Smut and fluff

No Control

By thegirlwthekittentattoo

It starts as a joke.

They're curled together in the catch of the sheets, where they can just be without the constant flash of cameras, the constant questions, and Louis has the interview with Rolling Stone open on his laptop.

"Two things about English rock stars never change: They love Southern California, and they love cars," Louis reads, and then snorts, shaking his head and trailing a lazy hand down the back of Harry's head, fingers light on the tanned skin of his back. "Bit trite," he says by way of criticism, reaching for his drink.

"Got magazines to sell," Harry mumbles from Louis' armpit, where he is half asleep.

"Americans do love to think everyone loves them the most," Louis remarks idly, tracing a finger up and down Harry's spine as he scrolls through the article. "You're going to have them fucking drooling, babe," he adds. "These pictures. Filthy."

Harry grins, propping his chin on Louis' chest. "You like those? Told Ryan they were thirst traps."

"You were right." Louis scrolls through the article some more, lapsing into silence, and Harry burrows back down into his armpit, resurfacing when Louis makes a sound — a sound he used to only make when Harry was sweat soaked and panting, spread out under him, Louis' palm pressed to the crease of his mouth, pressing pressing — "fuck." It's raw and guttural, hoarse, and Harry's not even sure Louis meant to say it out loud.

"Alright?" Harry asks lazily, peeking up again.

Louis has the laptop paused on the picture Ryan took of Harry in the weeds by the ocean, out in the Queen Anne's Lace and wild carrot, the denim jumpsuit hugging his hips, splayed open at the collar. "Pure sex," Louis says, and Harry hides his grin in Louis' shoulder.

"Thought you'd like that one."

"Fucking indecent ," Louis says, kissing the top of Harry's head. "Tits all on display like that."

Harry barks out a laugh. "You like my tits," he accuses, tilting his face up for Louis to kiss him, and Louis does.

**

So, it starts as a joke. Only, Louis can't stop thinking about it — about the curve of Harry's pecs cupped in the denim, the barest hint of a nipple. It's downright obscene, and as Louis goes about his business in London and Harry in LA, he can't stop thinking about it.

They have to be careful. There's too much at stake to come clean about it, and it is, Louis admits, nice to have a little (big) secret from everyone but their immediate families, nice to keep this, if nothing else, out of the spotlight.

It's nice to get to be authentically himself with at least one person, nice to be able to wank off to Harry Styles and know that he is the only person who's coming near that arse, regardless of what the gossip rags say.

It's nice, also, to have someone who knows him — has known him since he was 18. Nice to have someone who doesn't judge him, who loves him, he supposes, regardless of kink or scandal.

So when Louis texts Harry been thinking about your tits and gets back a laughing face emoji in response, he's a little hurt.

I'm serious. Then he sends a close up of the sun-kissed skin, hugged just a little too personally by the denim. This is the most recent star of the wank bank .

Because they're busy and they might want to spend every second with each other, but they can't. Not if they're going to keep each other a secret, and they have to keep each other a secret. Have to keep brushing questions about the other off in interviews. Keep dodging questions about love lives. Keep— well. They each have a very extensive wank bank, is all.