Chapter Text
Love doesn't come easy. It never has—and he's made peace with that by now. It's a fickle thing, elusive and fragile, and not something he spares much thought for these days.
But lust? Lust is effortless. Lust slides in like muscle memory, like breath. It's the one thing that still makes sense.
Maybe that's why Harry Styles finds himself at Adonis more often than not—London's most infamous underground haunt, pulsing with smoke and sin.
Maybe that's why he's currently sauntering across the bar, all slow confidence and knowing smirks, toward the blue-eyed boy he's been watching all weekend.
He's a slight thing—small-ish, maybe—but not fragile. There's muscle under those tight graphic tees, definition in his arms, and thighs that stretch the fabric of his jeans just right. Harry's spent more nights than he'll admit staring at them, nursing watered-down whiskey and biting back thoughts he probably shouldn't be having in public.
And he's got a mouth on him. Loud, sharp, impossible to ignore.
Harry first saw him two Fridays ago—leaning against the bar like he owned it, lips wrapped around a vodka Red Bull, ordering two more for the mates flanking him. There were at least five people between them, but Harry still heard him—heard that laugh, clear as sin, slicing through the haze like a hook behind the ribs.
Just last night, Harry finally caved—told the bartender not to let the boy pay for his drink. Said he'd cover the tab, no questions, but keep his name out of it. He didn't want to be known. Not yet. He liked the anonymity. The thrill of watching from the shadows.
But tonight, the boy's alone. And Harry's done watching.
He crosses the floor with slow, deliberate steps, the bass thudding under his boots like a heartbeat. The boy's nursing something pink and sugary, lips wet, legs crossed just so.
"You must like it here," Harry called over the music, voice smooth and dark as smoke.
The boy whips his head around, blinking through the strobes before pointing at himself. "Me?"
Harry chuckles, sets his drink down, leans into the bar like sin incarnate. "Yeah, you. Been seeing you around all weekend."
The boy lets out a soft giggle—barely a breath, but it's fucking cute—and sets his drink down with a clink. "I like the music," he says, a casual shrug rolling through his shoulders. "Loads of bass. My friends like it here too, so... I just kept coming."
Harry nods, eyes fixed on that mouth, listening more to the shape of the words than the meaning.
"Haven't seen you dance, though," he leans in, close enough to catch the warmth off the boy's skin. His voice slides through the noise like silk over gravel. He takes a slow sip of his drink, tongue flicking out to catch a drip before it can reach his chin.
The boy's lips curl, teeth sinking into his bottom one as he looks up through thick lashes. "Don't have anyone to dance with," he murmurs, voice just shy of a purr.
His eyes are fucking lethal. Big, bright, and sinful as hell. Harry could get lost in them—wants to. Wants to memorize the color while the boy's on his knees in front of him, mouth busy, hands gripping his thighs.
"Oh, how tragic," Harry cooed, draining the last of his drink before reaching out and lacing their fingers together, cool and sure. "Let me fix that for you, then. Fair warning though—I'm a little handsy when I dance with pretty boys."
"Louis," comes the reply, sharp and teasing, just behind him.
Harry pauses, glancing back over his shoulder with a slow smirk. "Hm?"
The boy—Louis—tilts his head, mouth curved like he knows exactly what he's doing. "This pretty boy? His name's Louis."
Harry grins, tugging him onto the dancefloor with a hand still wrapped around his own. The crowd swallows them whole—heat, bodies, flashing lights—and Louis wastes no time. He spins, back pressing flush to Harry's chest, hips already rolling to the beat like he was born for this.
He moves like sin, like he knows exactly what Harry wants and isn't shy about giving it. Barely five minutes in and Louis is grinding against him like they've done this before—like it's a game they've played a hundred times.
Harry's hands find his hips without hesitation, fingers digging in just enough to make a point as he moves with him, breath ghosting hot along the shell of his ear.
"Louis sounds nice," he murmurs, voice low and rough, "but pretty boy suits you too."
Louis glances over his shoulder, rising onto his toes, lips brushing Harry's ear just enough to be heard above the music. "Pretty boy could suit you too," he purrs, pressing back harder, hips grinding slow and deliberate in time with the bass.
Harry huffs a low laugh against his neck, one hand gripping tighter at Louis' waist. "Pretty? With this scruff?" he murmurs, rough and teasing. "Old men aren't pretty, baby. You'll have to pick another word."
Louis spins to face him, hands drifting up to toy with the front of Harry's blazer, knuckles brushing against his chest like a dare. He stays close—too close—hips still moving, still keeping Harry locked in place with nothing but heat and rhythm.
"Old?" Louis echoes, gaze flicking up through his lashes. "Old men can be pretty. Especially when they dance like they fuck."
Harry smirks, eyes dragging slow over Louis's face before wetting his lips. Then he leans in close, letting a hot breath curl against the shell of his ear like a promise. "If you wanna know how I fuck," he murmurs, voice thick with heat, "you just have to ask."
Louis lets out a sound—a breath, maybe a moan—Harry can't quite tell. But he hears it. Feels it. And fuck, he wants more. Wants to earn it louder, messier, with Louis writhing beneath him and begging for it.
But then Louis pulls back, smug as sin, flashing a grin that's all bite. "Stranger danger," he teases, wiggling his fingers in a mock wave. "See you next weekend?"
And just like that, he turns, hips still swaying, disappearing into the crowd and leaving Harry standing there—turned on, grinning, and already counting down the days.