Blimey it's a cow!

"'ello?"

Louis' voice has gone scratchy, cotton mouthed as he pushes himself up on one hand. He has a lip gloss stain on his face too, smeared onto his stubble, down across his throat. It's nothing compared to the greasy mark the lube has left on his hips, down over the tops of his thighs, caught in his happy trail. Harry knows why. Knows Louis' eyes get that hunger in them when he has the chance to dirty Harry up, to make a mess of him in his expensive linen sheets. They’re a mess, both of them, and when Harry runs a hand through his curls, pushing it back from his face, he can smell Louis’ cologne on his wrist.

Grunting, Louis' hand makes a squelching noise when he drags it along the condom, holds his cellphone with his shoulder so he can tie it off. He tosses it towards the little, pink trash bin beside Harry's vanity table, the heavy end caught on an empty package of dermaplaning razors. It hangs there, like a forgotten victory flag, a trophy that once again - Louis has won.

"Ya alright?"

Hooking his knees over the side of the bed, Louis leans forward on one hand. From this angle, Harry can see the way the skin along his ribs has gone a vibrant shade of red. He knows it's his own fault, Harry's desperate hands gripping onto Louis, pulling him down, pulling him deeper. There is no control when it comes to how Harry feels when Louis is inside of him. He's too desperate, too needy, leaving fingertip bruises all over Louis' waist when Louis does that thing with his hips, tilts up <i>just right</i> and it drives Harry half insane with the pressure.

"Fuck, I forgot." Louis' muttered curse pulls Harry out of his reminiscing, watching as an errand hand runs along the back of Louis' sweaty neck. "Shit, I'll be there in a sec. Yeah, yeah. I'm on campus, mate. Just give me a few."

Harry wants to reach out and stroke his fingers down Louis' spine. He wants to see if his skin is as warm as Harry's is, if he's trembling the way Harry's hands still are, if he's still coming down from the fever. Louis is always so quick to come back to himself, up and off the bed while Harry is still gasping for air. It's not done cruelly, but Louis has that electric energy in him that keeps him constantly moving.

There is power in that, Harry supposes, but just once - he wishes Louis would linger. Of course, not for any emotional, poetic reason. No. Harry wouldn't allow them that. But it might be nice to have Louis' body presses onto his for a while, to stay entwined in the gradual come down. They wouldn't have to say anything, no false promises, but it might let the long moment be enough.

“Oi, Christ, Payno. I didn’t check the bloody calendar.” Louis’ tone goes sharp, annoyed then as he uses a tissue to wipe over himself. “No. I'm fucking busy with something else. Yeah, I got distracted, but I'll be there.”

The tissue makes it into the trashcan, but Harry still has to wrinkle his nose up. There is always just something so messy, dirty about the cleanup. The evidence left among Harry’s expensive cosmetics packages, tied up in his floral scented garbage bags. It’s almost like they’re trying to make something lovely out of a desperate act. There is no romance to these encounters. No long-winded love confessions. It’s a text or a long glance across the quad and then they’re back here again.

“Don't start without me.” Raising his voice just enough to talk over Liam, Louis continues on with a huff. “I just said I was busy. That’s all you have to know, Christ. Don’t be a nag. I’ll be over there in ten."

He hangs up the phone without a goodbye, tossing it back against the pillow before Louis slides forward to put his feet down. It’s a nice view, Harry has to admit, guilty in the indulgence of watching Louis’ back muscles twitch and flex when he reaches for his pants. All those hours he spends running around the soccer field has done an amazing job on his body, still bronze from the summer with a little tan line that Harry traced with his tongue only a while ago. He’d like to do it again, but Louis seems committed to leaving. It’s only when he’s pulled the stretchy black fabric up his thighs that Louis seems to remember something, turning around with a little grimace.

“Sorry to run off like this, babe.” He does look apologetic, snagging his shirt off the foot of the bed and stretching it over his arms. “Duty calls.”

“Have another appointment? Another pretty boy waiting on you?”

Harry is an expert at playing it cool, rolls onto his side with a well-practiced toss of his head. He knows what this angle does for his curves, the long line of his waist, the soft muscles of his back, a hint of his ass. There is an art in looking effortlessly pretty and Harry has mastered it, hooking a hand under his head and watching Louis with an air of disinterest that he hopes actually reaches his eyes. He knew who he was letting into his bed. He knows Louis’ reputation, gets reminded of it all the time. But Harry has his own to maintain too.

“Nah. Just a frat meeting,” Louis answers, frowns a little when he has to pull his jeans up his legs, the fabric sticking against his sweaty skin. “I totally forgot. But, ya know, president and all. Liam is going to have my ass if I’m late for another one.”

“Of course. Have a good time.”

Harry makes a pointed effort to check his nails, seeing as how his phone has been abandoned clear across the room and he needs a prop to look unbothered. He’s scuffed the edge of his French manicure, must have scratched it on something, maybe when he was working on the buttons on Louis’ jeans. He’ll need to redo it before going to the studio tonight or it’s going to drive him insane every time he stares at his hands while in downward dog. It’s enough of a distraction that Harry is startled when Louis presses into the mattress, leaning in with a furrow and those blue, blue eyes.

“Hey, don’t be like that.” Murmuring, Louis caresses his hand along Harry’s bare thigh, up over and onto his ass when he leans in for a small kiss. “You know you’re my girl.”

“I know you’re a sweet talker.” Harry tries to be casual about it, but he knows it lands a little heavy. He can tell when Louis presses his lips a little firmer to Harry’s, knee denting into the bed. He smells like Harry’s lip gloss, sweet peaches, and it just smears more into his skin when Louis curls his tongue into Harry’s mouth.

“You going to be mad at me now? Going to make me beg for it?” Louis asks, runs the tip of his nose along Harry’s, cheek dented with a smirk when he feels Harry shudder under him.  He knows what he’s doing. And Harry knows what he’s doing. But neither of them can seem to stop it.

They’ve only been hooking up for a few months now, but the way Louis knows Harry is almost uncanny. It’s like his hands were made to be on Harry’s skin, trace his waist, hold his hips and touch him like he knows everything that Harry is made up of. Louis kisses him and Harry swears his nerves come alight, body arching off the bed to get closer, wants to drown every time in all the heat that Louis always gives off.

“Just go.” Harry tries to lay back, rolls his weight, but Louis’ hand suddenly goes firm, fingertips digging in. He doesn’t always let Harry have the last word. In fact, it’s a rarity entirely for Harry to ever feel like he comes away from these situations as a winner at all.

“I’ll text you later, yeah?” Louis wiggles his brows, gives a soft swat to Harry’s ass. “Send me a little yoga fit check. I want to see what color you pick out tonight.”

“Okay.”

There is a way in which Harry could have said no. He could have been flippant, dismissive, played the game better. But it’s hard when Louis looks like this. His hair is still messy and ruffled from Harry’s hands, flushed still with that glow that only comes after an exceptional orgasm. He’s boyish and gleeful and when he looks at Harry like that, it’s like all the nasty rumors and truths about him fade into the background.

Harry knew what he was getting into though when he finally gave into Louis’ advances. It’s hard not to miss Louis Tomlinson. He’s always the loudest in the room, always has a group of lads following him around wherever he goes. He’s magnetic and exciting and easy. That’s the key word. He’s easy to find and he’s easy to get, because Louis has never been told no in his life. Not by anyone who really mattered. Not until Harry. And look how that turned out.

When he’s got the door propped open a few inches, Louis turns back and holds his fingers up, making a long rectangle. He mimes taking a picture, grinning wide behind it when he’s done.

“Deserve to be in a gallery, Haz.” Louis sighs, seems almost disappointed that he’s leaving, but he still has his foot in the jam.