Title: i don't know about me, but i know about you (#SWAGGIE)
Word Count: ~3,200
Summary: Fill for this kink meme prompt: No established relationship. Louis and Harry are arguing over who the better kisser is, until one of them basically says "i'll prove it" and the other's like "bring it on" and they start making out, basically. At first they try really really hard to show off and not care about who they're kissing and just prove a point, but then they kind of get lost in each other and it turns sloppy and messy and wonderful and they fall onto the couch and get off by grinding against each other.
Notes: oh god it's happening i'm writing 1d fic nooooooo.docx
All day yesterday Niall was listening to Justin Bieber’s new single, and now Louis’ singing it under his breath as he taps out a word to Harry on his phone. Triple word score and a “V” on a double letter space; now Harry’s five points behind. Dick. Louis’ singing even louder now that he’s no longer thinking out his turn, and Harry can’t ignore it when he’s sitting right beside him, legs slung across Louis’ with his feet propped up on the coffee table.
“Stop that,” Harry mumbles. He’s got only one vowel, and this word has to be perfect.
“What?” Louis asks, too distracted by his Twitter feed, or something else equally as enthralling, to look up.
“Stop singing that song. ‘m trying to beat you.”
Louis’ smile is quick and bright, like the sun’s glinting off it. “You won’t. Only three tiles left, and I’ve obviously got all the useful ones.”
Harry sinks lower into the cushion and frowns at his screen, recalling his letters. Nope, that won’t do it. “Shut up. Don’t sing.”
“But Harry,” Louis whines, as obnoxiously as he can, “I thought you liked it when I sang. ‘If I was your boyfriend, I’d never let you go— oh.’” Louis ends on a sour exhale and a grunt when Harry elbows him in the diaphragm.
“You’re not even good at singing,” Harry says, and elbows him again for good measure.
Louis affects a shocked expression and gasps, aiming for obnoxious again and hitting the bulls-eye. “Harry Hazza Styles, how dare you. I am a damn good singer. Better than you, you Bieber-hater. Niall will bludgeon you to death with his pot o’ gold.”
Harry chuckles and shuffles his letters. “Shut up, really. I only have one vowel. I need to think.”
Louis’ not going to shut up, though. He’s sick of this game because he knows he’s already won and now he’s bored, full of mischief and ready to drive someone mad enough that they can’t ignore him anymore. Soon they’ll end up doing something stupid, like pouring the orange juice into the milk carton and the milk into the orange juice carton, or finally doing the cinnamon challenge, or taping up pictures of Zayn’s supposed nudes in unsuspecting places all over the hotel room.
It’s inevitable, so Harry resigns the game, locks his phone, and sets it on the table. He steeples his fingers under his chin and stares at Louis. “You’re not good at singing,” he says again. It’s hard not to smile around Louis, but Harry manages to keep a straight face when Louis stares just as seriously back at him.
“Is that so, Harry?” Louis’ eyes are narrowed, and his voice is lowered in a campy imitation of an outlaw on the knife’s edge of a duel. “Has it really come to this?”
Harry barely keeps the corners of his mouth from quirking up. He plays along with his own gravelly cowboy voice. “I guess it has, Lou.”
“This won’t end well for you. I’m a very skilled individual. So, maybe you are better at singing than me, but I’m better at Words with Friends than you. You’ll never win. Admit it.”
Harry nods once. “Fair enough. I’m better at Mario than you.”
Louis quirks an eyebrow, glare intensified. “I’m better at every Wii sport in the Wii Sports repertoire, and don’t you even start with the bowling cheating thing again.”
“You can’t just throw the bowling ball straight up and get a strike every time!” Harry throws his hands up with remembered frustration and Louis laughs, the same way he does every time Harry tries to get Liam to disqualify him from their tournaments. “If you did that in real life, the ball would land on you. You’d be horribly injured. Or dead.”
“Ah, but Wii isn’t real life, is it? And I’m very much intact.”
Harry crosses his arms over his chest. “Fine. I’m better at… being handsome than you.”
Louis gasps again. “I’m obviously better at that! I have more pairs of suspenders than you ever will.”
“That doesn’t mean you’re handsome, it just means you dress like a twat.”
Louis smacks Harry’s thigh in retaliation. “Kindly fuck off! If anyone dresses like a twat, it’s Zayn.”
Harry can’t help but giggle, but he stifles it quickly enough. “Fine, Zayn’s better at dressing like a twat than you. He’s also better at being handsome than you.”
Louis’ mouth twists, displeased. “Yeah? Well you better believe I’m better with the ladies than he is. I’m a better kisser than he is, for sure.”
“How would you know?”
“I just look like a better kisser, don’t I?” Louis smiles his most winning smile then puckers his lips at Harry.
“Not taking it, sorry. Has to be able to be proven. Plus,” Harry continues, his smile sly, “I can guarantee I’m a better kisser than you both are.”
“Do you really want to test me, Styles? Because I follow through.”
Harry must have lost track of the banter somewhere, because he’s not following. “On what?”
“If you want evidence to prove who is the better kisser, right here, right now – you know I don’t back down from a challenge.”
Ah, all right. Harry gets it. He swings his legs up off of Louis’ and shuffles around so he’s sitting cross-legged on the couch facing Louis. He smiles, and in it is the challenge Louis was asking for. “Well, neither do I.”
Louis sits still for a moment and looks decidedly undecided, as if he wasn’t the one to suggest it. Seconds tick past and then he bursts into motion, situating himself with jerky movements until he’s cross-legged and facing Harry too. The cushion dips below his displaced weight and their knees bump together. There’s so much tension between them that brushing Louis’ knee feels like accidentally touching an electric fence – a startling crackle that nearly knocks Harry off his feet. Harry fixes his hair to hide his uneasiness, fingers shaking as he tousles. When he flips it up off his face, Louis’ staring straight through him.
“Harry,” he says.
“Yeah, Louis?” Harry replies, just as quietly as Louis had started.
“If you’re taking the piss right now and I kiss you to prove I’m the better kisser, that’s going to be really awkward. So. Are you taking the piss?”
Harry’s breath leaves him unsteadily. “Thought you said you didn’t back down from a challenge, Tomlinson.”
Louis scoots a bit closer. “Correct. I don’t.”
“I’m a better kisser than you are,” Harry taunts, as his palms start to sweat.
“No, you’re not,” Louis says firmly.
“Prove it.” Harry swallows. And before he can take it all back, wipe his sweaty palms off on his jeans, laugh, nervously, and suggest they go print out dozens of pictures of “Zayn’s” cock instead, then breathe in the normalcy of Louis bent over laughing at Harry taping a risky one to the window with a thumbs-up, and Louis taping the point of his nose up to his forehead and laughing, both of them laughing, until they’re all out of tape and his heartbeat goes back to what it was before… before this, he says, “Kiss me.”
Louis puts both hands on Harry’s knees and leans in. Harry can see the stubble coming in on Louis’ chin even though he just shaved this morning, and a red spot he nicked, the pores on the bridge of his nose and the frantic darting of his eyes from Harry’s mouth up to his eyes and then down and then back again, and back again. Louis breathes out, and Harry feels the breath hit his lips. This feels bigger than Harry thought it would, considering the liberties they take with each other’s bodies every day, in public and on television. He’s thought about kissing Louis before, of course he has – he can’t turn on his phone without seeing an article about their “bromance” or stumbling across a blog post about their actual romance or receiving hundreds of mentions on Twitter asking him if he’s dating Louis, if he’s in love with Louis, if he could just please kiss Louis, please. He can’t even have a wank without “Larry Stylinson” popping into his head. It’s one of those things where you try so hard not to think about it that you do.
He’s thought about kissing Louis a lot.
“’s this too weird?” Harry asks softly.
The look in Louis’ eyes was terrified— Harry’s not sure if he blinked and missed the shift, but now it’s determined, and he mutters, “Gonna prove you wrong, Styles,” as he pushes his lips against Harry’s.
Another competition, Harry versus Louis. That’s all it is. Louis closes his eyes, Harry closes his. Louis sucks Harry’s bottom lip into his mouth, Harry scrapes his teeth against Louis’ upper lip. Louis opens his mouth, Harry sticks his tongue inside it.
Harry recalls every fantastic kiss he’s ever had and borrows something from each of them to try on Louis until his tongue is tied and his lips are puffy and his jaw is cramping, and how long exactly have they been kissing for? Louis’ good and he’s not backing down, and Harry’s tired of trying to take control of the kiss with technique. His hands twitch in his lap, while Louis’ remain stiffly on Harry’s knees.
It’s strange, not touching someone as he kisses them. If Louis were someone he was out to shag, his hands would be doing more work than his mouth right now. He’s not sure if that’s allowed, though, so the kiss stays in this weird sort of limbo with just mouths and craning necks and not enough leverage to really get it going. It’s like no kiss he’s ever had before. It’s almost impersonal, like… scientific, like uninterrupted exploration of the ridges and planes and slopes of Louis’ mouth. And that’s wondrous, in a way.
Harry clenches and unclenches his fingers, trying to get them to stop tingling, but it doesn’t help. The tingling travels up his arms and over his chest and down his spine, and the stubble he noticed on Louis’ chin scrapes against his freshly-shaved jaw– the sensation hits him so viscerally that he gasps, a sharp breath in through his nose. They’re at a stalemate, and it’s gotten so mindless for Harry that he starts to feel everything; the shape of Louis’ lips, the searing slide of Louis’ tongue, the barely-there tremble in Louis’ fingertips, which haven’t moved an inch since they started, closer or further away. Harry’s getting hard. He uncurls his fists and splays his fingers, palms down over his crotch. It’s Louis, not his snogging prowess, that’s turning Harry on; he knows because when he breathes in deep and catches the familiar smell of Louis’ cologne, arousal curls heavy in his gut. He wants Louis.
Harry’s never been great at impulse control, so when he realizes he wants to touch Louis he immediately lifts his hand and cups his cheek. Louis flinches and stops kissing for a split-second. Harry holds his breath; then Louis melts back into the kiss as if nothing happened.
Time to push it. Harry takes the hand that was covering his crotch and places it low on Louis’ waist. Louis hums something that Harry doesn’t catch, but it doesn’t sound like, “Stop, that’s against the rules,” so Harry rucks up Louis’ shirt. It sends a nervous thrill up Harry’s spine, how fantastically hot Louis’ naked skin feels beneath his palm. He presses his fingers into Louis’ soft stomach and Louis makes another noise, just as unintelligible as the last, right before Harry takes his hand out and rests it on Louis’ hip, circling the jut of it with his thumb. Louis’ kissing has slowed significantly and he’s gone sort of tense, but he still hasn’t pulled away. He waits a good minute for Louis to let down his guard again. Heart in his throat, he slides his hand between Louis’ legs.
Louis’ hard too.
“Fuck, Louis,” Harry groans against Louis’ slack lips, “I’m really turned on.”
Louis shakes his head slightly. “Don’t,” he says, and he starts to pull back; Harry feels his lips leaving, and that’s all it takes for him to realize how desperate for Louis he really is. Things will never be the same after this— Harry will never be able to look at Louis and not know that he wants to kiss him, and that'll drive a wedge between them. Harry can’t have that.
“You are too,” Harry says, voice low and quivering, “I can feel it.” On feel he squeezes Louis’ cock through his trousers.
Louis stares at him, mouth open and so red. That terrified look is back in his eyes again, but it’s now tempered by blown pupils. He looks gorgeous.
“You don’t have to say anything,” Harry says, every word carefully even, “Just… if you want me to, or rather us to—y’know, you could just… kiss me again.” Harry’s vibrating with anxiety and arousal, on edge and ready to pounce as soon as Louis makes a move towards him.
Louis’ hands drops off of Harry’s knees.
A frantic apology is on the tip of Harry’s tongue, but then one of Louis’ hands fists in Harry’s curls and forces Harry’s head back so he can plunder Harry’s mouth, with no technique to speak of— just an almost violent fervor that makes Harry hot all over. Louis tries to crawl into Harry’s lap, but Harry knocks him flat on his back the minute he gets up on his knees. He hovers over Louis, his knees on either side of Harry’s middle, and takes in and memorizes every detail of this sight in as little time as he dares spend; because if this stays still for too long, Harry’s sure it will fall apart.
So he acts; surges in and goes straight for Louis’ neck to suck a real love bite into his skin. Louis hisses out a curse and squirms, hips jerking suddenly up against Harry’s. No wonder he got so flustered when Harry did this to him in public, all that fidgeting and tugging at his sweatshirt as his cheeks flamed; it turns him on. Harry grins and holds Louis down as he mouths at the mark he’s already made, sucks it deeper into the skin— scrapes his teeth along Louis’ racing pulse until Louis is keening and bucking up against Harry, too eager to be restrained.
But Louis says, “No,” when Harry starts to unbutton his trousers. Harry stops, unsure what Louis wants. Louis doesn’t look too sure either, but he buries his hands in Harry’s hair again and kisses him, so Harry goes with it. Harry’s distracted by Louis’ fingers tugging at his curls and digging patterns into his scalp, so he doesn’t notice Louis’ undulating beneath him until his body starts instinctively copying the motions. Their hips connect, and Harry moans into Louis’ mouth. He rolls his hips in a steady rhythm, with a few hard thrusts here and there, and when Louis opens his eyes and catches Harry’s gaze, he hopes Louis gets that he’s thinking, “This is how I would fuck you.” He doesn’t dare say it aloud, but he thinks Louis understands when he wraps his legs round Harry’s waist and thrusts up against him with these quick, short little movements that drive Harry mad.
Harry lifts Louis’ hips up off the couch completely, two hands square on his ass, and grinds down hard against him like he’s bottoming out inside of him and god, Harry really didn’t know he wanted to fuck Louis too until today. Their kissing has gotten sloppy and messy and Louis’ moaning into it, fingers dragging down Harry’s spine and teasing at the waistband of Harry’s boxers until he finds the courage to slip them underneath it and dig his nails into the beginning curve of Harry’s ass.
Harry breaks the kiss with a groan, licks a hot stripe over the mark he sucked into Louis’ neck and whispers as they grind their hips together, voice husky with overwhelming arousal, “Gonna make you come in your trousers, Lou.”
“God, Harry,” Louis chokes out. He thrusts up against Harry so fast it makes Harry’s head spin, entire body thrumming with the build-up of pleasure as precome leaks slick and heavy over the head of his cock. Louis must be just as close, because a second later he goes still. The face he makes when he comes— that’ll be invading Harry’s wank time in the place of Larry Stylinson from now on. Louis’ better at orgasming than anyone Harry’s ever seen: thighs shaking where they’re clinging to Harry’s sides, arms slung over Harry’s shoulders and hands down the back of his jeans gone slack, lower lip caught between his teeth as his chest heaves under Harry’s palm and his hips twitch sporadically. He’s loose-limbed and out of it and hasn’t even opened his eyes yet, so Harry shuts his own and rubs at himself through his jeans— it won’t take much to bring him off.
So, when Louis catches his lips in a biting kiss and puts his hand over Harry’s to increase the pressure on his throbbing cock, Harry comes; he thinks he might’ve whimpered as it hit him, but Louis’ tongue down his throat muffles any sound he might’ve made, whimper or otherwise, and Harry kisses back as he rides his orgasm out on Louis’ hips. Panting, he falls against Louis’ chest. Louis’ lying still and breathing steady by now. His hands find their way back into Harry’s hair, combing through it and untangling curls from each other and Harry sighs, content enough that he forgets for a moment how huge this is. But once he catches his breath, he has to prop himself up on his elbows and look down at Louis.
“Hi,” Harry says when Louis blinks up at him. He still looks like the Louis Harry knows, albeit flushed and rumpled and indecently beautiful. “So,” he continues, voice audibly trembling, when Louis doesn’t say anything in return, “That got a little out of hand, didn’t it.”
Harry hasn’t felt this much dreadful anticipation for what might come out of someone’s mouth since the X Factor.
“A little out of hand?” Louis repeats, incredulous. His post-orgasm voice is enough to make Harry want to go again. Down boy, he tells himself. “Harry Styles, you are… unbelievable.”
Harry’s still cringing for the fallout when Louis brushes the damp fringe curling against Harry’s temple back off his face and tips his head up for a kiss. It’s soft and accompanied with a feeling that Louis is probably already in denial of and could never voice, not in a million years. But Harry’s not as emotionally-stunted as Louis is. He knows what this feels like. He returns the kiss with a smile, and tries not to let it consume him.
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