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back of his legs, supporting him, and thank God for that because his

knees are about to give out. Harry pulls almost all the way off and

sucks hard, and Louis can‟t help the tremor that goes through him or

the choked noise he makes, and Christ, he can feel Harry respond, can

feel his hum of approval, and this is going to be over almost before it

begins.

Louis forces his eyes open, because if he doesn‟t get a visual memory

of this he‟ll probably convince himself it was a dream. Harry‟s eyes are

closed, and Louis‟ll be damned if he doesn‟t give head like he kisses,

like it‟s the only thing he‟s ever planned on doing. Louis can‟t keep

from sliding his hand up into Harry‟s hair, tugging gently at the slightly

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sweaty curls. Harry‟s eyes flick up to meet his, and it‟s not laughter that

Louis sees there now, that has him holding white-knuckled to the desk.

Harry slides one hand away from Louis‟ thigh and fuck, fuck, slips it

into his own shorts, and Louis wants to see him so badly but can‟t

make himself move. He settles for just watching the way the muscles in

Harry‟s arms work, the way they move under his skin as he touches

himself.

Harry seems almost as overwhelmed as Louis feels, pulling off briefly

and breathing heavily. “Fuck,” he says, his voice wrecked and his

mouth slick, before sliding his lips back over Louis eagerly. Louis

would agree, but the feeling of Harry‟s mouth around him and the

thought that it‟s getting Harry off has torn his mind entirely in half.

Harry pulls off again, his hand working frantically in his shorts. He

leans his forehead against Louis‟ hip, Louis‟ fingers carding helplessly

through his hair. “Fuck, Lou,” he says, pressing a kiss to the skin there,

“I‟ve wanted—fuck, I can‟t believe I get to do this.” His breath is

coming fast now, his fingers digging into the back of Louis‟ thigh. “I‟m

so close,” he says roughly, before taking Louis back down all the way.

His words register in Louis‟ brain about the same time Louis feels

himself hit the back of Harry‟s throat, and that is the end of that. Louis

has barely enough time to try to warn Harry, pulling on his hair, but

Harry doesn‟t move, swallowing around Louis as he comes. He pulls

off a moment too early, letting a little spill over his lips, and even in his

post-orgasmic haze Louis can‟t keep from dragging his fingers over the

mess on Harry‟s mouth, has to touch him to make sure this is real.

Harry sucks two of Louis‟ fingers into his mouth, hard, and looks up at

him unblinkingly.

“Haz,” Louis says weakly, unable to look away.

He can‟t actually see Harry come, but he feels Harry bite down hard on

his fingers before his mouth goes completely slack, shuddering through

it with a groan.

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Louis‟ fingers slip out and he wants hold Harry while he comes down,

wants to kiss him undone again and again, wants so many huge, aching

things in that moment that it should scare the hell out of him. He wants

Harry to live the rest of his life spread out in his bed if it means he can

see that look on his face every day and know he‟s the one that put it

there. He wants so many things all at once that he feels a little bit like

he‟s been hit by a bus.

Harry‟s grip loosens and Louis‟ knees finally do give out this time,

dropping him heavily to the floor. He lands halfway on top of Harry

and knocks him off balance until the two of them are a tangle of limbs

pressed up against the side of Louis‟ desk, breathing hard and still

riding it all out.

They‟re silent for a few moments, just Harry‟s curls tickling the side of

his face because his head is buried in Louis‟ chest, right over the place

where his heart can‟t seem to even back out. And then, and then—

Harry laughs, and that‟s it, Louis is done, he‟s bent over Harry‟s body

with laughter, both of them seizing up with it like it‟s the funniest damn

thing that‟s ever happened to them. And for Louis it kind of is, really.

Last night he was torrenting Dance Moms and pouring himself a glass

of wine to get him through writing up two different final exams while

also going over the lighting cues and trying not to think about the way

Harry‟s collarbones look in a deep v-neck.

Today... well.

“Jesus bloody fucking Christ,” Louis says finally, still laughing a little

and stumbling over the consonants. Perhaps not his most eloquent

moment, but under the circumstances, he thinks he deserves some

credit for managing actual words at all.

“Is that his full name, then?” Harry says, because he is a smug son of a

bitch. Louis opens his eyes to tell him as much, but the look on Harry‟s

face makes all the air in his lungs leave him. He doesn‟t look smug, just

spent and dirty and beautiful and absolutely dazed with happiness.

Louis did that.

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Before he even thinks about it, Louis grabs Harry‟s idiot face in both

hands and kisses him, just as natural as you please. It‟s a short kiss

because neither of them can stop smiling long enough but it‟s all they

need right now, a little stitch to hold this moment in place.

“So,” Harry says, beaming, “I sort of fancy you.”

Louis rolls his eyes. “I think I‟ve just made it abundantly clear that I

fancy you too, you wanker.”

Harry swats at his shoulder and laughs again and Louis, God, Louis is

trying so hard to keep pace with him, to keep this easy and simple.

Harry is smiling like this is the easiest decision he‟s ever made, and

Louis is smiling too, but taking deep breaths, trying to keep things in

perspective. He‟s had blowjobs before, several of which were even

quite memorable. And sure, maybe this one makes the rest a little

difficult to recall, and maybe he never laughed like a teenager on top of

any of the others, but... shit. It doesn‟t have to be a big deal, right? Shit.

Louis tries to relax, to stay in this impossible moment, but he can‟t stop

his brain from racing ahead. Harry fancies him, and said so like he was

giving it away, but Louis isn‟t sure fancy is really the word for what

he‟s feeling, and fuck. He can‟t even remember the last time he

admitted that he fancied someone, and now it suddenly doesn‟t even

feel like enough. Deep breaths, he focuses on deep breaths, feeling his

rib cage expand against Harry‟s solid weight.

“What now?” Harry murmurs, picking his head up off Louis‟ chest. He

looks Louis right in the eye. There‟s no expectation in his face, but

Louis knows what he‟s really asking, can feel all that‟s behind the

question even if there‟s no urgency in his voice. He thinks of

everything he feels coiled tensely in his chest, and knows that now is

the moment to let it out or hold his peace.

The moment slows and stretches. Louis thinks now I trick you into

staying with me, thinks if you get up I‟ll kill you, thinks I can‟t

remember a time I wasn‟t waiting for you.

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“Still want to come back to my flat?” is what he says. Harry blinks and

then nods, half-smiling, and Louis pushes his guilt to the back of his

brain.

Harry reaches up over him, bracing his hand on the desk behind Louis‟

head and leaning in close enough that his breath is hot on Louis‟ ear

and Louis can almost feel the way his mouth curls up on one side.

“You have no idea,” Harry says, and usually Harry mumbles, but this

time he deliberately pronounces every sound so that Louis won‟t miss a

word, “the things I want to do to you.”

He catches Louis‟ earlobe between his tongue and his teeth for half a

second and then he‟s gone, standing up and dusting himself off,

holding Louis‟ keys in his hand, grinning like the hellspawn that he

obviously is because how the fuck is Louis supposed to deal with that?

Louis scrambles upright and pulls up his trousers, fingers shaking. He

moves to start fixing his braces, but Harry lets out a loud sigh,

bouncing on the balls of his feet.

“Christ, Tomlinson, you think you could hurry up? These shorts aren‟t

exactly comfortable anymore,” Harry says, shifting his weight back and

forth.

Louis snorts, tucking in his shirt. “It‟s not my fault you came in your

pants.”

Harry arches an eyebrow. “Debatable.” He tosses Louis his keys. “Pick

up the pace, Lou, If your dick recovers while we‟re still in the car then

you‟re getting roadhead, and I don‟t want to die tonight.”

Louis breaks every single speed limit on the way home.

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“I think I‟m dead,” Louis says. His voice is hoarse and tired for more

reasons than one. He‟s not sore yet, but he‟s fairly certain that once it

sets in he will never not be for the rest of his life. “I think you‟ve killed

me.”

“I haven‟t killed you,” Harry says, and Louis can hear the smile in his

voice without having to see it. He‟s sauntering around the wreckage of

the kitchen in all his naked glory, thoroughly sated agent of chaos that

he is, Louis and Louis‟ apartment equally destroyed around him. There

are pants on the bookshelf. Actual pants. This is a thing that is

happening in Louis‟ life. This is a thing that Harry Styles did to him.

From where Louis is sprawled on the sofa, he‟s got a clear view

through his bedroom door. The mattress is drooping halfway off the

frame on one side looking utterly defeated, and the duvet has been

slung over the chair in the corner. There‟s an empty bottle of wine

wedged under the nightstand and the lamp is dangling by its cord over

the side (he remembers that one, his mouth around Harry and one of

Harry‟s elbows jerking involuntarily to the side as he arched up into it).

The papers he‟d been keeping on the kitchen counter are everywhere.

He can vaguely recall letting out a strangled noise and sweeping them

all onto the floor with one hand and bending Harry over the tiles, and

how Harry had loved it, had loved Louis taking control.

It‟s 5 a.m. now. Louis has a bite mark on his hip. Louis has a bruise

forming on his ribs. Louis may never leave this sofa again.

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“I have to collect term papers today,” Louis says, staring at the ceiling.

The sex haze is starting to settle around him, and the anxiety is

creeping back in. “I have to put on a play on Friday.”

“You can do it,” Harry says easily. Louis can hear the sound of him

dislodging a skillet from the drawer under the stove that he never

opens.

“I don‟t think I can, though,” Louis says. “I don‟t even think I can

move, actually.”

Harry doesn‟t answer at first, busy pulling the carton of eggs out of the

fridge and a bowl from the cabinet. Of course Louis would become

involved with the only person in the world capable of making omelets

after an all night sex parade.

But then suddenly there‟s Harry‟s face hanging upside down over the