Not Again? || l.s

e i g h t e e n

eighteen | versatility

I didn't wanna fall but then I stepped right in 
I looked up at your face and those eyes they drew me in 
It was too late for me 

~ 'cliché' by mxmtoon

ツ

"Want you to fuck me this time," Louis mumbled. "Alright?"

Harry shuddered under him. He never thought Louis would ask for that, honestly. They've got a certain routine down. After the fighting, and the discarding of clothes, Louis laid him down on whatever surface he liked —his bed, Harry's bed, the desk twice which made doing his work hard because it's all he could think about when he's sitting at it— and fucked him, and that's just how they did it.

"I've never, like...," Harry trailed off, embarrassed. He didn't want to admit to Louis that he's never topped before, that he's afraid of being bad at it. "You should just—"

"Want you to," Louis whimpered. "Please."

Harry closed his eyes and breathed, a little overwhelmed. He wanted to, too, though. God, he wanted to. Sometimes it's all he dreamt about, fucking Louis. When he's not dreaming about Louis fucking him, that was.

"I've got paint all over my hands," he said anyway.

"Go clean them," Louis urged, pulling back to give Harry a serious look with too many emotions. Way too many emotions. "But leave the rest of it. I like it."

"Okay," Harry said slowly. "You just— wait here, then."

Louis nodded and rolled off him. Harry scrambled to his feet, nearly running to the door. He almost tripped, caught himself, and pulled it shut behind him before he could check if Louis noticed or not.

His head was spinning the whole way to the bathroom. He rushed to clean the swirls of paint off his hands, some of it dry but most of it still wet. When he's done he took a look in the mirror. There's green on his face, blue on his neck, red and yellow and green on his clothes. He looked like he rolled around in a bunch of paint which, to be fair, was exactly what happened.

It's better to think about the state of his clothes than what's about to happen in the room, though, because if he thought about it he'd get nervous. He didn't want to get nervous. That's the upside to sleeping with someone you hate. When it's with someone you like, you worry about it. 

You worry about whether or not it'd be good for them. Worry if they'd hate the way your thighs look naked, or if they'd wrinkle their nose at the less desirable parts of your body. If they'd hate the way you kissed or the way you touched them. You worry about not being good enough because all you want to do was please them. 

But sex with someone you couldn't stand was so much easier, because if they didn't like something about you, who the fuck cared? You were not trying to please them. You were just trying to get off. And that's what it's been with Louis, just the two of them needing an outlet, and using each other. 

Or that's what it's supposed to be, right? Then, why was trying so hard to not worry?

Harry couldn't handle it being anything else.

When he got back to the room, Louis was completely naked, still lying on the floor. Just like Harry, he was covered in different colours. It mingled with his tanned, toned skin, and Harry took a soft breath as he shut the door, admiring him. He couldn't help it. He got to touch that, was the thing. He got to kiss Louis and run his fingertips over the planes of his stomach, over his delicious thighs. He got to scratch his nails into Louis' back and bite at that ridiculously thin and soft bottom lip of his. And he's never, until this point, realized how lucky he was.