Larry Stylinson One-shots (smut)

Traces In His Hair

Posted originally on AO3 by orphan_account

Summary :

Harry may have a slight thing for Louis' hair. Smut.

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Work text :
Louis’s voice was a soft brook streaming through the air, a mere trickle of a hum, an absentminded little thing as he worked the sewing machine in front of him. I was happy with the comparison; the thought of clear, clean water brought to mind Louis’ eyes, always so shiny and transparent, sometimes turned from crystal blue to shocking white when the sun hit his face.

Delving deeper into the comparison, I pictured thousands of rocks lining the bank and the bottom of the river, glistening with the fresh wetness of the creek and so smoothed by the currents that walking overtop of them could serve as a foot massage. Blinking, I focused my eyes now on Louis.

His back was turned to me, but I could see his hair from where I was reclined on the couch against the wall. Caramel hair, swishing slightly with his movements, rhythmic, constant as the rushing of a river.

I stood up and made my way over to him, wincing slightly at the cramped muscles trying
desperately to soften under my skin, and approached my boyfriend as he went steadily about his work.

“Jesus!”

He gasped, jumping a bit when I wrapped my arms around him from behind.

“Look what you made me do, dickhead.”

He gestured at the uneven threading that had come as a result of his surprised jerking movement.

“I’m bored,”

I murmured into his hair. I won’t lie, I love the scent. He bought different shampoo than me, special fancy stuff that had all the chemicals needed to keep him looking as perfect as always, and something about it really drove me crazy. After inhaling its aroma from my boyfriend’s head fascinatedly for however many months, I’d studied the bottle curiously in the shower and found that it specified no particular scent. It didn’t matter.

It was amazingly enticing. I almost groaned when he pulled his head away so that he could turn around in his chair and face
me. He fixed me with such a fed-up look, eyebrows raised up behind his fringe, that I would have laughed had I not been focused on making a pouty-lipped expression that all but screamed Pay attention to me!

“Harry,”

He said softly in mock-patience.

“Whose pants am I hemming right now?"

I didn’t need to glance over his shoulder to his workplace where my new black jeans were draped.

“Mine.”

“And who has those long giraffe legs that always require hemmed jeans?”

I wrinkled my nose at his phrasing.

“Me.”

“So who doesn’t have the right to complain when his exceptionally-generous boyfriend takes time out of his busy schedule to do said hemming?”

“. . . Me.”

“Bingo.”

Louis finally broke eye contact and faced his table again. Once again the machine began clicking, Louis’ small fingers expertly maneuvering the denim under the needle. I watched in awe and envy as he worked; this was one skill that I was completely hopeless at, and watching Louis execute the task so perfectly always astounded me.
“Why don’t you call up Niall or someone? I’m sure the lads have got some sort of plans for the night.”