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The tattoo shop smelled faintly of ink, antiseptic, and a lingering trace of Harry's cologne-something woodsy and dark, with a hint of spice. It was late morning, and the shop was empty except for Harry and Louis. The tattoo chair creaked softly under Louis's weight as he leaned back, his thighs comfortably spread. Harry straddled him, his knees pressing against the chair's edge, and his hands cradled Louis's jaw as their lips moved together, slow and deliberate.
Harry's curls were an artful mess, like he'd just rolled out of bed - which, in truth, he had. His green eyes were half-lidded, his sharp jawline tilted just enough to catch the faint light filtering in through the window blinds. Louis smirked against Harry's mouth, one hand threading into those brown curls, tugging just hard enough to pull a gasp from the man perched on his lap.
"You're insatiable," Louis murmured, his voice low and teasing. His thumb grazed the nape of Harry's neck, sending a shiver down the other man's spine. He leaned in, his stubble brushing against Harry's skin as he kissed a trail down to his neck, just above the collarbone. Harry tilted his head back instinctively, giving Louis access, the exposed curve of his throat betraying a vulnerability that few ever saw.
For all of Harry's edges - his tattoos, the faint shadow under his eyes from nights spent chasing the neon haze of raves and the sharp sting of cocaine - he melted under Louis's touch. And Louis, with his feathered brown hair and lean frame, exuded a quiet confidence that could bring Harry to his knees. He wasn't the loudest in the room, but he didn't need to be. His dominance was in the way he carried himself, the way he could bring Harry to heel with a single look.
"You're one to talk," Harry shot back, his voice soft and a little breathless. His hands slid down to rest on Louis's chest, his fingertips brushing the soft cotton of Louis's T-shirt. He looked down at the man beneath him, his lips quirking into a playful grin. "You're the one who dragged me into my own chair."
Louis chuckled, his hand moving to Harry's hip, his thumb slipping just under the hem of Harry's shirt to brush against warm skin. "Couldn't resist," he said, his accent curling around the words like a caress. "You looked too good standing there."
The tattoo shop, aptly named Daggers, stood right across the street from Roses, Louis's flower shop. It had been a running joke between them - Daggers and Roses, the bad boy and the florist, opposites in every way that mattered. But somehow, it worked. Harry still remembered the first time he saw Louis, years ago, standing behind the counter of his little shop, carefully arranging a bouquet of sunflowers. Harry had wandered in, looking for an excuse to talk to the man with blue eyes sharp enough to cut through his haze of late nights and rough mornings.
Back then, Harry had been all sharp angles and chaos, a walking contradiction of charm and recklessness. He'd started coming into Roses twice a week, always asking Louis to recommend a flower. Louis, with a knowing smile, would hand him something delicate - a single peony, a daisy, sometimes a stem of eucalyptus - and Harry would pay without question. It became a ritual, one that neither of them acknowledged out loud but both silently cherished.
One day, Louis stopped charging him. "You're a loyal customer," he'd said with a wink, handing Harry a marigold. But it wasn't until Louis strolled into Daggers a month later and asked for a tattoo that Harry realized the florist had been playing the long game. Louis had smirked and said, "Pick your favorite flower out of the ones I've given you this month. Tattoo it on me."
And so began their tango. Every month, Louis would bring Harry flowers, and every month, he'd let Harry ink one of them onto his skin. It was a strange kind of courtship, but it suited them. It wasn't until six months in, when Harry suggested tattooing a flower on Louis's v-line, that their relationship truly shifted. Louis had shimmied his jeans down just enough, his smirk daring, his confidence unshakable. By the time the tattoo was finished, they both knew there was no going back.
Now, years later, their worlds had melded together in a way that made no sense on paper but felt perfectly natural in practice. Harry still dragged Louis to raves, where Louis would keep an eye on him, pulling him back when he flew too close to the sun. And Louis still woke up before dawn to open Roses, leaving Harry sprawled out in their shared bed, his curls a messy halo on the pillow. Harry would stumble out of bed a few hours later, grab lunch for both of them, and meet Louis in the shop for their midday ritual.
"I'm opening early today because of you," Harry murmured, his lips brushing against Louis's ear as he shifted in his lap. His tone was teasing, but the warmth in his eyes betrayed him. He liked these stolen moments, these interruptions to their routine.
"And I'll make it worth your while," Louis replied, his voice steady, his gaze holding Harry's like a promise.
And in that quiet moment, with the sun streaming through the blinds and the city bustling outside, they came from different worlds, but together, they were home.
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The sharp tang of cigarette smoke lingered in the cool evening air, curling around Harry's fingers as he took another slow, deliberate drag. His green eyes gleamed with a wicked kind of defiance, catching the fading sunlight as it slipped below the rooftops. Standing just outside Roses, the cigarette burning between his fingers felt like the only rebellion left after Louis had stopped him from going to the rave last night. Harry had been buzzing with restless energy ever since, a low hum of dissatisfaction thrumming beneath his skin.
The weight of Louis's disapproval, heavy and unspoken, only made him itch to push harder. His free hand twitched at his side, his fingers flexing against the rough fabric of his jeans. He could feel Louis's gaze on him from inside the shop, sharp and assessing. It wasn't just irritation - it was the way Louis's control wrapped around Harry like a leash, one Harry loved yanking against. The leash had tightened last night when Louis had shut down his plans, leaving Harry high and dry, and now it was all Harry could think about: pushing Louis far enough to make him snap.
He exhaled a stream of smoke through parted lips, letting it swirl lazily upward, and glanced over his shoulder. Louis was there, locking the register, his movements deliberate and precise. The floral-scented air that always clung to Louis was wafting out onto the street. It was so at odds with Harry's world - harsh ink, sterile needles, the sharp bite of antiseptic - and yet, that difference was magnetic.
Harry smirked to himself, flicking ash to the ground as he imagined Louis's reaction to what he was about to do. His fingers were already brushing against the petals of the flower Louis had just tucked behind his ear. It was ridiculous, Harry thought, the way a single soft gesture from Louis could make his chest ache and his knees feel weak, even after years together. But Harry wasn't about to let that tenderness win right now. He plucked the vibrant dahlia from his hair and rolled it between his fingers as a plan formed - a brat's play, calculated and guaranteed to push Louis right to the edge.
Harry took one more drag from his cigarette, savoring the burn as his other hand moved to the zipper of his jeans. His lips curled into a slow, wicked grin as he slid the flower down, tucking it deliberately into the open zipper. The bold fuchsia against the black denim was loud, ridiculous, and exactly the kind of audacity that would get under Louis's skin. He adjusted it for dramatic effect, his fingers brushing suggestively against himself, and waited for the fireworks.
Inside the flower shop, Louis exhaled slowly through his nose as he rolled the last of the day's receipts into a tidy bundle. He could feel Harry's energy bleeding through the glass window, a wild, buzzing defiance that had been simmering since last night. Louis knew Harry too well - knew every twitch of his fingers, every glint of mischief in those sharp green eyes.
When he finally stepped outside, the sight that greeted him almost made him pause. Harry leaned against the shopfront, his curls catching the golden light, his body language the perfect picture of defiance. The cigarette dangled lazily between his fingers, and those green eyes sparkled with something brazen, unrepentant. Louis's jaw tightened. Harry was daring him. Again.
The flower caught Louis's attention first - its bold petals nestled obnoxiously against the open zipper of Harry's jeans. Louis's gaze flicked up to meet Harry's, and there it was: that grin, cocky and infuriating, spreading across Harry's face. His chest tightened, not with anger but something darker, sharper, the kind of anticipation that set his pulse thrumming.
"You think you're funny, do you?" Louis asked, his voice steady, velvet smooth with a dangerous undertone. He stepped closer, slow and deliberate, his boots scuffing lightly against the pavement. Harry didn't flinch. If anything, he tilted his head, letting the sunlight catch the sharp angles of his jawline, his lips curling into a smirk that only deepened Louis's resolve.
When Louis's fingers wrapped around the cigarette and plucked it from Harry's mouth, he felt the smallest hitch in Harry's breath. Louis let the cigarette drop to the ground, crushing it under his heel with deliberate slowness. His other hand darted down, and in one swift motion, he yanked the flower from Harry's jeans, making sure to brush against Harry's growing hardness as he did.
Harry's sharp intake of breath was audible in the quiet street, and it sent a thrill down Louis's spine. He held the dahlia up, inspecting it for a brief moment before meeting Harry's gaze again. The way Harry's green eyes darkened, lips parting slightly, told Louis everything he needed to know, the brat was already teetering on the edge.
Harry's heart pounded, a betraying stutter of excitement as Louis's fingers lingered far longer than necessary. His cock throbbed beneath the rough denim, and he hated how easily Louis could undo him with a single calculated movement. But he wasn't about to let Louis have the upper hand without a fight.
Harry licked his lips, letting his smirk slip back into place, even as his breathing grew uneven. "What's the matter, love?" he teased, his voice low and taunting. "Can't handle a bit of personality?"
Louis's eyes narrowed, the blue darkening to a stormy shade that made Harry's stomach twist deliciously. There was no missing the tension in the way Louis held himself, his hand still fisted around the stem of the flower, his knuckles pale. Harry loved this - this tightrope walk between pushing too far and begging for mercy.
He leaned in, closing the space between them, and let out a slow, deliberate breath of smoke directly into Louis's face.
Louis didn't flinch. He didn't even blink. He simply stood there, letting the smoke curl around him as he stared Harry down, his expression carved from stone. But inside, the leash he kept on himself was fraying, the brat's audacity unraveling him inch by inch.
"You're really trying me today, aren't you?" Louis murmured, his voice a dangerous rumble as he stepped even closer, crowding Harry back against the wall. The shutters of Roses clanged as Harry's shoulders bumped against them, but the defiance in those green eyes didn't waver. If anything, it gleamed brighter.
Louis reached out, his fingers wrapping firmly around Harry's jaw. The grip was unyielding, forcing Harry to look up at him, their faces inches apart. "I've been nothing but patient with you all fucking day," Louis growled, his thumb brushing over the corner of Harry's mouth. His other hand moved to Harry's crotch again, this time squeezing hard enough to make Harry gasp.
"Do you really want to see what happens when my patience runs out, love?" Louis smirked, his voice a silken promise of retribution. And from the way Harry's pupils blew wide, Louis knew the answer before the brat even opened his mouth.
Louis exhaled slowly, his teeth scraping lightly over his bottom lip as he stared Harry down. That hickey - wet and deliberate - burned hot under his ear, a blatant display of Harry's bratty defiance. Louis had half a mind to let it slide, to keep his composure and bide his time until they were safely behind closed doors at home. But then Harry smirked, all smug satisfaction, and Louis knew that waiting wasn't an option.
His hand shot out, fingers tangling in Harry's curls, tugging hard enough to pull a sharp gasp from him. Louis didn't bother to hide his smirk as Harry's eyes widened momentarily before narrowing with that same damnable defiance. "You're going to regret that," Louis murmured, his voice low and velvety, filled with a promise that made Harry's breath hitch.
Without another word, Louis turned on his heel, dragging Harry by the hair down the street toward Daggers. The sharp sting of the pull had Harry stumbling after him, boots scuffing against the pavement as he struggled to keep up. The streets were blessedly empty, but Louis knew that Harry wouldn't have cared even if they were bustling. If anything, the thought of being seen like this - his dominant florist dragging him by the hair through the boutique-lined street - would probably excite Harry more.
The neon sign of Daggers came into view, glowing faintly in the dim light of the evening. Louis swung the door open with one hand, shoving Harry inside with the other. The tattoo shop smelled of ink and antiseptic, the stark contrast to Roses always striking Louis as a physical manifestation of their worlds. Harry stumbled into one of the leather chairs, his smirk already back in place as he slouched into it, legs spread wide and hands gripping the armrests.
"This is what you wanted, isn't it?" Louis asked, leaning against the front counter with practiced ease. His smirk matched Harry's now, sharp and knowing, his arms crossed over his chest as he tilted his head toward the front door. "You might regret it sooner than you think."
The bell above the door jingled, and Harry's smirk faltered. A young woman with bubblegum-pink hair and a leather jacket strolled in, her expression brightening when she saw Harry. Louis didn't bother hiding his satisfaction as Harry's shoulders stiffened, the façade slipping just enough for Louis to know his brat was already regretting his antics.
Harry's heart sank as the bell jingled, the familiar sound pulling him back to reality. His emerald eyes flicked to Louis, who stood at the counter, one eyebrow quirked in amusement. That smirk - the one Harry both feared and craved - sent a jolt of nervous anticipation through him. Shit. He was fucked. He just didn't know how yet.
For now, Harry shoved the nerves down, forcing himself to straighten up and slide into his professional persona. The woman - a nurse, if the hospital badge on her jacket was anything to go by - smiled warmly at him. Her tattoos peeked out from under the sleeves of her jacket, intricate designs that Harry vaguely recognized as his work. She was cool, confident, and clearly comfortable in his shop. Harry clung to the familiarity of the moment as he stood, brushing his hands against his jeans before stepping forward.
"Hey," he greeted, his voice smooth and low, his smirk softening into something more approachable. "Back for another piece?"
The woman nodded, pulling out her phone and scrolling through photos as she spoke. "Yeah, I was thinking something small this time - maybe on my arm. I love the floral designs you do."
Harry nodded along, his mind split between running through her request and the weight of Louis's gaze boring into him. He could feel it - heavy and unrelenting, like a leash tightening around his throat. His fingers twitched at his sides, the restless energy he'd carried all day threatening to spill over. But he kept his cool, walking the woman through the process, discussing placement and design, all while pointedly ignoring the way Louis leaned against the counter, his blue eyes watching like a predator sizing up his prey.
Louis watched, his sharp gaze taking in every detail of Harry's performance. The way he moved, confident and assured, his broad shoulders rolling as he gestured toward the chair. The low rasp of his voice as he spoke to the client, that rough edge of professionalism that Louis knew was masking the chaos simmering underneath. Harry was good at this - at putting on the mask, playing the part of the hard-core tattoo artist with the devil-may-care attitude. And Louis loved watching him, loved the stark contrast between this version of Harry and the one he knew so intimately.
Louis's eyes drifted to Harry's hands, the way they flexed and curled as he gestured. He could see the faint tremor in them, the restless energy that hadn't faded despite the distraction of work. Harry was still thinking about pushing, about testing Louis further, and the thought made Louis's jaw tighten.
But for now, Louis stayed where he was, leaning casually against the counter. He wasn't in any rush. The punishment would come, but only after Harry had squirmed under his watchful eye long enough to regret every bratty decision he'd made today. For now, he let himself admire Harry - the sharp angles of his jawline, the mess of curls falling over his forehead, the tattooed arms that flexed subtly as he moved. This was the version of Harry the world saw - strong, untouchable, and fiercely independent.
But Louis knew better. He knew the way Harry's breath hitched when his hair was pulled, the way his cock twitched at the smallest hint of dominance. He knew the way Harry melted when Louis called him out, the way he loved being broken down just to be built back up again.
Harry could feel Louis's eyes on him the entire time, that unrelenting presence making his skin prickle. He tried to ignore it, tried to focus on the client, but every movement felt heavy, every word like it carried more weight than it should. He glanced toward Louis once, briefly, and the look on his face made Harry's stomach twist. That smirk - that knowing, dangerous smirk - was a warning and a promise, and Harry's mind raced with possibilities.
He moved through the motions, guiding the client to one of the chairs, rolling up his sleeves as he prepared the station. His hands were steady now, the act of setting up for the tattoo grounding him, but his mind was anything but calm. He couldn't stop thinking about what Louis had planned, about the punishment he'd brought on himself. And beneath the nervous anticipation was a flicker of something darker, something hotter - an aching need that had been building all day.
Harry swallowed hard, glancing toward Louis again. The florist hadn't moved, still leaning against the counter, his blue eyes piercing and unreadable. For a moment, Harry thought about saying something, about pushing one last time. But the look on Louis's face stopped him.
He was already fucked.
The hum of the tattoo machine filled the shop, steady and rhythmic, a sound that usually grounded Harry. His hands worked deftly, the needle tracing delicate lines onto his client's skin with precision born of years of practice. The nurse - Jules, as she'd introduced herself - chatted easily, her voice warm and lilting as she talked about her job, her love for tattoos, and the latest band she'd seen live.
Harry nodded along, throwing in a comment here and there, but his focus remained on the intricate floral design he was inking onto the curve of her skin, just above her armpit. This was his sanctuary, the one place where the chaotic buzz in his mind faded, leaving nothing but the pure satisfaction of creating art. For a moment, he even forgot about Louis.
The weight of Louis's gaze had disappeared, and Harry decided it was safer not to look back and confirm where he was. He doubted Louis had forgotten about earlier - Louis never forgot - but he seemed preoccupied, chatting with Jules in that charming, honeyed voice he used on customers. It wasn't his real voice, not the one he used when growling filthy commands into Harry's ear or laughing softly at one of Harry's stupid jokes. This was the polite Louis, the one Harry occasionally found himself jealous of because everyone adored him.
Harry caught snippets of their conversation, Louis complimenting Jules on her courage to get a tattoo in such a tender spot. Jules laughed, and Harry felt a prickle of irritation at how easily Louis could charm anyone. Then Louis's voice dropped just slightly, not enough for Jules to notice, but enough for Harry to hear the innuendo woven into his words.
"You know, I've always thought tattoos on sensitive areas are the most rewarding," Louis said smoothly, his blue eyes flicking briefly to Harry before returning to Jules. "The kind of pain that sticks with you for days... unforgettable, really."
Harry's hand faltered for a split second, the machine stuttering before he steadied it again. Jules didn't seem to notice, but Louis's faint smirk told Harry that the comment hadn't been unintentional. Fine. Two could play that game.
"Yeah," Harry replied, his voice casual but tinged with challenge. "It's the kind of pain that makes you want to go back for more. Addictive, even." He glanced over his shoulder, locking eyes with Louis for a brief, charged moment. But Louis's smile didn't falter - it widened, if anything. Harry swallowed hard and turned back to his work, his resolve starting to crumble under the weight of whatever Louis had planned.
Jules shifted slightly, wincing as she held her arm up, and Harry pulled the needle back. "Want a quick break?" he offered. She nodded gratefully, shaking out her hand as she sat up. Harry stretched his fingers, flexing them before wiping down his tools. He didn't dare look back at Louis - until he heard his voice.
"Harry, a moment, please."
The tone was low, authoritative, leaving no room for argument. Harry turned slowly, his stomach tightening as Louis gestured for him to follow. Jules seemed oblivious, reaching for her water bottle, but Harry's heart pounded in his chest as he trailed behind Louis to the corner of the shop. Louis turned to him, and the look in his blue eyes made Harry's mouth go dry.
"Bathroom. Second drawer. Pink plug. No lube-just spit," Louis said, his voice calm, quiet, and devastatingly clear. He didn't wait for a response, simply turning on his heel and walking back to Jules, resuming their conversation as if nothing had happened.
Harry stood there for a moment, his eyes wide, his mind racing. Surely not. But Louis had been perfectly clear. The pink plug - Harry's favorite, the one they used for play scenes at home - was waiting in the staff bathroom. And Louis expected him to work it into himself with nothing but spit, now, while his client was on a break.
"Fuck," Harry muttered under his breath, his cheeks flushing as he glanced toward Jules. She was sipping water, chatting easily with Louis, completely unaware of the storm raging in Harry's head.
"Everything okay?" she asked brightly, glancing up at him.
"Yeah, just... one sec," Harry replied, his voice tight. He strode to the bathroom, his boots heavy against the floor, and shut the door behind him with a shaky exhale.
The fluorescent lights buzzed softly, harsh and unflattering against the mirror. Harry stared at himself, his curls messy, his green eyes wide and panicked. His heart pounded as he yanked the drawer open, finding the pink plug exactly where Louis had said it would be. He picked it up, his fingers trembling slightly as he turned it over. It felt heavier than usual, the weight of the situation making his stomach churn with equal parts humiliation and arousal.
"Fucking hell," he muttered, pressing the plug against his lips. The silicone was cold, unyielding, and the act of slicking it with spit felt impossibly degrading. He stared at himself in the mirror, his cheeks burning as he worked his tongue over the surface. The image of himself - tattoo artist Harry Styles, the rough, bad-boy image he'd cultivated for years - reduced to this it made his cock twitch in his jeans.
He tried to ignore it, tried to focus on the task at hand. Time was ticking, and he knew Louis wouldn't tolerate delays. Harry shoved his knuckles into his mouth, biting down hard to stifle the sound as he slid his jeans and boxers down. He was already half-hard, the friction of the fabric making it worse, and he cursed under his breath as he crouched slightly, positioning the plug.
The first press of it burned, sharp and dry, and he bit down harder on his hand, his eyes squeezing shut as he pushed it in. "Fuck, fuck, fuck," he whispered, his voice muffled. It was a stretch, uncomfortable and overwhelming, and he felt tears prick at the corners of his eyes as he forced himself to take it all. When it finally seated, he sagged against the sink, his breaths coming in short, shaky gasps.
The humiliation of it hit him all over again as he straightened up, adjusting his jeans carefully over the plug. Every movement made him hyper-aware of it, the stretch and the fullness sending shocks of discomfort and arousal through his body. He ran a hand through his curls, trying to collect himself before stepping back out.
Louis glanced up as Harry re-entered the shop, noting the faint flush on his cheeks, the stiffness in his movements as he crossed the room. He didn't say a word, simply leaning against the counter, his blue eyes gleaming with satisfaction. Harry avoided his gaze, busying himself with the tattoo station, but Louis could see the tension in his jaw, the slight tremor in his hands as he adjusted the machine.
Good.
Louis let a small smile play on his lips as he resumed his conversation with Jules. Harry, the defiant brat who'd spent the whole day testing him, had finally been put in his place. And Louis wasn't done yet.
The burn was relentless. Every shift, every subtle movement of his hips, sent a wave of sharp, aching heat radiating from the plug buried inside him. It was worse because of how dry it was, the silicone stretching him in a way that was more friction than glide, and every small vibration from the tattoo gun seemed to echo through his body, amplifying the sensation. Harry gritted his teeth, his jaw clenched so tightly that it ached, his green eyes laser-focused on the design he was tattooing onto Jules's skin. He couldn't look anywhere else. He couldn't think about anything else. If he did, he was sure he'd break.
He loved his work, truly. It was one of the only things in his life that gave him a sense of control, a purpose that balanced out the chaos he carried. But right now, with the tattoo gun vibrating in his hand, the burn and ache in his bum, and his cock hard and throbbing against his jeans, even his work felt like a punishment. The edges of the floral design blurred as he blinked hard, trying to refocus. He couldn't afford to fuck this up. Jules was relaxed in the chair, chatting away, completely oblivious to the torment Harry was enduring just inches away.
Focus, Styles. Just fucking focus. He steadied his hand, letting the rhythmic hum of the machine ground him. The delicate petals of the design came back into focus as he exhaled through his nose, sharp and shallow. But then Louis's voice cut through the fog like a blade, low and commanding.
"Don't you think so, Harry?"
The words shot through him, ricocheting against his already frayed nerves. Louis's tone wasn't the polite, easy cadence he used with customers. No, this was his dominant voice, the one that wrapped around Harry's throat like a noose and squeezed until he couldn't breathe. Harry's hand faltered, the tattoo needle hovering dangerously close to Jules's skin before he caught himself.
He glanced up briefly, his green eyes wide and almost panicked, catching the smirk playing on Louis's lips. Louis was leaning against the counter, arms crossed, his blue eyes fixed on Harry with the kind of amusement that made Harry want to scream and kneel at the same time.
"Uh, yeah," Harry said quickly, his voice tight and strained as he forced himself to respond. "Totally." He didn't even know what he was agreeing to. Jules laughed softly, either unaware or politely ignoring the tension crackling between the two men.
"See?" Louis said smoothly, turning back to Jules as though Harry's obvious struggle wasn't entertaining him to no end. "I told you he'd agree."
The conversation continued, but Harry couldn't track it. Every word out of Louis's mouth felt like a trap, designed to pull him back into the web of control Louis had spun around him. And every time Harry tried to focus solely on the tattoo, Louis would drop another comment, his tone dipping just low enough to send a shiver down Harry's spine.
Louis leaned casually against the counter, his sharp blue eyes fixed on Harry. Watching him squirm was a kind of art in itself, every subtle wince and stifled shift a masterpiece of control and rebellion. He knew Harry was suffering - he'd seen the slight limp in his walk when he came back from the bathroom, the flush on his cheeks as he tried to compose himself. But the way Harry bit his lip, the way his green eyes darted back to his work with stubborn determination, told Louis that he was also loving every second of it.
The tattoo gun in Harry's hand buzzed steadily, the sound underscoring Jules's easy chatter. Louis barely heard her. His attention was on Harry's hands, the slight tremor in his fingers as he worked, the tension in his shoulders as he tried to keep his body still. Louis could practically see the way Harry was hyper-aware of every movement, the way the plug inside him was forcing him to feel every vibration, every shift, every breath.
Louis tilted his head slightly, his lips curving into a faint smirk as he decided to push a little further.
"Harry loved the floral designs, one of his best works isnt it Haz?" he asked, his voice dropping to that velvet-rich octave that always sent Harry into a tailspin.
The reaction was immediate. Harry's shoulders stiffened, his hand faltering just for a second before he caught himself. Louis watched as Harry's green eyes darted up to meet his, wide with barely-contained panic and arousal. The flush on his cheeks deepened, his lips parting slightly as though he wanted to say something but couldn't find the words.
"Uh, yeah," Harry said quickly, his voice strained. Louis could see the way his Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed, the effort it took to keep his tone even.
Louis chuckled softly, turning back to Jules as though nothing was amiss. "I told you," he said, his voice light, almost playful. But his gaze flicked back to Harry, and the smirk that followed was anything but innocent.
He watched as Harry shifted slightly in his chair, the movement subtle but telling. He could imagine the burn, the stretch, the way every vibration of the tattoo gun amplified the sensations radiating from the plug. Louis knew Harry - knew the way he craved control even as he fought against it, the way he thrived under the weight of humiliation and pain.
And yet, despite all of that, Harry still tried to push back. Louis could see it in the way he tightened his jaw, the way his green eyes glinted with stubborn defiance every time he glanced up. But Louis wasn't in any rush. The punishment had only just begun, and he intended to savor every moment of it.
Harry's knuckles were white as he gripped the tattoo machine, his breath coming in shallow bursts as he tried to focus on the lines of the design. His lower half was on fire, the burn from the plug radiating through his core and cock with every slight shift. He wanted to scream, to slam the tattoo machine down and storm out, but he also didn't. The humiliation, the ache, the way Louis's voice wrapped around him like a leash - it was everything he'd wanted, even if it was driving him insane.
Every time he thought he could settle, could find some semblance of control, Louis would say something, pulling him right back into the chaos. Harry's cock throbbed painfully against his jeans, and he cursed under his breath as he shifted again, the movement sending a fresh wave of burning heat through him.
He stole a glance at Louis, who was still leaning against the counter, his expression calm and unreadable. But Harry knew better. He could see the satisfaction in the faint curl of Louis's lips, the way his blue eyes flicked over Harry like he was already planning his next move.
Harry bit his lip hard, forcing himself to focus. He was nearly done with the tattoo, just a few more details, and then he could-
"So, Harry," Louis interrupted again, his tone casual but deadly. "What do you think about that?"
Harry froze, his brain scrambling to process the words. "Uh... yeah, definitely," he stammered, the response automatic and meaningless.
Louis chuckled softly, and Harry's stomach twisted. Fuck. He's enjoying this.
And the worst part? So was Harry.
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The stool felt like a lifeline. Sitting on the edge, his thighs bearing all his weight, was the only thing keeping the relentless burn in his bum from overtaking him completely. Harry had long since abandoned the tattoo chair, the firm leather unbearable against the plug Louis had made him wear. It was dry, every shift dragging against him like sandpaper, and he knew that if he sat fully, the sharp ache would become impossible to ignore.
He focused instead on Jules's tattoo, the vibrant floral design now complete, every line and shade exactly as it should be. Harry had poured every ounce of his concentration into it, willing his trembling hands to stay steady as he worked. But now, with the work done, he felt the weight of his submission crashing over him like a tidal wave. His body was screaming at him - his thighs quivering from holding him aloft, his core tense, his cock still painfully hard and straining against his jeans.
The tattoo machine had finally gone silent, and the quiet felt deafening. Harry let out a slow, shaky breath, his thighs burning from holding himself perched on the stool for the last half hour. He hadn't been able to sit properly - not with the plug pressing relentlessly inside him, dry and unyielding. It was too much. Even the slight shifts in his position sent jolts of pain and pleasure radiating through his lower half, mingling dangerously with the persistent throb of arousal that he'd been trying to ignore since Louis had issued his command.
Harry's hand trembled slightly as he set the machine down, the tension in his shoulders barely easing. He could feel the sweat clinging to the back of his neck, his curls damp and sticking to his skin. He glanced at Jules, who had been nothing but patient and kind throughout the entire session, and forced a smile. His green eyes softened just enough to mask the storm brewing inside him.
"Louis," he said, his voice steady but laced with a strain he couldn't quite hide. He didn't look at him - couldn't - his focus instead on the supplies at the station. "Could you hand me the yellow tissue, and the aftercare supplies?"
The word hung in the air like a weight. Yellow. He said it casually, as though it were just a color, but he knew Louis would catch it immediately. His dominant always did. Harry wasn't ready to stop - not yet. But he needed help. He needed Louis to take the reins, to ease the pressure just enough so he could hold it together.
Harry turned back to Jules with a practiced smile, pulling on the last threads of his professional demeanor as he carefully wrapped her arm. The floral tattoo looked perfect, and he spoke softly as he gave her aftercare instructions, his hands trembling slightly as he worked.
"All done," he said, his voice warm and kind despite the strain he was under. "It looks great. You're going to love it once it heals."
He kept his head down as he worked, his curls falling forward to shield his face. His thighs burned, his chest felt tight, and the ache inside him was becoming unbearable. But worse than the physical strain was the mental weight - knowing Louis was watching, waiting, silently assessing whether Harry was going to hold his own or crumble.
Louis froze for half a second when he heard it. Yellow. It was subtle, slipped in like a casual request, but Louis heard it loud and clear. His blue eyes flicked to Harry immediately, scanning him with the precision of someone who knew every tell, every crack in Harry's armor.
Louis straightened immediately when he heard it. That single word-"yellow"-hit him harder than any shout or plea ever could. Harry rarely used safewords, preferring to push himself to the edge of his limits, but when he did, Louis listened. And he never ignored them.
The way Harry perched on the stool, his thighs trembling ever so slightly, his shoulders hunched and rigid, told Louis everything he needed to know. He'd pushed Harry too far, though Harry hadn't said red. He'd chosen yellow, yellow didn't mean stop, but it meant slow down. It meant Harry was still in, still playing, but he needed Louis to step in and shoulder some of the weight. And Louis knew, instinctively, what Harry was asking for.
It was quiet, barely audible, but Louis heard it. Harry didn't need to look to know. He could feel Louis's presence shift, his movements deliberate and calm as he walked to the counter. Harry didn't dare lift his head, keeping his gaze fixed on his hands, which were now resting on his knees. His fingers curled tightly into his thighs, grounding himself in the sting of his nails pressing into his skin.
Harry hadn't moved from the stool, his shoulders tense, his head bowed, and his hands trembling faintly where they rested on his knees. He looked like a man on the verge of breaking - not in a bad way, but in the way Louis recognized all too well. Harry was deep in his submission now, the pain and pleasure intertwining, leaving him raw and vulnerable.
Louis moved smoothly, his expression calm and professional as he grabbed the yellow tissue and the aftercare supplies. His movements were deliberate, unhurried, designed to project the sense of control Harry needed right now. As he handed the supplies over, his fingers brushed lightly against Harry's, a brief, grounding touch that said, I've got you.
"I'll handle the rest, love," Louis murmured, low enough that only Harry could hear. He straightened and turned to Jules, his demeanor shifting effortlessly into his charming, customer-service mode.
He moved to the register with an easy, practiced grace, his hands steady as he rang Jules up. He made light conversation as he worked, thanking her for her patience and praising her choice of design. His customer service voice was back, warm and polite, but his mind was fixed entirely on Harry.
"This one's on me," Louis said with a smile as he rang her up at the register. "You've been an absolute star, sitting so still for such a tender spot. It's one of his best pieces yet, don't you think?"
Jules beamed, glancing down at her bandaged arm. "It's perfect," she said warmly. "Harry is the best - I always tell people to come here for tattoos."
Louis chuckled, handing her the receipt and gently ushering her toward the door. "We appreciate it. You take care now, and don't hesitate to call if you have any questions about the healing process."
The bell above the door jingled as Jules left, and the shop fell into a heavy silence. Louis turned back to Harry, his gaze softening as he took in the sight before him. Harry hadn't moved from his stool, his head bowed, his hands resting on his knees with a slight tremble. His shoulders were hunched, his curls falling forward to hide his face, but Louis could see the tension radiating from him. He could also see the way Harry's chest rose and fell in shallow breaths, his body caught somewhere between pain and pleasure, submission and defiance.
"Harry," Louis said gently, stepping closer. "You okay, love? Still yellow?"
Harry felt Louis's presence before he heard his voice, the familiar weight of his dominance settling over him like a comforting blanket. He lifted his head just enough to meet Louis's gaze, his green eyes glassy and filled with a mix of emotions he couldn't quite name. The question lingered in the air - still yellow? - and Harry shook his head slowly, swallowing hard before answering.
Harry shook his head quickly, his curls bouncing slightly with the motion. "Green," he croaked, his voice rough. He swallowed hard before continuing, his words tumbling out in a rush. "Green, but I-I couldn't get up to the counter." His cheeks burned with humiliation, his lips pressing into a thin line as he struggled to meet Louis's gaze.
Louis's chest tightened at the sight of Harry like this - subdued, trembling, his defiance stripped away and replaced with raw vulnerability. It was rare for Harry to let himself fall this far, to give in so completely, and Louis knew it wasn't something to take lightly.
He reached out, his fingers brushing against Harry's cheek, tilting his head up gently. "Look at me," he said softly, his voice a steady anchor in the storm. Harry's green eyes met his, wide and glassy, and Louis felt his heart clench.
"You did so well, love," Louis murmured, his thumb brushing over Harry's cheekbone. "You've been so good for me."
The tension in Harry's shoulders eased slightly at the praise, his lips parting as he let out a shaky breath. "Thank you," he whispered, his voice barely audible.
"Got any more clients coming in tonight, love?" Louis asked, his voice soft but steady as he stood up, watching Harry closely. The shop was quiet now, the air heavy with the scent of ink, antiseptic, and something warmer - something charged.
Harry shook his head, his curls bouncing slightly as he avoided Louis's gaze. "No," he mumbled, his voice tight. "No one else."
Louis nodded once, satisfied. He moved to the front of the shop, his boots clicking softly against the floor as he began pulling down the metal shutters. The sound of them rolling down echoed through the shop, and Louis glanced over his shoulder, catching the way Harry still perched on the stool, his thighs trembling slightly, his hands gripping the edge of the seat. Harry hadn't moved since Jules had left, hadn't even tried.
When the shutters were locked in place, Louis turned back toward Harry, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a small bottle of hazelnut-scented lube. He held it up deliberately, letting the light catch the label, and smirked at the way Harry's green eyes widened slightly.
"You've been good," Louis said, his voice dipping into that low, velvety rasp that always sent a shiver down Harry's spine. "Haven't I told you good boys get rewards?"
Harry's jaw clenched, his lips parting as though he wanted to argue, to snap back with one of his usual bratty remarks. But he didn't. Louis could see the battle raging in those bright green eyes, the humiliation warring with the deep, aching need to submit. If Harry had been less far gone, he might have grabbed the lube from Louis's hand and taken care of himself. But now? Now Harry was too tender, too raw, and Louis could see the way his brat was finally giving in.
"Let me take care of you," Louis murmured as he stepped closer, his blue eyes softening slightly. He reached out, his fingers brushing lightly over Harry's curls in a silent gesture of reassurance.
When Harry nodded, Louis's smirk grew. "Good boy."
Harry couldn't look at him. He couldn't look at anything but the floor, his head bowed and his hands gripping the edges of the stool like a lifeline. His thighs burned from holding himself up for so long, and the ache inside him was unbearable, almost numbing, a constant reminder of how far Louis had pushed him tonight. And yet, despite the pain, despite the humiliation, Harry couldn't bring himself to regret any of it.
He'd earned this. He'd taken the flower Louis had so tenderly tucked behind his ear and shoved it in his jeans just to piss him off. He'd blown smoke into Louis's face, knowing it would push him over the edge. He'd wanted this - craved it, even. The punishment, the control, the way Louis could break him down and put him back together in a way that no one else ever could.
When Louis stepped closer, holding up the bottle of lube, Harry's stomach flipped. His body ached to move, to reach out, but he couldn't. His muscles felt heavy, his mind foggy and warm as he sank further into submission. If it had been anyone else, Harry would have punched them in the face for even suggesting he keep a plug in for hours with only spit to ease the burn. But Louis? Louis's voice alone had been enough to make him obey without question.
"Good boy," Louis said, and Harry's heart swelled, his chest tightening with the kind of warmth that made him feel lightheaded. He nodded, barely able to manage the movement, and let Louis guide him.
When Louis gently lifted him off the stool, Harry whimpered softly at the stretch, the ache flaring painfully before easing as he was bent over the tattoo chair. His jeans and boxers were tugged down, pooling at his thighs, and Harry shivered as the cool air of the shop brushed against his skin.
Louis took a step back, his breath catching in his throat as he took in the sight before him. Harry - his Harry - was bent over the tattoo chair, his curls falling forward, his hands gripping the edges as though they were the only thing keeping him grounded. Harry, who was all hard lines and sharp edges, chaos and defiance, was utterly vulnerable now.
"Beautiful," Louis murmured, almost to himself, his eyes tracing the curve of Harry's back, the faint tattoos scattered across his skin. He reached out, his fingers ghosting over the base of the plug, and smirked at the way Harry tensed beneath him.
"Easy, love," Louis said softly, uncapping the bottle of lube. The hazelnut scent wafted up as he poured a generous amount onto his fingers. Without waiting for it to warm, he pressed a slick finger against Harry's entrance, and Harry nearly screamed at the cold.
The cold shock of the lube against his sensitive skin made Harry gasp, his body jerking slightly as his knuckles turned white against the edge of the chair. It was soothing and unbearable all at once, the burn from the plug easing slightly as Louis worked the lube around him with slow, deliberate movements.
Harry's mind spiraled, the world narrowing down to the feel of Louis's hands on him, the low murmur of praise slipping from Louis's lips.
"You've done so well," Louis whispered, his voice steady and calm. "Took your punishment so perfectly. You're phenominal like this, love."
The words hit Harry like a freight train, his body trembling as he let out a soft, broken whine. He could feel himself slipping further into subspace, the edges of his mind blurring as he gave in completely. He wasn't Harry Styles, the tattoo artist with a love for chaos and rebellion. He wasn't the brat who pushed and fought just to see how far he could go. He was just... Harry. And Louis was here, holding him together.
When the plug was finally removed, Harry whined at the loss, the emptiness almost unbearable after hours of fullness. But then Louis's hands were on him again, soothing and firm, grounding him as the ache faded into something softer, something warm and comforting.
"You okay, love?" Louis asked, his voice gentle but laced with authority. "Colour?"
"Green," Harry whispered, his voice shaky but sure. He turned his head slightly, his green eyes blown wide with need, his lips pink and swollen from biting them. "Please, Louis."
Louis smirked, his own heat rising as he worked more of the hazelnut-scented lube onto himself. "I've got you," he murmured, stepping closer. "Let me take care of you, baby."
Harry's breath hitched the moment he felt Louis press against his entrance, the cool, slick lube doing little to temper the sharp ache from earlier. His body trembled, thighs still burning from holding himself up for so long, but the weight of Louis's hands on his hips kept him grounded, kept him here. There was a split-second of anticipation, a beat where Harry thought he might have a moment to adjust, and then Louis slammed into him, burying himself to the hilt in one brutal stroke.
Harry screamed, the sound loud and raw, tearing from his throat without restraint. The ache was exquisite, the sharp burn of being stretched too fast mixing with the unbearable fullness that made him feel consumed by Louis in every possible way. He barely registered the gentle kiss Louis pressed to the back of his shoulder, the softness a stark contrast to the harshness of his entry.
Louis's hand slid from Harry's hip to wrap around his neck, straightening him until Harry's back was flush against Louis's chest. The movement sent sparks of pleasure coursing through him, his body arching instinctively as Louis's hand tightened just enough to control him.
"Colour, love?" Louis asked, his voice low and steady, grounding Harry in the haze of pain and pleasure.
Harry's lips parted, his breath coming in shallow gasps, but the answer was immediate. "Green," he whispered, his voice trembling. "Green."
Louis hummed in approval, his thumb brushing against Harry's throat as if to reward him. Then he leaned in, his breath hot against Harry's ear as he spoke, his voice rough and dark, laced with dominance that made Harry's cock twitch despite the relentless ache.
"God, you love it, don't you? My filthy little pain slut-always so eager to take whatever I give you."
The words, meant to degrade, landed like praise in Harry's ears. They were Louis's words, spoken in that voice, and they made something inside Harry unravel completely. His head fell back against Louis's shoulder, his curls damp with sweat as tears streamed freely down his flushed cheeks. He couldn't stop them - didn't even notice them - as he let himself sink further into the haze of subspace. The pleasure was sharp, electric, but it was also grounding, tethering him to Louis, to the one person who knew him well enough to bring him here and catch him when he fell.
Louis stayed perfectly still, his chest pressed against Harry's trembling back, his hand firm around Harry's neck. The scream Harry had let out moments ago still echoed faintly in the quiet of the shop, and Louis was certain the sound had carried well beyond the shuttered doors. Not that he cared. Harry was his, and Louis had every intention of taking care of him - even if it meant ruining him completely.
"Look at you," Louis murmured, his voice dripping with rough affection as his free hand slid back to Harry's hip. "Took me so well, love. You're perfect like this-completely mine."
Harry let out a soft, broken sound, his head lolling to the side as Louis tightened his grip on his throat, just enough to catch his breath. Louis could feel the tension in Harry's body, the way he was holding himself on the edge, waiting for Louis's permission to fall.
"Lou, Louis," Harry stammered, his voice high and needy, rolling his hips back. "Move, more, more-I want - Need more."
Louis allowed himself a small smirk, watching the way Harry's body trembled beneath him, how his submission had completely overtaken the defiant brat from earlier. He could feel Harry's tears against his fingers as he stroked his thumb gently over his throat, a silent reminder of who was in control.
"Patience," Louis murmured, but the plea in Harry's voice was impossible to resist. He pulled out slowly, savoring the way Harry's muscles clenched around him, only to slam back in with just as much force as the first time.
"LOU!" Harry's scream was followed by a choked sob, his body jerking forward against the tattoo chair. But before Louis could even pull back again, Harry was already rocking his hips, meeting Louis halfway with a desperation that made Louis's cock throb inside him.
"So loud, aren't you?" Louis teased, his hand tightening around Harry's throat just enough to make his breath hitch. The control was intoxicating, the way Harry surrendered even his breathing to him. "You love this, don't you? Love the pain, love being completely mine."
Harry could only whimper in response, his hands gripping the edges of the chair so tightly that his knuckles had turned white. Louis's other hand slipped from Harry's hip, trailing down his stomach to wrap around his cock. The first stroke made Harry cry out, his head falling forward as his entire body shuddered.
Harry couldn't think, couldn't speak, couldn't do anything except feel. Louis was everywhere - the burn of him inside, the rough drag of Louis's thumb around the sensitive tip of his leaking red cock, the weight of his grip on his throat. It was too much, and yet it wasn't enough.
"Please, please, please," Harry babbled, his voice cracking with every word. "Lou, I'm gonna-I can't-please!"
He was shaking, his entire body trembling as he hovered on the edge, the sensation so overwhelming that it felt like he might shatter at any moment. He didn't even realize he was crying until his tears were falling onto his hand that were gripping the chair.
Louis's thumb brushed over the tip of his cock again, smearing the wetness there as he spoke. "Go on, love," Louis said softly, his voice dripping with command. "Let go for me."
The permission was all Harry needed. He shattered with a scream, his vision going white as pleasure ripped through him, so intense that it left him gasping for air. His body arched against Louis's, every muscle taut as he came hard, the release so overwhelming that he felt like he was flying.
Louis held Harry steady as he fell apart, his hand never leaving his throat, his other continuing its slow, deliberate strokes around Harry's length until he was completely spent. He felt the tension drain from Harry's body, the way his legs gave out as he slumped against the chair, his breathing ragged and uneven.
The permission was all Harry needed. His entire body tensed, his vision going white as the pleasure ripped through him like a tidal wave. His orgasm was blinding, overwhelming, and he was pretty sure he blacked out for a moment, his entire world narrowing down to Louis - Louis's hands, Louis's voice, Louis's cock buried deep inside him.
Louis stayed perfectly still as the last tremors of pleasure coursed through him, his breathing heavy and uneven. He kept Harry pressed tightly against him, his hand resting lightly on Harry's stomach as he leaned in, murmuring soft praises into his ear.
Louis held Harry close, his strokes slowing as he rode out their waves of release. He watched Harry's face carefully, his blue eyes scanning for any sign of discomfort or distress. But all he saw was bliss - Harry's lips parted, his green eyes glassy and unfocused, his body completely relaxed and pliant beneath him.
"You did so well, love," Louis whispered, his lips brushing against the damp curls sticking to the nape of Harry's neck. "So good for me. My perfect boy."
Harry's body was trembling, his muscles slack, and Louis could feel the faint aftershocks of his orgasm in the way Harry's thighs quivered against his hips. Slowly, carefully, Louis eased himself out, mindful of how far gone Harry was. The soft whimper that escaped Harry's lips made Louis's chest tighten with affection, and he pressed a gentle kiss to the curve of Harry's shoulder, his hand never leaving his side.
"Shh, I've got you," Louis murmured, slipping off the condom with practiced efficiency, though his other hand stayed firmly on Harry's hip, grounding him. But as he tried to tie the end of the condom, the lube made his fingers slip, and Louis cursed under his breath, his focus momentarily diverted.
The second his hand left Harry's skin, Harry let out a pitiful whine, twisting his torso as if searching for him. "No, Lou-come back," he sobbed, his voice broken and desperate.
Louis's heart clenched, and he immediately abandoned his frustration with the slippery condom to touch Harry again. His hand slid back to Harry's side, warm and steady, and he leaned down to press a kiss to under Harry's ear.
"I'm right here, love," Louis said softly, his voice calm and soothing. "Not going anywhere. Just tying this damn thing."
But Harry was still twisting slightly, his glassy green eyes searching for Louis as if he'd disappeared entirely. Louis smiled gently, his thumb brushing over Harry's skin in slow, reassuring circles. Holding the condom in one hand, he used the other to guide Harry, carefully turning him onto his back.
"Here we go, love," Louis murmured, positioning Harry so he was lying flat on the tattoo chair. Louis stepped closer, standing between Harry's legs, his hands resting lightly on Harry's thighs to keep him grounded.
When Harry finally came back to himself, his body felt weightless, his mind foggy and blissful. He was flying, floating somewhere far beyond the stars, and all he could feel was the warmth of Louis's hands on him, the soothing pressure of his touch grounding him even as his mind stayed adrift.
The world was still a hazy blur, but Harry could make out the solid warmth of Louis between his legs, the soothing cadence of his voice wrapping around him like a blanket. His vision slowly cleared, and he blinked up at Louis, taking in the sight of him: his blue jeans bunched around his ankles, his white button-down shirt wrinkled and half-untucked, his chest heaving with each breath.
Louis's feathered hair was sticking to his forehead, falling into his eyes, and he was glaring at the condom in his hand like it had personally offended him. Harry blinked once, twice, and then a soft giggle bubbled up from his chest.
Louis glanced down at him, one eyebrow raised in amused confusion. "Laughing, are we?" he teased, his voice soft and full of warmth.
Harry nodded, his giggle turning into a full belly laugh as he looked at Louis again. The sight was ridiculous, and Harry couldn't help but let the laughter pour out of him. Sure, he wasn't in much better shape - his skinny jeans were stuck at his knees, his faded band tee clinging to his sweat-dampened skin - but seeing Louis like this, all disheveled and frustrated, was undeniably funny.
"Fucking lube," Louis muttered under his breath as he finally managed to tie the condom. With a dramatic flick of his wrist, he tossed it into the trash and let out a loud, "For fuck's sake."
That only made Harry laugh harder, his abs contracting as he clutched at his sides. Louis watched him for a moment, his stern expression softening into a chuckle as he reached for a paper towel.
"Come here, you," Louis said fondly, leaning down to wipe Harry down with careful hands. His movements were gentle but efficient, and when Harry groaned softly at the sensation, Louis leaned in and muffled the sound with a kiss.
"Shh," Louis murmured against his lips, his tone teasing. "We've already pissed off enough of the shops next door."
Harry's laugh turned into a breathless chuckle as Louis tugged his underwear and jeans back into place, carefully buttoning them up. He groaned dramatically at the movement, but Louis silenced him with another kiss, this one softer, full of affection.
Louis straightened, smoothing down Harry's band tee as he worked, taking a moment to tuck the fabric back into place. Harry was sprawled on the tattoo chair, his green eyes wide and adoring, his curls a wild halo around his flushed face. His cocky, lazy smirk was back, the bratty spark in his eyes shining bright.
"Bet you Johnny next door at the coffee shop was definitely having a wank," Harry quipped, his voice still rough but full of cheek.
Louis rolled his eyes, though he couldn't fight the smile tugging at his lips. He reached down to pull up his own jeans, buttoning them quickly before running a hand through his disheveled hair.
"Laugh it up, love," Louis said with mock sternness, though his tone was soft and affectionate. He couldn't take his eyes off Harry, couldn't stop admiring the way he looked right now: completely wrecked and still entirely his.
Harry pushed his curls back from his forehead, his smirk growing as he tilted his head lazily to the side. Despite the chaos of his appearance, despite the way he was lounging on his own tattoo chair like he hadn't just been thoroughly ruined, there was something so endearing about him.
Louis felt a surge of warmth in his chest as he leaned down, cupping Harry's cheek and brushing his thumb over the faint tear tracks still drying on his skin.
"I can't wait to marry you," Louis murmured, the words spilling out before he could think to stop them.
Harry's smirk faltered for a moment, his green eyes widening in surprise before softening into something unbearably tender. "Yeah?" he whispered, his voice quieter now, full of affection.
Louis nodded, pressing a kiss to Harry's forehead. "Yeah, love. One day."
