larry smut

hello darling

https://archiveofourown.org/collections/1dchristmasfest2020/works/27573493?view_adult=true

this one has both fluff and smut in it so in my opinion it's sort of a perfect balance, it's not too detailed in the smut but enjoy nonetheless :)

~✰~

London is a mess in the snow. Whatever romanticized image they sell you of fluffy white flakes gracefully twirling on a twinkle lit street filled with cheerful folk, it's absolute bollocks. Slushy snow too heavy to float drips down like a runny nose on the city and collects in a wet sock mine-field of ash grey clumps for the dour faced citizens to slog through. Louis Tomlinson and his thin ankles are quite thankful to be burrowed in his forty story office as the pitch black sky swallows every colour and leaves the city below a hellscape of sleet slicked ice.

This year there's no reason for him to face the bleak drive north filled with monotonous hours of vacant fields that sent him closer to sleep than the distant town he used to call home. If home is a place, he figures he lost it when the house he grew up in sold well under market value only to be torn down and developed into a condominium. If home is a person, well, he lost that too when his mother passed. It sure as shit isn't the glass box apartment he has downtown, occupied more hours of the week by his cleaning lady than himself.

This office, with its corner view of the skyline more often under cloud cover than not, is probably the closest thing he has to a home. The thought makes his reflection in the window frown back at him with the realisation he might be a tad pathetic. It's hard to deny when his office contains a closet full of fresh suits and the bottom drawer of his desk is stocked with personal toiletries, not counting the sofa that doubles as his bed most nights. He's distracted from admitting his own loneliness when the night chill cuts sharply at the back of his neck and a shiver wracks through him.

He blinks his dry eyes and sinks into his chair after hours of finalizing a new deal the company will implement in the New Year. Given the unfortunate time shown on the clock face, he doesn't need to glance into the hallways to know they're barren of even the squeaky-wheeled janitor carts. With a sigh, he stacks neatly printed copies to the side and eases into his jacket, opening the Maps app on his mobile to route him the fastest way home.

Things have a nasty way of piling up in the horrible combination of poor weather and anxious drivers hurrying home for the big day, so he's expecting a few unfavourable detours. What he's not expecting is the solid grid of red lines and a pop up informing him the weather has gone from 'ugh this is gross and annoying' to 'blizzard warning in effect: travel not advised' levels of horrible.

Every major route has closures due to vehicle accidents, fallen trees and telephone poles, and snow piling up faster than the plows can manage. Louis huffs in small resignation. It's the only moment he takes to be forlorn about the predicament before moving into action to settle in for the night, perhaps a little oddly pleased not to be leaving the only place he feels he belongs.

His broad shouldered coat resumes its station on a stiff hanger in exchange for one of the soft jumpers he keeps specifically for nights like this. He'd never wear something so shapeless during daylight hours, but in the dim sanctuary of his office he slips out of his Italian silk shirt and into the old comfort of cotton, wrapping handfuls of oversized sleeves around his balled up fingers. His trousers hold their crisp lines even as he steps out of them and into worn heather grey trackies in a waft of fresh scented laundry soap.

Glasses come out next as he rounds the desk, turtle shell things he's fostered a love-hate relationship with. To finish his habitual hibernation, only one thing is missing. He grabs the inconspicuous mug from his desk. A hot cuppa.