Even the wrong words seem to rhyme-
Title: even the wrong words seem to rhyme
Author: transgenicveins
Pairing: Harry Styles / Louis Tomlinson
Rating: Uh NC-17 supposedly
Word count: ~2500
Warnings: Real person slash, terrible paragraph structure, a little bit graphic descriptions of gay sex.
Summary: 'Harry's like a fire that will burn down the city.'
A/N: It feels fucking whack to be writing about something that isn't (a) heavy or (b) extremely free-verse or (c) Ziam. Ohwell. And I kind of changed the name because I'm 98% certain that it's been used by someone else. Based on a 1DKINKMEME prompt on Louis' fascination with Harry's excessive wristbands and necklaces.
It’s not as though Louis is obsessed, exactly.
It’s not the only thing about Harry that makes him moan and squirm and alight all his nerve endings.
(There’s also that wonderful, husky laugh of his and the way his curls look in the morning, all bed-mussed, and his bright eyes in dark rooms and the way his hands engulf Louis’ hips and- fuck it’s everything, every cell of his flawless self)
And like Mel Brooks said, sex is like pizza and if Harry is a pizza he is thick crust with extra cheese and fresh shredded ham and rich tomato sauce, cooked in some woodoven in an Italian villa and fed to Louis after he’s been starved on bread and water.
It’s just-
Harry stripped back with only those weaved bracelets on his wrists and the thin necklaces dangling from his shoulders is really fucking good pizza which is like a chewable orgasm, served with a sixpack of beer in a too-classy penthouse.
(But better, really, because pizza doesn’t have blow-job lips or bedroom eyes or a laugh that literally lights up Louis’ day)
/ / /
Sometimes, the bare skin behind the jewellery- the soft tan lines around his wrists and in the centre of his chest- is even more overwhelming.
(They’re under so much scrutiny, about their sexuality and image and lives and it’s like no matter how many cameras they shove at them in concerts or how many fans send grotesque tweets, that skin Harry hides is all his)
Sometimes, during an interview or a signing, he’ll slip his hand over Harry’s arm and sneak his fingers under the bands and stroke the skin there until their pulses synchronise.
But other times, they’ll be in the back of a taxi between venues and Harry will be straddling his lap and his arms are on either side of Louis’ shoulders and it’s like he’s engulfed by the other boy and-
And Louis looks up, and there are his brilliant green eyes, just as gorgeous as they were that first day in the bathroom-
And Louis twists his neck, and there’s the Leeds wristband from an era ago which only serves as a constant reminder of that day and the yellow gum boots and being recognised for the very first time and the beginning of them-
And Louis glances down, and the matching dog tag the five of them had bought during the recording of their album is shiny and contrasting with his porcelain skin-
(And Louis hates the uncontrollable feelings Harry produces, the ones which convince him to use words like ‘porcelain’ and ‘exquisite’ and ‘wanton’ in his daily vocabulary, but then he’ll lean forward to nibble at Louis’ lip and grind a little into his lap and whisper a breathy ‘boo’ between kisses, and he certainly can’t hate him then)
/ / /
Louis caves on a Saturday.
It’s the week after the Red or Black performance and the four of them have finally dragged Harry out of the chest cavity he cowers into whenever his body doesn’t cooperate with his brilliant mind. Niall’s just left to call his mum and it’s just the two of them and Harry’s fiddling, the bastard, with the sole woven band around his right wrist, in that dreamy way which convinces Louis that he’s not doing it on purpose.
And suddenly Friends isn’t quite as interesting as it was before and the air between them is thick, thick with the promise and shared looks in dressing rooms and cuddles beside a bonfire at the bungalow and he can’t stop, now, not when he’s been stopping himself for months, so he grasps at Harry’s covered wrist and kisses him hungrily on the lips for the very first time.
(If it were any of the other boys, Louis would be gentle and cautious and caressing, but not Harry, never Harry, Harry is like a fire that will burn down the city if you coddle it too much)
Harry makes a soft noise in the back of his throat and twists awkwardly between the blankets until the laptop is knocked to the side of the big bed and one of his thighs is between Louis’. Their eyes meet and Louis can’t bite back a smile as Harry curls a hand in his hair, tugging at the finer strands at the nape of his neck.
“Hey you,” he mumbles between kisses and he wishes he could say something more suave, but the grey bracelet wrapped around Harry’s wrist three times in the corner of his eyes keeps catching his attention.
Harry only moans in return and starts sucking on his bottom lip and Louis can’t make the distinction from when the moment is casual and when the moment is heated, but suddenly he’s squirming under half of Harry’s half-grown body and there’s a very clear outline of a cock against his hips and Harry’s breathing things like ‘fucking forever, Tomlinson’ and ‘stupid tight chinos’ and ‘all mine, Lou’ into his mouth.
He breaks the kiss and the needy noise Harry makes is just about the best thing he’s ever heard. After tearing his own t-shirt off, his hands run down Harry’s wrinkled button-up and their shaking fingers collide eight different times as they try their hardest to pull apart the buttons. They breathe a cheer into each other’s lips when Harry manages to struggle out of his sleeves but the relief of touching bare skin is suppressed by the sight of Harry’s bare wrists.
“Wristband,” he mumbles softly, fumbling blindly through the abandoned clothes for the item.
Harry frowns against his lips and tugs slightly at his hair for attention. “Ignore it,” he says, but Louis finds the bracelet and wraps it around his wrist and eagerly sucks on two of Harry’s long, clumsy fingers, and that’s enough of a distraction for the both of them.
/ / /
They don’t talk about it, really.
Of course, there is a point- a point where Harry notices the way Louis will groan a little louder or grind a little harder or stare a little longer when the other boy’s on top, driving his cock in at that achingly slow pace with those low necklaces dangling above them- but Louis is so far buried into him and their late night conversations and early morning coffee runs that he barely notices.
(He notices after that point, though. Harry starts buying a wristband from every country and he’ll catch Louis’ eye in interviews or sets and push his sleeves up a little to expose his arms with that cheeky smirk across his lips)
/ / /
(When Harry returns to Holmes Chapel and Louis is hours away in Doncaster and it’s been three fucking weeks since he last saw that shallow dimple, he ventures into the corners of his suitcase and finds Harry’s beaded bracelet with a note attached saying ‘to increase my omnipresence’ and his heart starts pumping warmth through his veins as opposed to blood)
/ / /
For Christmas that year, Louis buys Harry a pendant necklace from Sweden with ‘a love, a dream’ engraved on the back, and Harry’s eyes widen and his pupils blow out and, later, he straddles Louis’ lap and leans forward as he rides him, the pendant knocking their chests as they move together.
(Louis won’t admit it, but his eyes roll into the back of his head when he comes, Harry squirming happily above him)
/ / /
Harry’s a fucking tease and Louis is going insane.
They’re at a signing and it’s not his fault that they haven’t been alone all week, but Harry’s summoning all his eighteen years of sexual frustration and shoving it across the long table at Louis, and he just wants to crawl under the desk and nudge around Liam’s knees and unzip those stupidly tight trousers and suck Harry’s cock all the way to the root-
He smiles at a girl in a half-hearted attempt to divert his attention, but that’s near impossible with Harry chewing- literally indenting with his teeth- a pendant out of the corner of his eye.
He shifts a hand under the desk and Harry tongues at the shape and sends him a smirk that all the cameras will pretend to catch, but they could never capture the heat or intensity or fucking warmth of his gaze.
“You’re mine in an hour,” he mouths, and Zayn helpfully flexes his biceps in an effort to draw the attention of the crowd.
Harry grins around the cool metal of his medallion and nods in agreement and Louis thinks he might burst from something, but he’s not quite sure what.
/ / /
Louis barely waits for a heartbeat after they enter their room before crowding Harry against the slammed door and pressing the whole length of their bodies together. He stumbles onto his tip-toes to press a kiss to Harry’s Jagger lips, and he should feel emasculated when Harry’s hands sneak down his legs to lift him into his arms, but-
Fuck-
He’s not sure if it’s intentional, but the beads and knots of Harry’s bracelets are pressing into his hips where his chinos have slipped and that’s as hot as seven kinds of fucking hell and he just wants more, more skin and more Harry and more of the teeth on his neck and the erection against his.
“Lou,” Harry breathes, and the sound is even prettier than his singing voice, “I want to fuck you, please let me fuck you, please let me have you-”
Louis nuzzles into the crook of Harry’s neck and his lips brush against a chain and their breaths hitch in synchronicity. “All yours,” he agrees, grinding a little against his hips as Harry carries him to the bed.
(He wishes he could say that they fall onto the bed in a pile of wanton sex, but in reality, the two of them are even less coordinated when all their blood is rushing to their cocks, and their knees knock painfully and his leg is twisted under Harry’s hips but there’s so much friction so neither of them complain)
Their mouths collide a little slower, this time around, and the slow and tentative slide of Harry’s tongue beside his own and over his lips and against his teeth is like this gentle rock of pleasure which destroys his body from the inside out. He lets out a soft whimper and Harry presses deliberately closer, burying Louis in the wrinkled quilt from the night before, and it’s not just the added pressure against his cock- no, it’s the uncomfortable push of six different pendants teasingly above his nipple which drives him insane.
“Eager,” Harry teases, slipping one of those clumsily graceful hands between their bodies to tug at his drawstrings and Louis’ zipper, but the breathy quality of his voice ruins the nonchalance. “Being turned on by jewellery is a bit strange. It’s probably something Freud has researched.”
“Says you-” Louis scowls, letting out a soft litany of ‘fuck fuck Harry fuck’ as he kisses down Louis’ chest, running a tongue over the gentle ridges of his abs, his necklaces trailing over the wet skin he leaves. “Your tongue lolls out whenever I wear those red jeans.”
“It’s the arse and cock and legs and the Louis under the clothes that gets me off,” Harry says, shooting him a mischievous smile as he tugs down his jeans and starts sucking lightly down his shaft.
Louis makes an incomprehensible noise and starts squirming, his hips rolling in an effort to force Harry’s lips over the head. “Harry,” he whines, and green eyes are glued to his as a lube slick finger circles his hole. “Tease tease tease tease-”
He cuts himself off with a hand over his mouth as two fingers stroke unerringly- brutally- over his prostate and he’s going insane with the lips on his cock and the hand between his legs and the wristbands against the inside of his thighs. One of Harry’s hands swats away the one over Louis’ mouth and the soft ‘noises are like jewellery for me, bastard’ only convinces him to grind onto the fingers pulsing inside him.
(Possibly his favourite thing about Harry is that he doesn’t need words to communicate with him- he just needs to make a noise or twist his wrist or fix his hair and the other boy’s coiling his way into his personal space)
He just about blacks out at the feel of Harry’s hand clenching his hip (bracelets pressing into his thighs) and the erection carefully pushing inside him.
“God,” he sighs, hair pushed messily out of his face as Harry- with his bright eyes and flushed cheeks and bitten lip- wraps an arm around his waist to give Louis control over the first thrust, and the thought behind the gesture is always enough to cause odd constrictions around his heart.
“Just Harry,” he laughs, and Louis bites at the tendon in his neck and bucks his hips with no warning in response.
They lose themselves in the rhythm of their bodies, just like they do in that of the music on stage, and the sunlight is only feeding their fire and the world around them is spinning madly on, but in the moment there’s only the expanses of touching skin and the heavy breaths and-
Oh-
There’s also the clasp of Harry’s wooden band from Spain scraping against the head of his cock with every upwards stroke, and the pendants swaying in front of his eyes and it’s absolutely maddening.
Harry smirks and ducks down to bite his cheek and thrusts harder, knocking the bed frame against the wall, and the brush of the head of Harry’s cock against his prostate is almost eclipsed by the increased swing and rattling knock of the necklaces.
“Haz,” he moans, a little desperately, burying his hands in the boy’s hair in an attempt to pull him down to his level, but Harry’s arms are stronger than his dainty hands and he holds steady above him.
“You want-” Harry protests, but Louis wraps a hand around the twist of necklaces and tugs and presses their lips together messily.
(Between kisses, Louis manages a ‘it’s the boy wearing the necklaces, you bloody insecure twat’, and Harry mumbles a ‘fuck, Boo’ in response which just about breaks his heart)
He wants to stay here forever, bathing in the gentle sunlight in a quiet hotel in a busy city with a beautiful boy, but Harry’s fire is infecting and curdling in his stomach and his kisses are more a clumsy brush of lips and his legs are wrapping around Harry’s hips without his accord and Harry’s deliberately pressing the necklaces and wristbands (which are almost a physical culmination of their time together, more so than their album or the press photos or anything, from Leeds and countries and their fights and the first time they said ‘I love you’ and Christmases apart and birthdays together) into his skin and-
He comes quickly between them, some splashing onto the purple band, and the feeling of Louis all pliant and happy and contracting underneath him forces Harry to burn up and consume everything in his reach.
(They never lie still or silent after fucking- no, they separate straight away and curl up and roll around in an effort to touch as much skin as possible)
“I love you,” Louis says softly, between kisses, as he runs his hands all over Harry’s sensitive shoulders.
Harry grins and whispers a cheeky ‘ditto’ and cuddles closer and-
Their ruined city is in embers, but Harry’s with him on this burnt out mattress, and enough to fend off the flames.
Author: transgenicveins
Pairing: Harry Styles / Louis Tomlinson
Rating: Uh NC-17 supposedly
Word count: ~2500
Warnings: Real person slash, terrible paragraph structure, a little bit graphic descriptions of gay sex.
Summary: 'Harry's like a fire that will burn down the city.'
A/N: It feels fucking whack to be writing about something that isn't (a) heavy or (b) extremely free-verse or (c) Ziam. Ohwell. And I kind of changed the name because I'm 98% certain that it's been used by someone else. Based on a 1DKINKMEME prompt on Louis' fascination with Harry's excessive wristbands and necklaces.
It’s not as though Louis is obsessed, exactly.
It’s not the only thing about Harry that makes him moan and squirm and alight all his nerve endings.
(There’s also that wonderful, husky laugh of his and the way his curls look in the morning, all bed-mussed, and his bright eyes in dark rooms and the way his hands engulf Louis’ hips and- fuck it’s everything, every cell of his flawless self)
And like Mel Brooks said, sex is like pizza and if Harry is a pizza he is thick crust with extra cheese and fresh shredded ham and rich tomato sauce, cooked in some woodoven in an Italian villa and fed to Louis after he’s been starved on bread and water.
It’s just-
Harry stripped back with only those weaved bracelets on his wrists and the thin necklaces dangling from his shoulders is really fucking good pizza which is like a chewable orgasm, served with a sixpack of beer in a too-classy penthouse.
(But better, really, because pizza doesn’t have blow-job lips or bedroom eyes or a laugh that literally lights up Louis’ day)
/ / /
Sometimes, the bare skin behind the jewellery- the soft tan lines around his wrists and in the centre of his chest- is even more overwhelming.
(They’re under so much scrutiny, about their sexuality and image and lives and it’s like no matter how many cameras they shove at them in concerts or how many fans send grotesque tweets, that skin Harry hides is all his)
Sometimes, during an interview or a signing, he’ll slip his hand over Harry’s arm and sneak his fingers under the bands and stroke the skin there until their pulses synchronise.
But other times, they’ll be in the back of a taxi between venues and Harry will be straddling his lap and his arms are on either side of Louis’ shoulders and it’s like he’s engulfed by the other boy and-
And Louis looks up, and there are his brilliant green eyes, just as gorgeous as they were that first day in the bathroom-
And Louis twists his neck, and there’s the Leeds wristband from an era ago which only serves as a constant reminder of that day and the yellow gum boots and being recognised for the very first time and the beginning of them-
And Louis glances down, and the matching dog tag the five of them had bought during the recording of their album is shiny and contrasting with his porcelain skin-
(And Louis hates the uncontrollable feelings Harry produces, the ones which convince him to use words like ‘porcelain’ and ‘exquisite’ and ‘wanton’ in his daily vocabulary, but then he’ll lean forward to nibble at Louis’ lip and grind a little into his lap and whisper a breathy ‘boo’ between kisses, and he certainly can’t hate him then)
/ / /
Louis caves on a Saturday.
It’s the week after the Red or Black performance and the four of them have finally dragged Harry out of the chest cavity he cowers into whenever his body doesn’t cooperate with his brilliant mind. Niall’s just left to call his mum and it’s just the two of them and Harry’s fiddling, the bastard, with the sole woven band around his right wrist, in that dreamy way which convinces Louis that he’s not doing it on purpose.
And suddenly Friends isn’t quite as interesting as it was before and the air between them is thick, thick with the promise and shared looks in dressing rooms and cuddles beside a bonfire at the bungalow and he can’t stop, now, not when he’s been stopping himself for months, so he grasps at Harry’s covered wrist and kisses him hungrily on the lips for the very first time.
(If it were any of the other boys, Louis would be gentle and cautious and caressing, but not Harry, never Harry, Harry is like a fire that will burn down the city if you coddle it too much)
Harry makes a soft noise in the back of his throat and twists awkwardly between the blankets until the laptop is knocked to the side of the big bed and one of his thighs is between Louis’. Their eyes meet and Louis can’t bite back a smile as Harry curls a hand in his hair, tugging at the finer strands at the nape of his neck.
“Hey you,” he mumbles between kisses and he wishes he could say something more suave, but the grey bracelet wrapped around Harry’s wrist three times in the corner of his eyes keeps catching his attention.
Harry only moans in return and starts sucking on his bottom lip and Louis can’t make the distinction from when the moment is casual and when the moment is heated, but suddenly he’s squirming under half of Harry’s half-grown body and there’s a very clear outline of a cock against his hips and Harry’s breathing things like ‘fucking forever, Tomlinson’ and ‘stupid tight chinos’ and ‘all mine, Lou’ into his mouth.
He breaks the kiss and the needy noise Harry makes is just about the best thing he’s ever heard. After tearing his own t-shirt off, his hands run down Harry’s wrinkled button-up and their shaking fingers collide eight different times as they try their hardest to pull apart the buttons. They breathe a cheer into each other’s lips when Harry manages to struggle out of his sleeves but the relief of touching bare skin is suppressed by the sight of Harry’s bare wrists.
“Wristband,” he mumbles softly, fumbling blindly through the abandoned clothes for the item.
Harry frowns against his lips and tugs slightly at his hair for attention. “Ignore it,” he says, but Louis finds the bracelet and wraps it around his wrist and eagerly sucks on two of Harry’s long, clumsy fingers, and that’s enough of a distraction for the both of them.
/ / /
They don’t talk about it, really.
Of course, there is a point- a point where Harry notices the way Louis will groan a little louder or grind a little harder or stare a little longer when the other boy’s on top, driving his cock in at that achingly slow pace with those low necklaces dangling above them- but Louis is so far buried into him and their late night conversations and early morning coffee runs that he barely notices.
(He notices after that point, though. Harry starts buying a wristband from every country and he’ll catch Louis’ eye in interviews or sets and push his sleeves up a little to expose his arms with that cheeky smirk across his lips)
/ / /
(When Harry returns to Holmes Chapel and Louis is hours away in Doncaster and it’s been three fucking weeks since he last saw that shallow dimple, he ventures into the corners of his suitcase and finds Harry’s beaded bracelet with a note attached saying ‘to increase my omnipresence’ and his heart starts pumping warmth through his veins as opposed to blood)
/ / /
For Christmas that year, Louis buys Harry a pendant necklace from Sweden with ‘a love, a dream’ engraved on the back, and Harry’s eyes widen and his pupils blow out and, later, he straddles Louis’ lap and leans forward as he rides him, the pendant knocking their chests as they move together.
(Louis won’t admit it, but his eyes roll into the back of his head when he comes, Harry squirming happily above him)
/ / /
Harry’s a fucking tease and Louis is going insane.
They’re at a signing and it’s not his fault that they haven’t been alone all week, but Harry’s summoning all his eighteen years of sexual frustration and shoving it across the long table at Louis, and he just wants to crawl under the desk and nudge around Liam’s knees and unzip those stupidly tight trousers and suck Harry’s cock all the way to the root-
He smiles at a girl in a half-hearted attempt to divert his attention, but that’s near impossible with Harry chewing- literally indenting with his teeth- a pendant out of the corner of his eye.
He shifts a hand under the desk and Harry tongues at the shape and sends him a smirk that all the cameras will pretend to catch, but they could never capture the heat or intensity or fucking warmth of his gaze.
“You’re mine in an hour,” he mouths, and Zayn helpfully flexes his biceps in an effort to draw the attention of the crowd.
Harry grins around the cool metal of his medallion and nods in agreement and Louis thinks he might burst from something, but he’s not quite sure what.
/ / /
Louis barely waits for a heartbeat after they enter their room before crowding Harry against the slammed door and pressing the whole length of their bodies together. He stumbles onto his tip-toes to press a kiss to Harry’s Jagger lips, and he should feel emasculated when Harry’s hands sneak down his legs to lift him into his arms, but-
Fuck-
He’s not sure if it’s intentional, but the beads and knots of Harry’s bracelets are pressing into his hips where his chinos have slipped and that’s as hot as seven kinds of fucking hell and he just wants more, more skin and more Harry and more of the teeth on his neck and the erection against his.
“Lou,” Harry breathes, and the sound is even prettier than his singing voice, “I want to fuck you, please let me fuck you, please let me have you-”
Louis nuzzles into the crook of Harry’s neck and his lips brush against a chain and their breaths hitch in synchronicity. “All yours,” he agrees, grinding a little against his hips as Harry carries him to the bed.
(He wishes he could say that they fall onto the bed in a pile of wanton sex, but in reality, the two of them are even less coordinated when all their blood is rushing to their cocks, and their knees knock painfully and his leg is twisted under Harry’s hips but there’s so much friction so neither of them complain)
Their mouths collide a little slower, this time around, and the slow and tentative slide of Harry’s tongue beside his own and over his lips and against his teeth is like this gentle rock of pleasure which destroys his body from the inside out. He lets out a soft whimper and Harry presses deliberately closer, burying Louis in the wrinkled quilt from the night before, and it’s not just the added pressure against his cock- no, it’s the uncomfortable push of six different pendants teasingly above his nipple which drives him insane.
“Eager,” Harry teases, slipping one of those clumsily graceful hands between their bodies to tug at his drawstrings and Louis’ zipper, but the breathy quality of his voice ruins the nonchalance. “Being turned on by jewellery is a bit strange. It’s probably something Freud has researched.”
“Says you-” Louis scowls, letting out a soft litany of ‘fuck fuck Harry fuck’ as he kisses down Louis’ chest, running a tongue over the gentle ridges of his abs, his necklaces trailing over the wet skin he leaves. “Your tongue lolls out whenever I wear those red jeans.”
“It’s the arse and cock and legs and the Louis under the clothes that gets me off,” Harry says, shooting him a mischievous smile as he tugs down his jeans and starts sucking lightly down his shaft.
Louis makes an incomprehensible noise and starts squirming, his hips rolling in an effort to force Harry’s lips over the head. “Harry,” he whines, and green eyes are glued to his as a lube slick finger circles his hole. “Tease tease tease tease-”
He cuts himself off with a hand over his mouth as two fingers stroke unerringly- brutally- over his prostate and he’s going insane with the lips on his cock and the hand between his legs and the wristbands against the inside of his thighs. One of Harry’s hands swats away the one over Louis’ mouth and the soft ‘noises are like jewellery for me, bastard’ only convinces him to grind onto the fingers pulsing inside him.
(Possibly his favourite thing about Harry is that he doesn’t need words to communicate with him- he just needs to make a noise or twist his wrist or fix his hair and the other boy’s coiling his way into his personal space)
He just about blacks out at the feel of Harry’s hand clenching his hip (bracelets pressing into his thighs) and the erection carefully pushing inside him.
“God,” he sighs, hair pushed messily out of his face as Harry- with his bright eyes and flushed cheeks and bitten lip- wraps an arm around his waist to give Louis control over the first thrust, and the thought behind the gesture is always enough to cause odd constrictions around his heart.
“Just Harry,” he laughs, and Louis bites at the tendon in his neck and bucks his hips with no warning in response.
They lose themselves in the rhythm of their bodies, just like they do in that of the music on stage, and the sunlight is only feeding their fire and the world around them is spinning madly on, but in the moment there’s only the expanses of touching skin and the heavy breaths and-
Oh-
There’s also the clasp of Harry’s wooden band from Spain scraping against the head of his cock with every upwards stroke, and the pendants swaying in front of his eyes and it’s absolutely maddening.
Harry smirks and ducks down to bite his cheek and thrusts harder, knocking the bed frame against the wall, and the brush of the head of Harry’s cock against his prostate is almost eclipsed by the increased swing and rattling knock of the necklaces.
“Haz,” he moans, a little desperately, burying his hands in the boy’s hair in an attempt to pull him down to his level, but Harry’s arms are stronger than his dainty hands and he holds steady above him.
“You want-” Harry protests, but Louis wraps a hand around the twist of necklaces and tugs and presses their lips together messily.
(Between kisses, Louis manages a ‘it’s the boy wearing the necklaces, you bloody insecure twat’, and Harry mumbles a ‘fuck, Boo’ in response which just about breaks his heart)
He wants to stay here forever, bathing in the gentle sunlight in a quiet hotel in a busy city with a beautiful boy, but Harry’s fire is infecting and curdling in his stomach and his kisses are more a clumsy brush of lips and his legs are wrapping around Harry’s hips without his accord and Harry’s deliberately pressing the necklaces and wristbands (which are almost a physical culmination of their time together, more so than their album or the press photos or anything, from Leeds and countries and their fights and the first time they said ‘I love you’ and Christmases apart and birthdays together) into his skin and-
He comes quickly between them, some splashing onto the purple band, and the feeling of Louis all pliant and happy and contracting underneath him forces Harry to burn up and consume everything in his reach.
(They never lie still or silent after fucking- no, they separate straight away and curl up and roll around in an effort to touch as much skin as possible)
“I love you,” Louis says softly, between kisses, as he runs his hands all over Harry’s sensitive shoulders.
Harry grins and whispers a cheeky ‘ditto’ and cuddles closer and-
Their ruined city is in embers, but Harry’s with him on this burnt out mattress, and enough to fend off the flames.