all i want is for louis to be loved and appreciated for his amazing heart, his incredible spirit, his endless talent and creativity, his tireless drive, his devotion to charity, his inclusivity, his quick wit, cheek, snark and goofiness, his style, his mischievousness, his selflessness and the way he loves and appreciates his fans without an ounce of reserve.
what gave harry styles the right to say that his favorite part of louis was his eyelashes how deeply invested in observing every aspect of a person do you have to be to comment publicly on his eyelashes
When will u post the cuddling fic? can we get one chapter atleast?
i don’t want to give a deadline because the last few times i just didn’t meet them but soon i promise (and i know i sound like liam payne w his solo album but honestly my definition of soon is much better than his)
you can’t get a chapter because there’s no chapter it’s gonna be a one shot but you can have a snippet at least!!!
It’s nice when Harry wakes up later, his bed warm and cozy in a way it hasn’t been for quite a while. Louis, for the first time, appears to have stayed the night, and he’s asleep, so Harry just makes a soft noise, pulls him closer, and tries to go back to sleep.
It becomes evident, a few moments later, that Louis isn’t actually sleeping. “You know,” he murmurs, his voice slightly rougher from disuse. “I have no idea why you thought that I’d be freaked out by that.”
Harry’s confused for all of three seconds before Louis shifts backwards just a little bit, and—oh. Oh. Oh, fuck.
Harry’s eyes fly open, and he scoots back so far until he and Louis aren’t touching anymore. “I, um,” he manages to stammer out. “I’m so, so sorry. That’s—um.”
That’s a stiffy. A huge, fucking boner, because his cock is a treacherous little thing. Or, not-so-little thing, in this state.
Louis shifts onto his other side, so that he’s facing Harry. He looks like he’s been awake a while, his blue eyes clear. “It’s fine,” he says, rolling his eyes. “It’s normal. Happens to everyone.”
And like, Harry knows it’s normal—knows that every person with a cock has experienced waking up with one of these at least once in their lives—but Harry can’t stop the feeling of mortification spreading over him. Because, the thing is, an accidental erection in the morning stops feeling accidental when it’s pressed against the one person Harry really wants to fuck.
“I—I’m sorry,” he says again, scooting back a bit further. “I hope you know I wasn’t trying to violate you, or like, fuck you in your sleep or something.”
Louis snorts. “I told you, don’t worry about it,” he says, grinning delightedly. “Erections are kind of inevitable, especially when you’re in a profession like mine.”
“Oh.” Harry tries his best not to think of other people cuddling Louis. The idea makes jealousy flare up in his chest, which is ridiculous, because Louis isn’t his to be jealous over. “Okay.”
Louis must read something on his face, though, because he’s grin grows, just a little bit. “I have to say, though,” he says, shifting a little closer. “There’s really nothing quite like waking up to your cock trying to stuff itself into my arse.”
And then before Harry can react, one of Louis’ hands reach out, lightning quick, to squeeze at the bulge in Harry’s boxers.
Harry’s mouth drops open. “It’s a pretty good cock, if you were wondering,” Louis continues, like nothing’s amiss. Like he hasn’t made Harry’s cock even harder, blurting precome onto the fabric of his boxers. “One of the best I’ve ever felt.” His eyes are bright, trained on Harry’s face, and much slower this time, he reaches out towards Harry’s cock.
Harry’s reflex action to that is to grab his wrist, roll them over until he’s on top, and hold him down.
Immediately, Louis squirms underneath him, shifting until their hips are aligned. Until Harry’s cock is nestled right beside Louis’, already so hard that it hurts a little bit.
God, the effect Louis has on him.
“Louis,” Harry says, urgently. Desperately. Ignores the feeling building in his belly, the instinct telling him to rut, mark, claim. “Louis, please.”
Louis doesn’t stop moving. “Haz?” He arches up a little against Harry, his own cock brushing against Harry’s.
Harry resists the urge to grind down against Louis, to lean down and taste him, resists the urge to rut against him until he’s coming into his pants like a fucking teenager. “Lou, don’t.”
Louis looks up at him through his eyelashes, smirks a little bit, and fuck, he’s so pretty. Harry just—he wants to fuck him until he cries, come all over his pretty face and his long fucking eyelashes, then kiss him, taste himself on Louis’ tongue. “Why not?”
He wiggles a little bit, shifting in a way that gives Harry’s cock delicious friction. “Why not?” He repeats. He bucks his hips up, rubbing his clothed cock against Harry’s, and—no. No. They have to stop this right now.
Harry stifles a moan, clamps his fingers Louis’ wrists, holds them down above his head. “Stop,” he says. Finds his voice comes out an octave lower, sounding almost like an order.
Finds that Louis stills almost immediately, goes slack underneath Harry. Finds Louis’ pulse fluttering against his palm, the thump-thump-thump of it so quick that Harry can barely catch it.
This is wrong. This is all so, so wrong. This isn’t how they’re supposed to be interacting.
“You know,” Harry says, his voice pitched low, and he watches Louis’ eyes darken, watches his Adam’s Apple bob. He isn’t quite sure what he’s saying anymore; it kind of feels like someone else has taken over his body, like someone else is telling him what to say, what to do. How to act. “This isn’t just a joke to me, Lou.”
He squeezes Louis’ wrists gently, oh-so-gently; listens to the way Louis’ breath hitches.
“You can’t tease me like this and expect me to forget about it later,” Harry hears himself continue. “This isn’t just another one of your pranks. To me, this—” he ruts his hips slowly, just to watch the way Louis’ eyelashes flutter, “—is serious, and if you’re doing this because it’s a joke to you, I’m going to have to ask you to stop.”
Louis makes a small noise, something that sounds dangerously close to a whimper. Harry squeezes his wrist once more, enjoying the way Louis’ pulse is hammering against his palm, before rolling off him.
“I’ll make breakfast,” he says, ignoring the throbbing of his cock between his legs. “See you downstairs.”
The last thing he sees before he stumbles out of the room, is Louis looking dazedly at the ceiling, his own cock tenting the fabric of his sweats.