's eyes widen and his lips open around a long, low, gorgeously wet moan. "Or are you only saying that because you want to fuck me?"

"I mean it," Harry gasps, somewhere between crazy and desperate. He's trying to grind up against Louis but Louis's hands are too strong on his hips. Inwardly, he thanks his yesterday self for that extra half hour at the gym. "Oh, I mean it - Louis, please..."

"I mean... you certainly are begging..."

At the mere mention of it, Harry unravels into a litany of pleas: "I need you so bad, Louis. Never wanted anyone like I've wanted you before. Knew from the moment at the supermarket that I had to make you mine - oh, please, Louis-"

"Alright," Louis says, and though he's thoroughly enjoying this he holds up a hand. Harry immediately takes the hint and snaps his mouth shut, staring up at Louis with large, unwavering eyes. His chest is heaving and Louis can feel Harry's cock kick against his boxers and rub dreadfully against Louis's own erection. God save him, between Harry's beauty and the high he gets from bossing this man around, Louis knows that the moment he takes this man's dick inside him, he won't last long. (Then again, given Harry's utterly pitiful state, he definitely won't last long either.)

And, before Harry's begging eyes can drag him back, Louis swings his leg off Harry and removes himself from the man's lap. Though he whines, he knows better now than to raise any verbal protest, not when Louis fixes him with the look: narrowed eyes, raised brows, a slight grin on his lips. "I'll let you fuck me," he begins, "but you'll have to watch me prep myself without touching yourself or so much as moving your hands. Understood?"

"Yes," Harry growls, "yes, fuck..."

Satisfied now, Louis takes his boxers off in one smooth motion and throws them somewhere behind him. He thinks, given the sound they make, they land on the lamp but that's for Harry to deal with later, not him. Completely bare now, he shows himself off a bit for Harry who watches him in rapture, his chin wobbling in astonishment.

Then he sits back down on the bed and asks Harry, "Where do you keep the lube and condoms?"

For a second, Harry short-circuits. Then he nods toward the lefthand side table. "Top drawer," he mutters, his voice less steady than before.

Louis finds it easily and hesitates only for a moment. There's not one or two condoms in here but three whole packs. Louis would laugh if it wouldn't have turned Harry off. At least he can rest assured that they can go for a good dozen more rounds before they need to send someone out to the pharmacy.

That's the one good thing about sleeping with a movie star, Louis thinks as he returns to the bed and rolls the condom smoothly onto Harry's dick, electing to ignore the long, tortured moan Harry gives out at the feel of it. When you run out of the essentials like condoms and BudLight, you can send someone out to get them for you and we can just keep on fucking.

He keeps eye contact with Harry while he unscrews the cap on the bottle of lube and tosses it somewhere beside the bed. Opening his mouth a bit, he slowly dips his fingers into the cold, sticky substance and hears the way Harry bites back his groan, as if he has any dignity left to lose. Scoffing at the needless show of restraint, Louis removes his hands from the bottle only to take one finger and circle it around his gaping hole, angling his body in such a way that Harry gets a full view of it.

Harry's breath catches and he mutters, "Louis..."

And that's the moment Louis decides to push his first finger in, all the way to the knuckle.

It fills him up and at the same time is nowhere near enough. He grunts a bit at the sudden intrusion but finds that it's not  at all satisfactory, even when he crooks his finger toward his prostate. He dips his hand back into the jar of lube before he inserts a second finger, then a third, and only after that does he really feel like he's full to the brim. Moaning now, he thrusts desperately around inside of himself, basking in the tight heat of his hole. Harry is going to delight in fucking him, he thinks. He'll ruin sex for the biggest movie star in the world.

The thought causes a sudden mewl to escape him and Harry himself moans in return. Harry begins to grind against the sheets before Louis looks over his shoulder to shoot him a glare. Immediately, Harry stops but even then Louis keeps his eyes on him, intent to watch Harry's expression change as his mouth opens and an utterly debauched whine pushes its way past his lips.

Again, that glassy look passes over his face. He stutters as he says, a mantra at this point, "L-Louis, fuck..."

In a moment, Louis tears his fingers out of himself. He doesn't have the restraint at this point, and neither does Harry. He moves the still-open jar of lube back onto the side table - he can't find the cap now and really doesn't care to - and looks Harry straight in the eyes. "Take off your jeans and boxers and get yourself slick for me."

"Yes," Harry gasps, "yes, fuck," before he unzips his jeans and throws them off the side of his bed. He palms himself through his boxers for a moment before his underwear is off and on the floor beside his trousers, inside out and slightly ripped at the hem from the mere force of Harry's fingers. He twists his chest oddly to reach the lube and drags his fist up and down his dick, moaning at the pressure he now feels around himself. His eyes flutter shut, his mouth an open O again. "Louis..." he groans, like he's a teenage boy and he's masturbating himself to the thought of Louis in his head.

And goddammit, Louis will not let Harry get off without him. Before Harry can properly lose himself in this fantasy he's created in his head, Louis grabs Harry's wrists and pins them with a single hand against the headboard. "No touching from here on out," he grinds out from behind clenched teeth, grinding down slightly to satisfy Harry's obvious ache. "Is that clear?"

"Yes. So clear."

Before Louis sinks down, he takes a moment to survey the scene beneath him: Harry with his firm muscles and his six pack and his skin littered in odd, innumerable, gorgeous tattoos. His long curls splayed on the pillow and his mouth pink and open and wanting. His green eyes flashing with lust and his skin as pink as the nail polish on his fingers - so Louis had been correct earlier, he had gotten his nails painted.

Yeah. Louis is so ready for this.

And, holding Harry's wrists even tighter in his fingers, Louis sinks down onto Harry's cocks and lets it split him open.

Harry's quite big and it's a torturous, painful, wonderful ache. A breathy moan escapes him as he bottoms out, his arse flush with Harry's hips. He feels hotter than he's ever been - in both the figurative and the literal sense - as if someone has lit a fire in his heart and it's eating him, inside out.

He glances down at Harry before he starts to move and bloody hell - he's even more hot and bothered than Louis is. His eyes are screwed shut and his mouth is wide open now, his tongue lifting off from the bottom row of teeth in the same manner with which his back has begun to arch. "Louis..." he says breathily, barely able to form the words over his own gasps and moans. "Fuck - God, you're so tight..."

"Just for you," Louis says. "I'm so tight just for you..."

And when he begins to move, when he starts to fuck himself on a movie star's cock, he says, completely in earnest, "Harry, you're gorgeous," and somehow that tears Harry apart more than anything else Louis has done this evening.

They're both shaking, moaning messes as Louis bounces up and down on Harry's dick, feeling him retreat and then fill him up again. Their bodies are one and fit with such perfection that Louis even begins to muse about fate and inevitability, but then Harry's moaning Louis's name like it's a song again and suddenly he has bigger priorities. Like making Harry feel the best he ever has in his whole life, and making sure that he won't be able to walk tomorrow.

Toward the end, they're both unable to articulate themselves. Louis falls into a flurry of "bloody hell" while Harry just repeats Louis's name over and over, letting it bounce off the walls, ricochet back to Louis like a gunshot. It pierces Louis through the heart each time, spilling him out and making him bleed.

Suddenly, his nails dig in harshly against the skin of Harry's wrists. "Fuck, gonna come..."

"Me too," Harry says, breathing hard. His eyes have rolled back into his head and for the most part, much of what he's saying is utter gibberish - that is, besides: "M'gonna come, oh God..."

And he does. Right into the condom inside of Louis.

Louis follows suit not long after in a sudden, amazing burst of pleasure. White appears behind his eyes as his cum spills onto Harry's chest, covering his wonderful butterfly tattoo. Louis falls forward right onto it, but he's so dazed and spent that he doesn't care for the mess. He removes his hands from Harry's wrists and wraps his arms around Harry's shoulders, keeping them close.

A bit awkwardly, Harry pulls out of Louis. They bump noses in the process and then they're both giggling, hysteric messes. Everything suddenly seems so unserious, as if the weight of the world has been lifted off their shoulders.

Eventually Harry is brave enough to leave the cocoon of their bed and venture into the bathroom, where he returns with an ample amount of towels to clean themselves both off. Once they're scrubbed down, Harry returns to his place at Louis's side, still breathing hard. "That was the best sex I've ever had," he says after a moment.

Louis just laughs and nods. "Me too," he mutters, playing idly with Harry's nipple. "Me too..."

The next morning, not so much to Louis's surprise, photos of them having sex do indeed hit the papers. In fact, they're splashed right across the front page with the headline of Who's Harry Styles's Mystery Man?

Really, Louis would be partly-lying if he said the sudden attention bothered him. As far as he was aware, no one in the world knew that he'd been the one who'd been fucked out of his mind by a famous movie star, and for as long as he wished, it would remain that way.

It wouldn't stop Harry from showing up at Louis's apartment the next day, having somehow figured out the address, with a bouquet of flowers in his hand asking for a proper date. And it wouldn't stop Louis from immediately, emphatically saying yes.