Young & Beautiful

“Have Niall get it.”
“Niall’s not here. Obviously.”
“Text him.”
“Would you just shut up?” Louis laughs, twisting in his arms. He glares at Harry but his lips
deceive him, propped up in a wide grin that probably spills all of his secrets and his mad adoration
for this charming, ridiculous, exhausting boy he’s found.
Harry smirks.
“Make me.”
Louis doesn’t need to be told twice.
Immediately, he lunges for him, snags Harry’s lips into a kiss that he presses into insistently, his
own smirk forming as he feels Harry jolt a bit, the book falling from his hands, his chest
constricting with a gasp. He smirks and he twists until they’re bumping hearts, Louis’ hands quick
to find Harry’s hair and tug, just like Harry likes, and sending Harry through a small, delightful set
of shivers and hums, his own hands delicately tracing the lines of Louis’ back.
“The curves of your lips rewrite history,” Harry manages through stuttered breath, eyes glazed, as
Louis drags his lips across his chin, up his jaw, presses his teeth gently into the cushion of Harry’s
earlobe.
“That’s not Keats,” he mumbles, nosing his curls.
“I know,” Harry says, voice altered an octave. His hands feel a bit shaky where they’ve come to
rest on Louis’ shoulders.
“It’s Wilde,” Louis continues and Harry positively purrs at that.
“It is,” Harry replies, almost in awe and his grip on Louis tightens as he lunges forward, slamming
his mouth against Louis’ insistently.
Well then.
Note to Self: Memorize every word Oscar Wilde has ever said and reference him always.
The edges of his consciousness feel a bit hazy as Harry presses further in upon him, his sweet
kisses and sighs and reverent hands drowning Louis and he can feel him, every part of him. Their
feet knock the tea tray, rattling the china, and Louis feels the press of Harry’s fallen book digging
into his knee and the blankets are tightly swirled around their limbs but he doesn’t care, doesn’t
fucking care, because Harry is breathless and beautiful and pliant against Louis and—
And Harry pulls away, catching his breath the minute Louis fingers find his buttons.
“I’m sorry,” he says amidst heavy breath, avoiding Louis’ eyes, cheeks splashed with rose hues.
Louis blinks, startled, searching Harry’s expression as he finds himself, calms his pattering heart
and heaving chest.
“Did I—“ Louis begins, feeling a prickle of panic, but Harry immediately shakes his head, kisses
Louis’ knuckles with red, wet lips.
“No,” he crackles, voice low and dry. “No, I just.” He considers his words, presses another kiss to