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Having a professor who’s so hot and that untouchable must be Louis Tomlinson’s punishment for whatever fucked up thing he did in a past life.

It’s like stepping into a personal torture chamber every time he walks into his psychology lecture. Which is tragic, really, because Louis actually likes psychology. He loves picking apart how people think, why they do what they do—how the human mind can be both brilliant and a complete mess. It’s fascinating. Or, well, it would be, if his brain didn’t short-circuit the moment Professor Harry Styles walked into the room.

Because no university professor should look that devastatingly attractive. It’s unfair, honestly. The broad shoulders stretching the sleeves of his white dress shirts, that Louis just knows could toss him around like it’s nothing. The toned forearms, veins snaking down to gorgeous hands Louis has imagined wrapped around his throat more times than he cares to admit. The soft, chocolatey waves of hair that fall into his forehead. The shining green eyes that make Louis feel seen and undressed at the same time.

And then there’s the mustache. God, the mustache.

Louis used to think mustaches were for old men or sleazy guys in outdated pornos—but Professor Styles has completely ruined that stereotype. On him, it looks deliberate, confident, mature. It makes him look like he knows exactly what he’s doing—in the classroom, sure, but definitely outside of it too.

And Louis would give anything to find out if it’s true.

It’s not like Louis hasn’t tried. He's fucking given it all he's got.

But Professor Styles is impossible to crack. Every flirty quip, every well-timed smirk, every lingering look or dramatic giggle—Louis has thrown it all at him, and it’s like the man’s immune to him.

Not that Harry doesn’t notice. No, Louis is sure he does. He’s just too proper, too mature to let it show. Every time Louis thinks he’s gotten a reaction, Harry just gives him that patient little smile, the one that says I see right through you, but nice try. It drives him insane.

For a while, Louis tried convincing himself maybe Professor Styles was straight. But one quick scroll through the man’s Instagram ended that theory fast. No straight man casually posts rainbow flags and captions his photos with quotes from Queer Eye.

So no, it’s not that. It’s that Harry’s too good—too aware that getting involved with a student could ruin his career. He’s just protecting his job, that’s all. Definitely not turning Louis down because he’s uninterested. Louis repeats that to himself like a mantra whenever his ego starts to waiver.

Because normally, he has no trouble with guys. None. Most of the time, he’s got them hooked before they even learn his last name. He knows how to work a room—and his body helps, all arse, compact curves and a tiny waist that looks unfairly good in jeans. His pretty face doesn’t hurt either.

But apparently, none of that works on Professor Styles. Which, of course, only makes Louis want him more.

His friends insist he’s blind, that he doesn’t see the way Professor Styles looks at him. That Louis is so busy pining he’s missing the mutual pining.

Like today, at the campus café. They’re halfway through lunch when Quinn and Delaney start in again, swearing up and down that Harry definitely checked out Louis’ arse during lecture when he bent to pick up his pen.

Louis groans, rolling his eyes and adjusting his glasses. “I hate when you guys do this,” he mutters. “You make me get my hopes up, just for Professor Styles to turn me down for the fucking umpteenth time.”

Quinn shakes her head. “No, you just refuse to acknowledge it.”

“Yeah, LouLou,” Delaney adds, tapping powder onto her cheek with her compact mirror. “He wants you just as much as you want him. He just can’t act on it because he’s a teacher.”

Louis slumps dramatically, dropping his face into his hands. “That’s so unfair.” After a moment, he peeks up at them, voice rising with existential despair. “What if we only get one soulmate in life, and mine is Professor Styles, but we can never be together because he’s my teacher? How fucking tragic would that be?”

“He’s not going to be your teacher forever, dumbass,” Quinn snorts, popping a chip into her mouth.

“Yes, but by the time I’m not his student anymore, he’ll probably be married with kids and I’ll be alone and miserable,” Louis groans, stabbing his fork into his noodles a little too harshly.

Delaney arches a brow, smirking. “Married? God, you’ve got it worse than I thought. I figured you just wanted him to fuck you into next Tuesday.”

Louis shrugs, unbothered. “Well, that too. Just once would be nice, y’know? Just to get it out of my system.” He zones out as the words start tumbling. “I just want his big hands to hold me down, maybe choke me a little while he fucks me into the mattress.”

Both Quinn and Delaney freeze, eyes going wide in matching horror. They start frantically motioning for him to shut up, but Louis is too lost in his fantasy to notice.

“I just want it hard and fast,” he continues dreamily, “the kind of dirty fuck you feel the next day—”

A throat clears behind him.

Louis’ stomach drops.

He turns, very slowly, and finds himself staring up at the one person on campus he least wanted to hear any of that: Professor Styles himself.

Harry looks far too composed for someone who’s just overheard a student detailing his sexual fantasies. His mouth twitches, like he’s fighting a smile, and there’s the faintest pink at the tips of his ears.

“Sorry to interrupt,” he says, voice maddeningly even, long fingers clasped around a coffee cup. “I just saw my favorite students and thought I’d stop by to say hello.”

A nervous chuckle slips out of Professor Styles anyway, and Louis wishes the ground would swallow him whole. Normally, he doesn’t embarrass easily—he’s used to laughing off awkward moments, playing them cool. But with that intense, knowing stare pinned on him, the kind that seems to see straight through him, it’s impossible to shake off the humiliation.

His heart thuds unevenly as his friends scramble to save him.

“Hi, Professor! Great lecture today!” Quinn chirps quickly, flashing a grin that’s a little too sweet to be real.

“Yeah,” Delaney adds with a dry laugh, brushing a strand of pale hair off her shoulder. “Attribution theory and cognition, super riveting stuff.”

Harry chuckles, shaking his head. “Thanks, girls. I’ll try to find something even more mind-numbing next week.” The smile stays on his lips as his gaze slides back to Louis. “You were a little quiet today in class, Louis. Everything alright?”

Louis looks up at him, his throat dry. Harry’s standing close enough for Louis to smell his cologne—something warm and woodsy that makes his stomach flip. His brows are furrowed in concern, the expression so gentle it’s almost disarming.

Louis looks up, straight into those piercing green eyes and the slight furrow in Harry’s brow that makes him look unfairly gentle. And of course, Louis’ brain betrays him instantly—imagining that same furrowed brow while that mustache scrapes over his rim as he eats him out till he’s crying and—

“Louis?”

Louis jolts back to reality, cheeks blazing. “Uh, sorry. I must’ve spaced out there. I’m fine, though. Just, uh, have a bit of a headache, s’all.”

He gives a small, awkward laugh, hoping that’ll be enough to end it. But Harry’s frown only deepens.

“I think I’ve got some paracetamol in my bag,” he says, already crouching a little as he rummages through his satchel, flipping through papers and pens.

Panic flares in Louis’ chest. Without thinking, he reaches out and lays a hand on Harry’s wrist to stop him. His skin is warm under Louis’, the muscle tense and solid. Louise swears he feels sparks fly.

“It’s okay, professor,” Louis blurts out, voice smaller than he means it to be. “I, um, took some earlier. Thank you, though.”

For a heartbeat, Harry doesn’t move. His gaze drops to where Louis’ hand lingers, then rises to meet his eyes. Green on blue. Louis’ pulse stutters. Then the man’s lips curve into that soft, devastating smile.

“Well, alright,” he says quietly, closing his bag as he straightens to his full height. “If you’re sure. I’ll see you all in class tomorrow.”

With a wave and one last look—one that feels like it lasts forever—he turns and walks away, confidence in every long stride. Louis watches him go until the café door swings shut behind him.

When he finally turns back, Quinn and Delaney are both staring at him with matching smug expressions, brows arched in perfect synchronization.

He groans. “What?”

“What? What?!” Quinn shrieks, brown eyes wide, her box braids swaying with the motion.

“Yeah, come on, Lou,” Delaney snorts, rolling her eyes. “He went all protective daddy mode over a tiny headache. And his eyes? Babe, he was all over you.”

Louis bites his lip, thinking about the way Harry had looked at him. The little crease of his brow, the softness in his voice. He feels a tiny flicker of hope spark in his chest. “You think?”

The girls exchange a look, then grin at him in unison.

“We know so,” Quinn says confidently.

“Maybe you’re not trying hard enough,” Delaney shrugs, gathering her pale hair into a high ponytail. “You gotta shake that big ol’ ass of yours and bat those eyelashes. He won’t be able to resist your cute twink look for long. He’ll crack eventually.”

“I am not a twink,” Louis scoffs automatically, though he knows she’s not entirely wrong.

Both girls roll their eyes, but Louis isn’t paying attention anymore. His mind is miles away—on green eyes, a soft mustache, and the question of how exactly to make Professor Harry Styles crack.

It just has to be something big. Something bold. Something he won’t see coming.

***

What Louis is planning is risky, but big risk equals big reward, right?

Or at least, that’s what he’s been telling himself on repeat for the last ten minutes while pacing by the front door like a lovesick idiot. He’s not entirely sure why this is the plan he’s landed on, but in hindsight, it feels like a stroke of genius.

Because Professor Styles—Harry—lives down the road.

Which is both a blessing and a curse, considering the man goes on his morning run every single day at exactly 7:20 a.m., like clockwork, and happens to pass right by the house Louis shares with Niall.

Louis knows this for very normal, non-stalkerish reasons, obviously. Not because he’s ever gotten up early, bleary-eyed and half-asleep, just to watch the man jog past in all his sweaty, glistening glory, his hair pushed back by a headband, his shirt clinging to his chest, his thighs flexing beneath those sinful black shorts. No, Louis is definitely above that kind of behavior.

Still, he’s decided to use this valuable information to his advantage. After the other day’s talk with Quinn and Delaney, he’s determined to give it one last shot, to get Professor Styles to finally, finally notice him as something other than a cheeky student who flirts too much in class. If this doesn’t work, Louis swears he’ll give up. Because honestly, if this plan doesn’t work, no plan will.

Luckily, Niall’s still asleep. If his roommate caught him doing this, Louis would never hear the end of it. Niall already thinks his crush on Professor Styles is silly—a byproduct of being horny and underfucked, attaching all his pent-up lust to the first handsome authority figure he can’t have.

But Louis knows it’s more than that. Sure, Harry’s so stupidly hot that Louis has considered selling a kidney just to know what his dick tastes like. But he’s also kind, and funny, and has that soft, dimpled smile that makes Louis’ stomach twist. And his voice. Louis could listen to that low, soothing drawl for the rest of his life.

That’s why this plan, however ridiculous, is worth it. Because maybe, if it works, Louis could wake up to that smile every morning instead of just dreaming about it.

He rises onto his tiptoes and peers through the peephole, heart thudding in his throat. The timing has to be perfect; catch him too early and Louis will look like an idiot loitering on his porch; too late, and Harry will pass by before Louis can make his move.

He glances down at his phone. 7:24 a.m.

Perfect. That means Professor Styles should be passing by in exactly one minute.

Louis inhales sharply, steadying himself, trying to shake off the last flutter of nerves. Then, with a deep breath, he unlocks the door and steps outside.

His eyes dart nervously up and down the street, hoping—praying—that nobody’s around to witness this but Harry. The coast seems clear, so he scurries down the drive and busies himself with the postbox, pretending to check for mail he knows isn’t there. Really, he’s just trying to look casual until Harry jogs by.

Except Harry’s taking his sweet time.

Louis chews his lip, flicking another glance toward the corner of the street. Any second now, he tells himself. Any second. But instead of a tall, sweaty god in running shorts, what rounds the corner of their garden is Freida, his elderly next-door neighbor, wielding a rake like it's a weapon.

Shit.

He’s seconds away from aborting mission and retreating back inside when, of course, that’s when Professor Styles finally appears, jogging up the hill, chest gleaming with sweat, muscles straining beneath his shirt. He slows when he spots Louis, confusion flickering across his face before his eyes widen, sweeping up and down Louis’ body in a way that makes his pulse spike.

Louis follows his gaze and—yeah. Maybe the outfit was a bit much.

He’d wanted to be tempting. Just a little shameless. So he’d chosen one of his cropped bedtime shirts, the soft, slouchy one that slips off his shoulder, and decided to forgo pants altogether, leaving him only in his tiniest Calvin Klein briefs that are basically panties. Cute enough to pass as “oops, I just woke up,” but suggestive enough to get a rise out of his professor.

He hadn’t planned on getting a rise out of Freida, though, whose eyes nearly bug out of her head.

“Louis, what on heaven’s earth are you wearing?” she demands, her voice a blend of shock and scolding.

Louis ignores her, because Harry is still staring—expression unreadable, lips parted slightly as his eyes drag back up to Louis’ face. The weight of it makes Louis’ skin prickle.

“Hi,” Harry finally says, his voice rough from the run. “Um, you haven’t got trousers on.”

Louis nearly laughs, though embarrassment burns his cheeks. He flashes a wobbly smile, trying to salvage the situation. “You’re right, professor. I don’t. I guess I was just rushing and forgot to put any on. Oops?”

He tries for flirty and nonchalant, but Harry just keeps looking at him, brow furrowed in that permanent, maddeningly professorial way. Which is unfair, because Harry looks entirely too good to be allowed outside this early.

The grey sleeveless shirt clings to him like a second skin, darkened with sweat. His arms—inked, veined, obscene—catch the light, and those little black shorts are criminally tight on his thick, toned thighs. There’s a blue cap pulled low over his damp hair, and that mustache, that fucking mustache, has Louis practically salivating.

Freida’s sharp voice snaps him out of it.

“Louis, dear, you need to get inside right now before you freeze half to death! It’s barely ten degrees out!” she scolds, shaking a bony finger.

“She’s right,” Harry adds, licking his lips. “You’re going to catch a cold if you stay out here.”

“I’m not even that cold,” Louis insists, even as goose pimples pebble over his skin. His arms wrap instinctively around his bare stomach. “And I wasn’t planning to stay out here, I was just—uh—grabbing my mail.”

Harry lifts an eyebrow, eyes flicking to Louis’ empty hands. “It’s Sunday. Mail doesn’t come on Sundays.”

Fuck.

He blinks. Right. It is Sunday. The humiliation hits like a punch. He forces a laugh, high and awkward. “Oh, silly me. Guess I’m just forgetful.” He fidgets, scrambling for recovery, as he remembers his original plan. “Well, uh, since you’re here, would you like to come in for a cuppa? You could take a break from your run.”

For a second, Harry hesitates. Louis swears he’s going to say yes. He feels it, the slight shift in Harry’s stance, the way his eyes linger just a beat too long.

Then he sighs and looks away. “That’s kind of you, but I should probably keep going.”

Louis rushes to close the gap. “It’ll only be for a bit, I—”

“Harry, dear,” Freida cuts in, dropping her rake with a thud. “You go on with your run. I’ll take Louis inside before he turns blue. The boy must weigh less than my granddaughter and she just turned fifteen!”

Louis barely gets a word in before Freida’s herding him up the drive with alarming strength for someone pushing ninety. He huffs, glancing over his shoulder just in time to see Harry watching them go—his gaze undeniably fixed on Louis’ bum.

A little victorious smile tugs at Louis’ lips. Caught you, he thinks smugly. But then Harry shakes his head, mutters something to himself, and jogs off down the road.

“You need to stay away from that one, Louis,” Freida says as she ushers him through the door. “Men that handsome who haven’t been snatched up by thirty always have something wrong with them. Trust me, dear.”

Louis isn’t so sure she’s wrong because what kind of man in his right mind could turn him down after he practically offered himself up on a silver platter?

He trudges upstairs to change, trading the crop top for an oversized tee and soft sleep shorts. When he pads back down, Freida’s already set the kettle boiling. Niall’s snores echo faintly from his room.

Louis lets Freida fuss, wrapping him in a blanket while she launches into a story about her first husband’s gambling problem and subsequent infidelity. He nods at all the right moments, but his mind’s far away.

His final plan—his perfect, foolproof plan—had flopped spectacularly. Now he’ll have to face Harry in class, knowing the man’s seen him in his knickers, half-frozen and mortified.

He sighs. It’s over. Time to let it go. He’ll just have to find someone else to scratch the itch, someone hot, someone uncomplicated, someone not his professor.

Even if it won’t be nearly as satisfying.

***

Quinn and Delaney laugh so hard they can barely breathe when Louis tells them how his brilliant plan ended. They can’t believe he actually went out there—bare legs, crop top, knickers and all—in a last-ditch effort to lure Professor Styles into his house for a morning quickie.

What they can believe, however, is that it didn’t work.

The first class after the “postbox incident” is every bit as awkward as Louis feared it would be. He gets there early, too early, and the second he opens the door, Harry’s head snaps up. Their eyes meet across the empty lecture hall, and Louis immediately looks away, cheeks warming as he scurries to his seat in the middle row.

The silence between them feels like a physical weight. Maybe if he stays quiet, if he keeps his head down, they can both pretend it never happened, pretend Harry didn’t see him in nothing but his underwear, pretending to check nonexistent mail on a Sunday morning.

No such luck.

He hears the steady thud of dress shoes on steps, and a moment later, Harry’s there—squatting down beside his desk, forearms resting casually on his knees, hands clasped together. He looks maddeningly composed, curls still damp from a shower, sleeves rolled to his elbows, mustache still disgustingly sexy.

Louis’ stomach twists.

“I hope things aren’t weird now, after yesterday,” Harry says, voice low, steady. “We can be professional, yeah?” His gaze catches Louis’, open and searching.

Louis swallows, instinct screaming to brush it off—to say it’s fine, forget it, please stop looking at me like that. But then he remembers what Quinn and Delaney told him last night when he called, mortified and pacing his room: You just need confidence. Make him sweat a little. Even the scales.

So Louis straightens his spine, slides on a smirk, and says sweetly, “Professional about what, professor? You seeing me in my knickers—or you checking out my arse in them?”

The effect is instantaneous.

Harry blinks, mouth parting like he’s forgotten how to form words. A faint flush creeps up his neck, pinking his cheeks beneath the facial hair. His composure cracks just enough to make Louis grin wider, brows lifting in triumph.

He’s about to press his advantage when the door bangs open, a flood of students pouring in. Harry clears his throat, hard, and rises to his full height, the familiar mask sliding back into place.

“I expect you to participate more today,” he says, voice tight.

Louis can’t help himself. He tilts his head and giggles, “Yes, sir.”

Harry doesn’t respond, only turns sharply and strides back to his desk. But Louis sees the way his ears are still pink when he sits down.

By the time Quinn and Delaney slide into the seats beside him, the room’s half full and Louis is still smiling to himself, barely containing his satisfaction.

“What’s got you so smiley?” Quinn asks, tossing her braids over her shoulder, suspicious.

“Oh, nothing,” Louis says airily, adjusting his glasses. “Just may have turned the tables on Professor Styles. Made him the flustered one for once.”

“Ooh, you go, girl,” Delaney cackles, bumping her shoulder against his, playfully. “Told you he wouldn’t be able to resist you forever.”

Louis tries to play it off, but he can’t keep the pleased grin off his face. For the first time since his crush developed, he’s starting to believe that maybe Delaney’s right. Maybe Professor Styles can be cracked.

***

Louis might’ve been wrong for getting his hopes up, for believing that, eventually, Professor Styles would give in and give him the dicking of his life.

It’s been two weeks since the postbox fiasco, and Louis hasn’t made an inch of progress. No more lingering glances. No more smiles that last a beat too long. Every time he tries to talk to Harry outside of class, he gets polite professionalism, full stop. The man might as well have put up an invisible “off limits” sign between them.

It’s bullshit.

So, Louis tells himself he’s done. Over it. Moved on.

(He hasn’t, obviously. But he’s done a good job convincing himself that he has.)

Luckily, there’s one thing keeping him from spiraling into full heartbreak: the Halloween party.

It was Niall’s idea, something to impress his new girlfriend, Gemma. Louis had objected at first, because Niall told Gemma she could invite whoever she wanted, and the thought of strangers traipsing through his house gave him a headache. But then he realized… strangers meant opportunity. Anonymous, no-strings-attached, hot-as-fuck opportunity.

Maybe, if he was lucky, he could get a filthy one-night stand so good it’d finally fuck Professor Styles right out of his system.

So he told Niall to go for it, as long as he handled all the organizing himself. Louis had zero interest in hanging streamers or buying booze when there were much more important things to focus on. Like, for example, the costume.

Quinn and Delaney had roped him into doing a matching trio, but they were still undecided on who exactly to be. The Hocus Pocus witches were out (too predictable). Delaney pitched the Powerpuff Girls, which Louis liked in theory, cute, colorful, but he wanted something sexier. Darker. The kind of costume that made people look twice.

Quinn suggested Kitana, Jade, and Mileena from Mortal Kombat, but Louis vetoed that one quickly. There was no way he was spending half the night tucking and taping his dick into a latex leotard only to have to undo all of that mid-shag.

Then Delaney came up with it. The perfect idea.

“Sexy horror movie villains.”

It clicked instantly. Quinn would be Jason Voorhees—leather mini skirt, hockey mask, fake machete. Delaney claimed Freddy Krueger, turning his striped sweater into a crop top and pairing it with fishnets. And Louis?

Ghostface.

They spent the week putting their costumes together. He might be biased but he thinks his is the best of all—high-waisted ruffle skirt he borrowed from Quinn, a corset top, tights, paired with the iconic mask and a toy knife. It was equal parts scary and hot as hell.

And when Louis looked at himself in the mirror that night before the party, he felt ready.

Ready to drink too much. Ready to dance. Ready to find someone, anyone, to erase the name Harry Styles from his thoughts, even if it’s just for one night.

***

Louis is about two drinks in, the bass thumping through the floorboards and into his bones as he dances by himself. The music pulses around him, heavy and hot, and the crowd moves like one living thing—bodies brushing and swaying, the air thick with sweat and cheap perfume.

He feels good. Loose. Light. The alcohol has settled in his bloodstream just enough to smooth the edges off his thoughts, enough to give him confidence but not enough to make him sloppy. He’s tipsy, not drunk, still aware enough that if he takes a man home tonight, he’ll know exactly what he’s saying yes to.

He’s already had more than a few suitors drift his way, handsome enough in a blurry, party-light sort of way, bringing him drinks, complimenting his costume, trying too hard to be clever. Louis smiled through it all, polite but uninterested. None of them were hot enough to make him forget his professor, and worse, they all talked too damn much.

Louis doesn’t want conversation tonight. He doesn’t want names or numbers or awkward morning-after texts. He wants a body. A solid weight pinning him down. A cock in his ass and a moment where his brain finally shuts up about Harry bloody Styles.

Luckily, the mask works in his favor. With it covering most of his face, he can barely speak above the music, and the muffled replies make would-be flirts lose interest fast. It’s the perfect filter. Only someone patient or equally wordless will make it through.

He’s hoping to find that someone. A man who won’t need small talk or pretense, who’ll let Louis do the speaking with his hips instead of his mouth. Fair trade, in his opinion.

Delaney had forced him into thigh-high boots earlier, and while Louis had flatly refused the pair of stilettos they’d tried to coax him into, he’d compromised on these. They make his normally  short legs look sinfully long, especially under the tattered robe that hangs open to reveal his black corset top. He felt a little self-conscious coming downstairs in his outfit but his girl assured him he looked drop dead gorgeous (pun fully intended).

Though Quinn and Delaney have already abandoned him. Delaney disappeared first, straight into the arms of some guy dressed as the Joker, who’d been eyeing her like he was undressing her with his mind. Quinn had promised she’d stick by Louis, “wingwoman duty” and all that, but then she ran into a girl dressed as an angel, and one pleading look later, Louis had sighed and waved her off.

So now he dances alone, the music winding around him like smoke, the room flashing with strobe lights and laughter.

Until someone taps him on the shoulder.

He spins around, startled, and comes face to face with Niall’s stupidly bright grin, the Irishman dressed as Fred from Scooby Doo.

“Louis! I hope that’s you, mate, or else this is about to get real awkward,” Niall laughs, sloshing the drink in his cup.

Louis pushes his mask up so it rests on top of his head, cool air hitting his sweaty face like a blessing. “It’s me, you knob,” he says, brushing his fringe back. He turns to the girl clinging to Niall’s arm—shiny red wig, purple dress, bright smile. “You must be Gemma. It’s nice to finally meet you.”

She grins, her green eyes glassy and warm, clearly several drinks deep. “You too! Niall talks about you loads.” She giggles, swaying on her feet, then suddenly perks up. “Oh! My older brother’s dressed as Ghostface too! He’s around here somewhere.”

Louis laughs, rolling his eyes. “Figures. I’ve seen like five other Ghostfaces already. Guess me and your brother aren’t very original.”

“You’re the prettiest one, don’t worry,” Gemma assures with a bright, tipsy sincerity that makes Niall snort into his drink.

Louis chuckles, feeling a flush creep up the back of his neck beneath the mask. He decides he likes her, already better than any of Niall’s other girlfriends. And there have been many.

“Thanks, love,” Louis smiles, feeling a little less dejected after being ditched by Quinn and Delaney. “You two look great as well.”

“No thanks to him,” Gemma teases, rolling her eyes at Niall. “We’re gonna grab another drink. You need one?”

“Nah, I’m good,” Louis replies, shaking his head with a grin. “Cheers, though.”

With a wave of her fingers, Gemma lets Niall tug her back toward the kitchen, disappearing into the crowd. The music swells around Louis again, bass thumping through the floorboards, lights flashing blue and red across masks and bare skin. He sighs, pulling his Ghostface mask back down, careful not to smudge the illusion of anonymity he’s built for himself tonight.

He drifts to the edge of the dance floor, lingering just beyond the heat of the crowd. A couple nearby are practically devouring each other, hands everywhere, lost to the music and their own need. Louis watches them, jealousy twisting low in his belly. Oh, to be pressed up against someone like that, to be wanted like that.

He spins his plastic knife between his gloved fingers, the motion mindless. Maybe he should just dive back into the mess of moving bodies, lose himself for a while and stop worrying whether anyone will want him tonight. But before he can decide, the knife slips from his grip and clatters to the floor.

“Great,” he mutters, crouching to grab it.

Before his fingers reach the handle, a pair of shoes steps into view , black Converse, scuffed and dirty, the laces fraying. And right there, drawn on the toe in fading ink, is a tiny smiley face with X’s for eyes. The same one Louis always doodles in the margins of his notebook.

His breath catches.

He straightens slowly, fake knife forgotten in his hand. Standing before him is another Ghostface, mask identical to his own. This one is taller, broader, dressed in a fitted black long-sleeved shirt that stretches over defined arms and solid pecs. Dark cargo pants hug strong legs, and Louis swears he can feel the pull of the man’s gravity even through the haze of sweat and sound.

He expects him to speak, to lift the mask and say something sleazy, like all the others had. But instead, the stranger just raises a gloved hand. A silent offer.

Louis hesitates for a beat, heart hammering, then slides his fake knife into his boot and places his hand into the other’s. The stranger’s grip is firm, grounding.

He lets himself be led back into the mass of bodies. The crowd closes around them until it feels like there’s no one left in the room but the two of them. Then, without warning, Ghostface spins him. Louis gasps softly, finding himself pressed back against a solid chest, the man’s hand anchoring his hips.

He’s never been handled like this, not so confidently, not by someone who hasn’t even spoken a word. But it sends a spark straight through him.

The beat shifts, vibrating through the floor and into their bodies, and Louis lets himself move with it, hips rolling, swaying. The stranger follows seamlessly, his movements precise and controlled, guiding Louis like he’s memorized every rhythm of him already.

It’s easy. It’s electric. It’s nothing like the forced flirting and stilted conversation he’s endured all night, just heat, chemistry, and unspoken hunger.

Then Ghostface slides an arm around Louis’ middle, pulling him closer until Louis can feel every hard line of muscle against his back. His other hand trails upward, gloved fingers brushing over the hollow of Louis’s throat before wrapping firmly around it.

The grip is tight enough to make Louis gasp, but not enough to scare him, just enough to make him ache for more.

Louis tips his head back against the man’s shoulder, breath catching in his throat as the world around them blurs into the pulse of the music and the steady press of that hand. For the first time in weeks, he doesn’t think about his professor, or what he can’t have.

Only what’s right here in front of him matters. A hot, strong man holding him close, like he wants him. Needs him.

And Louis needs him too.

He pushes back harder, grinding his ass into the man’s crotch, rewarded by the unmistakable press of a growing bulge against him. A slow, satisfied smirk curls over Louis’ lips beneath the mask.

Ghostface hums next to his ear, low and gravelly, the sound vibrating through the small space between them. It’s muffled, warped by the mask, so Louis can’t even begin to place it. Could be anyone.

And maybe that’s better.

He knows himself, knows he’d find a way to ruin this by thinking about him, about Professor Styles, about what it would feel like if that man touched him like this. So Louis lets go of the thought and decides to keep the moment anonymous. Just bodies and the reckless kind of pleasure he’s been craving.

His breath stutters when he feels the fabric of his skirt brush against his bare skin—he’d skipped underwear for the costume, a decision that seemed clever and sexy at the time but now feels dangerous. His cock is already hard, pushing against his tights and tenting the front of his skirt. He’s grateful that the room is dark and crowded enough that no one’s paying attention.

Ghostface’s hand tightens around his throat, a firm reminder to stay here, now. The stranger rolls his hips forward, grinding into Louis’ ass, and Louis can feel every solid inch through the layers of fabric. It draws a shaky sound from his throat, swallowed by the music.

The heat in his stomach coils tighter, spreading through his limbs until he can’t hold still. He turns in the man’s hold, chest heaving, and for a moment, they just stare at each other through the glossy black eyeholes of their masks.

Louis wants to say something, wants to ask, but the bass is deafening, and his voice would barely carry through the plastic. So instead, he reaches out and presses a hand to Ghostface’s chest, then points upstairs.

The man tilts his head, as if considering, then nods once.

When Ghostface’s gloved hand slides into his, Louis lets himself be pulled forward, fingers locking tight. Together, they weave through the crowd, slipping past dancers and giggling groups, until they finally emerge from the crush of bodies and start ascending the stairs.

On the way up, they pass Quinn and the angel-costumed girl. Quinn’s eyes widen, her mouth falling open before breaking into a wide, excited grin. She shoots him a thumbs-up, and Louis can’t help but return it, imagining the interrogation of the dirty details tomorrow.

Louis gestures toward his room on the left-hand side of the hall, and Ghostface tugs him inside with a sense of urgency, navigating past couples tangled on the floor and one pair that looks like they’ve tossed back pills that Louis couldn’t even begin to know what they are.

The door clicks shut behind them, cutting them off from the chaos below. Ghostface pushes him onto the bed, looming above with predator-like intensity. Louis bites back a gasp but doesn’t flinch, he’s been waiting for a fuck like this for too long to let anyone else take the reins completely.

He slides his gloves off, heat pooling in his palms, and scoots to the edge of the bed. Ghostface hovers between his legs. Louis wastes no time undoing the belt, yanking down the zipper, and freeing the cock from the confines of boxers.

A hiss slips from Ghostface as Louis wraps his hand around him, testing the weight, pumping slowly. The long length is heavier than anything Louis has experienced, girthy and warm, and the sight alone has his mouth watering.

Louis glances up, meeting the slight tilt of the stranger’s masked head, watching him with an intensity that sends shivers down his spine. It’s wild and thrilling—jerking someone off without seeing their face should be strange, but it only makes the tension between them hotter, more electric.

The moment is brief; Ghostface isn’t content letting Louis hold all the power. He pushes down on Louis’ thighs, flipping him onto his stomach. Louis lets out a soft whimper, the show of strength setting fire to him, and instinctively presses his knees beneath him, arching his back to present himself.

“Fuck…” Ghostface mutters, low and guttural. Louis giggles into his mask, knowing his bum always has that effect.

The giggle is cut short when he feels the skirt being flipped up, fabric tearing with a sharp rip. His breath hitches. He should be annoyed but the raw hunger in the act, the desperation in Ghostface’s movements, makes him hot all over. The stranger isn’t messing around; he wants Louis, needs him, and isn’t concerned with finesse.

The rip in his tights exposes his ass completely, his small, hard cock straining between his legs. Ghostface’s large hands grip his cheeks, kneading roughly, the pressure sending shivers straight to his core. Then one hand comes down with a sharp smack, echoing through the quiet room.

Louis yelps, startled at first, but instinctively leans back into the heat of the touch. The spanks continue, loud and deliberate, each one burning across his flesh in delicious waves. He knows his bum will be sore, smattered with angry red marks by morning but he doesn’t care. Couldn’t care, even if he tried.

The room falls into a brief, charged silence. Louis wants to twist, to look over his shoulder, to see if maybe the man is hesitating but before he can, Ghostface grips his cheeks again, spreading them firmly apart.

A wetness lands on his hole. Louis freezes for a split second, the unexpected contact making his breath hitch. It takes him only a heartbeat to realize it’s spit. The warmth, the roughness, the sheer intent behind it—it’s so fucking hot that he can barely inhale without trembling.

Ghostface drags the pad of his finger over his rim first, teasingly, just circling over his slickened hole. The warmth of the spit, combined with the firm pressure of those fingers, has Louis whining softly, hands clutching at the sheets, searching for anything to ground himself.

He’s trembling with need, impatient, and it’s as if the man senses it because just when Louis thinks he can’t wait any longer, Ghostface presses carefully, sliding a single finger inside him. Louis gasps sharply at the sting, biting his lip through it, every nerve screaming in delicious tension. He knows there’s lube in the bedside drawer, but something about the raw, filthy heat of just spit makes it feel hotter, more primal. He doesn’t stop him. Sometimes, sex is better when it hurts a little.

A guttural sound rumbles from Ghostface’s chest as he grips Louis’ cheek with his free hand, adding a second finger. They work in and out slowly, deliberately, stretching him, teasing him, making him hum low with pleasure. Louis can feel every inch, every glide, every press of those fingers inside him. He’s lost entirely to the sensation, to the delicious mix of pain and pleasure, reveling in how utterly he’s being used, like a little toy in the hands of someone who clearly wants him.

Then, the man climbs on top of him, straddling Louis’ thighs, adding a third finger with deliberate precision. Ghostface leans down, draping his chest over Louis’ back, one gloved hand gripping his chin harshly as he works his fingers in and out. The pressure, the stretch, the dominance, it sends shivers racing through Louis, making him ache all over.

“Fuck,” Louis whispers, trying to bite back the moans threatening to escape. The heat of Ghostface’s cock pressing against him only makes the ache sharper, a need so intense that he can’t stand it any longer.

Impatient, he wiggles against the stranger, letting his hips say what his voice can’t. Ghostface seems to get the message. His fingers withdraw, leaving Louis gasping and trembling, and the man lifts into a sitting position over his thighs. Louis hears the sound of a condom wrapper and the slick sound of spit meeting skin, followed by a wet, deliberate schlick as Ghostface lubes up his cock. Louis’ stomach coils in anticipation.

The first press inside makes Louis gasp sharply, hips instinctively jerking away from the intrusion, but Ghostface doesn’t let him escape. Inch by inch, he fills him, slow and deliberate, the stretch almost unbearable and yet, exactly what Louis needs.

When the man bottoms out, Louis claws at the sheets, desperate for something to grip, breath hitching in ragged gasps. His body clenches around the cock buried inside him, trying—and failing—to adjust to the sheer size, every nerve on fire with overstimulation.

He bites down on the fabric in front of his mouth, hot and damp, as Ghostface begins to move. At first, it’s slow, controlled rocks of his hips, teasing and deliberate. But it doesn’t stay gentle for long. Soon, the thrusts become brutal, knees collapsing, Louis flattened under the man’s relentless weight. Every slam of his hips sends a wave of pleasure—painful, intoxicating—through Louis’ body.

The room fills with the sounds of skin slapping against skin, Ghostface’s balls hitting his arse, and ragged breathing that matches Louis’ own. The party downstairs becomes irrelevant, a distant hum behind the chaos of sensation. Louis grins into his mask, soft little “uh, uh, uh’s” escaping him with every punishing thrust, lost entirely to the rhythm of being fucked hard by a big cock, dirty, and fast. In that moment, nothing else exists; he’s in his own heaven, and he wouldn’t have it any other way.

Louis can feel the orgasm building, hot and relentless, his cock rutting against the sheets. Every thrust from Ghostface drives him closer, and he can tell the stranger is nearing the edge too, his movements becoming frantic, sloppy, urgent.

Then, unexpectedly, Ghostface’s hands cover his own, fingers tangling together, a fleeting moment of intimacy that feels almost foreign. Louis doesn’t lift his head; his cheek is pressed into the mattress, mind wiped clean by sensation, thought entirely abandoned.

His prostate is battered with every punishing thrust, sparks of pleasure radiating from his core, spreading through his body. The sensation overwhelms him, and he comes hard, hips shuddering, his little cock spilling against the bed in a hot, sticky mess. It’s a wave of pleasure so intense, so consuming, that he’s certain this has to be the best orgasm of his life.

The pulsing of his arse drives Ghostface over the edge too. His rhythm stutters, every thrust jerking, hands gripping Louis’ almost painfully tight. Louis feels the warmth filling the condom, a satisfied hum escaping his lips.

When it’s over, Louis lies there, spent, trembling, every nerve raw and buzzing. He feels utterly fucked out, sated in a way that’s almost painful, but there’s a small ache in his chest too, a pang of disappointment that the most intense, mind-blowing sex of his life has ended so suddenly, leaving him aching for more even as his body can’t take it.

But instead of leaving the second his orgasm ebbs, Ghostface climbs onto the bed beside him, sliding close until Louis feels the warmth of the stranger pressed against his back. The bed dips slightly under his weight, the faint rustle of sheets mingling with the thrum of Louis’ still-racing heartbeat. Ghostface’s arm snakes around his waist, holding him tight, protective, possessive.

Louis sags into the embrace, every exhausted nerve tingling at the contact. He wants to see who’s under the mask, needs to know the face that just shattered his brain and body in equal measure but he’s too boneless, too sated, too scared to ruin the fragility of this moment.

He lets himself be spooned, burying his cheek into the stranger’s shoulder, breathing in the faint scent of sweat and something indescribably… intoxicating. All he can hope is that this man feels the same, that he’s still here when Louis wakes up, and that this isn’t just a fleeting, perfect illusion.

Somewhere deep in the back of his mind, for a fleeting, fleeting second, Louis thinks of Professor Styles but that thought is drowned out by warmth, heat, and the steady pulse of the stranger’s body against his.

If he’d been paying attention, he might have noticed the familiar cross tattoo on the hand that had tangled with his own while they fucked, inked in black against pale skin; a detail that might have made his heart stop entirely.

But Louis is too lost in the afterglow, too distracted by the feel of the arm around him, to notice. He lets sleep pull him under, finally quieting the persistent thoughts of Professor Styles, even if just for the night.

***

The next morning, he wakes up alone.

He expected it, he really did, but the empty space beside him still stings. Some foolish, aching part of him had hoped he’d wake to find Ghostface still there. No mask. No mystery. Just a face, a name, a reason for why last night felt like more than just sex.

With a tired sigh, Louis peels the mask off his own face, surprised it managed to stay on all night. Cool air hits his damp skin, making him shiver. The thing’s ruined, stiff with dried sweat and tears, a lost cause. He tosses it aside and sits up slowly, the sheets clinging to his thighs.

He feels wrecked in every sense of the word. His hair’s a matted mess, his corset top twisted, his skirt rucked up around his waist. His tights are torn to shreds, barely clinging to him. Every movement reminds him of what happened; his body sore, muscles trembling, a deep ache between his legs that makes him limp a little when he stands.

And God, it’s hot. The dull throb in his hips, the faint stretch in his ass—it’s like a ghost of the night before, a reminder he can’t quite decide whether to be embarrassed by or turned on from.

He makes it to the bathroom, flicking on the light but avoiding the mirror. He doesn’t need to see himself to know what he looks like—ruined, flushed, thoroughly fucked. Instead, he goes straight to the shower.

The water hits his skin in a scalding rush, steam curling around him, washing away the smell of sex, sweat, and someone else’s cologne. He scrubs until his skin feels raw, reluctant to erase the last physical trace of the stranger—save for the swollen, tenderness of his role, which he cleans carefully, wincing when the loofah drags a little too rough along his rim.

When he’s done, he wraps himself in his softest clothes—an oversized jumper, loose shorts—and crawls back into bed with the intention of doing absolutely nothing. Maybe he’ll binge terrible reality TV, pretend his body doesn’t still hum with the memory of being filled, touched, held.

But the illusion doesn’t last long. His phone buzzes relentlessly on the nightstand.

Two messages from Quinn:

9:56am: angel girl didn’t work out 😞

9:57am: your ghostface had a hot bod. need the deets ASAP.

And one from Delaney:

10:34am: quinn told me you got laid last night. twinsies! i’m a little hungover but we can all grab lunch?

Louis groans and flops back against his pillow, arm draped over his eyes. So much for a quiet, shame-filled Sunday.

***

“You never saw his face? Like at all?” Delaney stares at him like he’s gone mad.

Louis lifts his tea to his lips, blowing on the steam before taking a slow sip. “Didn’t want to. Well,at first. I wanted it to be no strings attached, yeah? Just… good sex. He didn’t see my face either.”

“Oh my god, Louis.” Quinn looks just as scandalized, eyebrows high over her mug. “You’ve actually lost it. What if he was hideous under the mask?”

Louis shrugs, a lazy grin tugging at his mouth. “Good thing you don’t have to be fit to give good dick.” He picks absently at the crumbs of his scone, trying to sound casual. “Doesn’t matter anyway. It was the best sex of my life, he even—” he hesitates, cheeks warming, “—cuddled me after. And now he’s gone. I’m never going to find out who he was.”

“City’s small,” Quinn says, trying to sound reassuring even though she still looks half-baffled. “Maybe you’ll run into him again.”

Louis snorts into his tea. “How would I even know? Can’t exactly have every bloke whip his cock out so I can check if it’s the same one that fucked me.”

Delaney nearly chokes on her drink. “It’s like Cinderella,” she manages between laughs. “You’re the prince searching for the glass slipper but in your case, the dick that filled your ass.”

Quinn bursts into laughter, and Louis groans, hiding his face in his hands. “You two are fucking annoying,” he mutters, though a reluctant smile curls at his mouth.

He knew they wouldn’t take it seriously. Hell, if it were one of them telling this story, he’d probably laugh too. But it still gnaws at him, the lingering ache of curiosity, of something unfinished.

He tries to listen as the conversation shifts, Delaney diving into the details of her own Halloween conquest. “He was dressed as the Joker. Heath Ledger not the creepy Jared Leto version,” she gushes, gesturing wildly with her mimosa. “Turns out he’s in my econ class—Nate something. Gave me the most epic head ever. Like, my clit’s still on cloud nine, I swear.”

Louis laughs in all the right places, but his heart isn’t in it. His mind keeps wandering, to the masked man, to the weight of his body, the way his hand had fit over Louis’ so naturally.

And, maddeningly, to Professor Styles. No matter how hard he tries, that thought won’t go away.

***

Psychology class on Monday is… awkward, to say the least.

Louis can feel Professor Styles’ eyes on him from the moment he walks in. And not in the casual, quick glances he’s gotten used to catching before —those brief flickers that could almost be explained away but full, lingering stares. The kind that make Louis feel stripped bare, like the man’s trying to say something without words and can’t quite manage it.

Louis shifts in his seat more than once under the weight of it, heat creeping up his neck. He racks his brain for anything he might’ve done wrong—no teasing comments lately, no flirting that crossed a line. Still, Harry looks unsettled, nervous even, and that’s new.

He tries to shake it off, taking notes that blur together because all he can think about is the way Harry keeps tugging at his mustache, that fucking mustache that Louis has thought about far too often. He wonders if it’s softer than it looks or if it’d be scratchy against his thighs. He’s losing it.

By the time class ends, Louis has worked himself into a quiet panic. When class dismisses, Quinn and Delaney shoot him identical frowns, silently asking you okay? He waves them off with a little smile, motioning for them to go ahead. They shrug and head out, whispering to each other as the rest of the class filters through the door.

Once the room is empty, Louis finally stands, slinging his crossbody over his shoulder, heart hammering like it’s trying to escape. Harry’s still there, leaning against the desk with that furrowed brow and unreadable expression. His hands are in his pockets, knuckles brushing against the wood.

Louis swallows, suddenly very aware of how small the lecture hall feels now that it’s just the two of them. “Professor, I—” he starts, then falters. God, say something normal. “I noticed you staring at me during class. Like, a lot. Is… everything okay? If this is about my flirting or whatever, I promise I’ll stop. I know when no means no, I just—”

“Louis.” Harry’s voice cuts through, firm but quiet. The sound of his name in that low register makes Louis’s stomach twist. “It’s not about that.”

Louis blinks, thrown. “Oh. Then… is everything okay, professor?”

The older man sighs, raking a hand through his curls. He glances down at the floor before meeting Louis’ eyes again. “There’s something I need to tell you. Two things, actually.”

Louis nods, clutching his bag strap tighter, waiting.

“The first is… I’m transferring schools,” Harry says finally. “​​I got offered a position in London—head of the psychology department at a very prestigious university program. It’s a really big opportunity. I won’t have to move, just a quick commute on the tube, but I’ll be leaving this position by the end of the term.”

Louis’ heart sinks before his brain can catch up. “What?” It comes out too fast, too sharp, so he forces a weak smile. “I mean, wow, that’s—that’s amazing, Professor. Really. Congratulations.”

Harry smiles softly, and there’s that flicker of warmth again that Louis’s chest aches for. “Thank you. I wanted to tell you first, before I announced it to the class. You’ve been my favorite student this term.” His mustache twitches with a tiny grin, like he knows he’s being too honest but can’t help himself. “Don’t tell the others, though.”

Louis lets out a weak laugh, the tension in his shoulders easing a little, even as disappointment curls in his stomach. Of course Harry Styles is leaving. Of course the universe would rip him away just when Louis can’t stop thinking about him and about the man in the Ghostface mask. When his life is so complicated already.

Louis clears his throat, voice catching a little. “And… what’s the other thing you needed to tell me?”

Harry’s smile falters, softening into something uneasy—a flicker of nerves breaking through his usual composure. He rubs the back of his neck, eyes darting toward the door before settling back on Louis, guilt etched plainly across his features.

“Oh, god, Louis,” he murmurs, voice tight. “I did something horrible. Something highly unprofessional. And I really hope you’ll be able to forgive me.”

Louis blinks at him, confusion twisting in his stomach. Forgive him? For what? “Professor, I’m… very confused. I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Harry exhales, the sound weighted with shame. “At your party,” he begins slowly, each word sounding like it’s being dragged out of him, “I—slept with someone.” His gaze drops to the desk for a moment before flicking back to Louis. “And I think it was… in your bed.”

Louis stares. That… didn’t clear anything up. If anything, it made the confusion worse. “You were at my party? Did—did Niall invite you?”

Harry shakes his head. “No. His girlfriend did.” He hesitates, then adds, “She’s my little sister.”

“Gemma?” Louis blurts out, brain struggling to keep up.

“Yeah.” Harry looks at him, brow pinched. “Though, I think you’re focusing on the wrong part here, Louis.”

But Louis can’t help it, his mind is spiraling. Harry was there. He was at the Halloween party. He’s trying to picture him in the crowd, trying to remember any sign that would’ve given him away, but one small detail rings in his ears, something Gemma said that night: my brother’s here somewhere — he’s the one in the Ghostface mask.

The thought makes Louis’ pulse thunder, his gaze dropping as his head spins, eyes catching on Harry’s shoes—scuffed, black Converse with a little doodle on the white rubber toe. A smiley face with X’s for eyes.

His heart lurches. Holy fuck.

He barely registers Harry’s voice continuing, faint under the rush of his own thoughts.

“I’m surprised I didn’t see you there,” Harry says with a nervous laugh, still rubbing at the back of his neck. “You know, considering you live there. But, uh… I know I crossed about ten thousand professional boundaries, and it was stupid, and—”

“Harry,” Louis interrupts, his voice thin and unsteady. It surprises them both, the use of his first name, the sharpness of it. “Your shoes. I’ve never seen you wear them before.”

Harry glances down, startled. “Oh. These?” He chuckles softly, lifting his foot and twisting it a little like he’s showing them off. “Found them at the back of my closet a few days ago. Forgot I’d doodled on them while drunk one night. I figured I’d wear them for my costume.”

Louis’ throat goes dry. His skin feels too hot, his collar too tight. “You, uh… you weren’t dressed as Ghostface, were you?”

Harry grins—easy, oblivious, that same grin Louis used to think was harmless. “Yeah, I was. From Scream, y’know? I know, not very original, but Gemma dragged me along last minute and it was all I could throw together.”

Louis feels like the floor’s just fallen away beneath him.

Oh my god. Harry was Ghostface. Harry was the stranger from the Halloween party. He and Harry had sex. Mindblowing, life-altering, ruin-you-for-all-other-sex sex. Harry was the man who fucked him senseless in his own bed.

The realization crashes over him, every nerve in his body lighting up in disbelief and panic. His chest feels tight and all he can think is that Harry has no idea. No idea who he was with, no idea what he did, no idea how Louis came apart under him, how he gave him the best orgasm of his life.

Should he tell him? Should he come clean? What would Harry do if he knew? Would he be horrified? Angry? Disgusted? The thought makes Louis’ stomach twist.

Harry must see something shift in his expression, because his brow furrows in alarm. “Oh, god, you are freaked out,” he says quickly. “Shit, Louis, I’m so sorry. I swear I’ll have your sheets dry-cleaned or replaced or whatever, I just—”

“It’s fine, professor,” Louis croaks, voice barely steady. “Don’t worry about it. I, uh… I gotta go.”

“Wait, Louis—”

But he’s already moving, spinning on his heel before he can think twice. His legs feel weak, his pulse hammering in his throat as he takes the stairs two at a time and bursts out of the lecture hall.

The cool hallway air hits his flushed skin. His head is spinning. He thinks about calling Quinn or Delaney, god knows they’d have a field day with this, but the thought makes him feel even sicker. No. He needs to be alone. Needs to process.

Because the man he’s been fantasizing about for months and the man who fucked him dirty and fast, who made him feel pleasure he's never felt before, are the same person.

***

Louis is glad that Niall’s still in class because he doesn’t think he’d be able to properly fall apart if he wasn’t alone.

The minute his dorm door clicks shut behind him, he drops his bag and collapses onto his bed, curling in on himself. The sheets still smell faintly of Ghostface—Harry—sandalwood and that soft cologne that Louis isn’t sure how he didn’t recognize. Harry wears that scent everyday. It makes Louis’ chest ache in the worst way.

He should be happy, shouldn’t he? He finally got fucked by Professor Styles and it had been everything he’d imagined and more. Filthy and tender and mind-splintering all at once. The way Harry had moved inside him, the way he’d tangled their fingers together, how he’d held him close like Louis was something precious. For a few blissful minutes, it had felt like more than sex. It had felt like something.

But now, that something feels like a cruel trick. Because Harry hadn’t known it was him. He thought he was sleeping with some stranger, some faceless body from a Halloween party. He didn’t want Louis, he just wanted a meaningless fuck.

Louis buries his face in his pillow, hating the sting in his throat. If Harry had wanted him, really wanted him, he wouldn’t have been sleeping with random people at parties. He wouldn’t have needed to hide behind a mask.

Maybe it doesn’t even matter. Harry’s leaving soon anyway, off to London to be some big-shot department head, while Louis stays here, trying to pretend his life hasn’t just shifted on its axis. Harry will just be the professor he used to pine after, a neighbor he occasionally nods to across the street. Someone close enough to see but too far away to touch.

So Louis tells himself it’s better this way. He won’t tell Harry. He won’t ruin the man’s career or embarrass himself for the last time. He’ll keep the secret, keep the memory, keep pretending it didn’t mean anything more.

It’s easier that way, or at least that’s what he keeps whispering to himself as hot tears slip down his cheeks, soaking into the pillow that still smells like Harry.

***

Louis is curled up on the sofa in just a big t-shirt and his underwear when the door clicks open. The flicker of the hallway light catches on his bare legs, skin prickling with leftover chill from the apartment’s draft.

He doesn’t move when he hears Niall’s voice, too comfortable in his nest of blankets and misery until another voice joins it.

“Hey, Lou,” Niall says, dropping his keys into the dish by the door. Gemma follows behind him, a brown paper bag clutched in one hand, the smell of soy sauce and sesame oil wafting through the air as soon as she steps inside.

Louis groans quietly and burrows deeper into the sofa cushions.

Niall sighs, tossing his backpack onto the recliner and collapsing next to him hard enough to make the sofa dip. Louis grumbles when his cocoon shifts, shooting Niall a glare.

“What’s got you so mopey, sunshine?” Niall asks, elbowing him lightly.

Louis stares at him, voice sharp and incredulous. “You didn’t think to mention that your girlfriend’s brother is the professor I’ve had a massive crush on since forever?”

Niall blinks, mouth parting as realization dawns. “Oh, right.” He scratches the back of his neck. “Guess I didn’t put two and two together.”

Gemma moves closer, perching on the edge of the coffee table, the takeout bag crinkling beside her. Her lips curl into a teasing smirk. “Wait, you have a crush on my brother?”

Louis looks up at her and immediately wishes he hadn’t.

Without the strobing Halloween lights and the blur of costumes, he can see her clearly now. The resemblance hits him like a punch. Those straight, dark brows. The same mouth—full and soft, twitching at the corners with that same smugness Harry wears so easily. Even the slope of her nose. They could be twins.

His stomach twists. He can’t look at her, not when all he sees is him.

“Yes,” Louis mutters, burying his face into a throw pillow, voice muffled. “I have a stupid crush on your brother, but it doesn’t matter anymore.”

There’s a pause, then a soft wince from Gemma. “I hate to be the one to tell you this, but… I think he slept with someone at your Halloween party.”

Louis lets out a shaky laugh, humorless and bitter. “Yeah, I know.”

Niall frowns, confusion knitting his brow. “You know?”

Louis sighs, eyes fixed on a loose thread on the couch cushion, twirling it between his fingers until it snaps. “Hard not to when you’re the one he fucked.”

“Oh,” Gemma says softly. Then again, louder, when it truly hits her. “Oh.”

“Yeah,” Louis mumbles, pulling his knees tighter to his chest. The fabric of his t-shirt stretches around his shoulders, smelling faintly of his vanilla detergent and the smoke from the candle he forgot to blow out last night. It’s comforting and suffocating all at once.

“But wait,” Niall says, brow furrowing, “isn’t that a good thing? I mean, yeah, he’s your teacher, but you’ve slept together. That’s gotta mean something, right?”

“He doesn’t know he slept with me,” Louis croaks, forcing the words out even though they scrape against his throat. “We both wore our masks the whole time. I only found out it was him today.” He lets out a bitter huff. “Not that it matters. He’s finishing the term and then leaving to teach at some fancy university in London.”

“Oh yeah,” Gemma murmurs, looking thoughtful. “He told me about that. I’m sorry, Louis. That’s… messy.” Her gaze softens. “But you have to tell him.”

Louis shakes his head immediately. “No. He’d just be disgusted that he slept with one of his students. He’d try to pretend it didn’t happen.”

“Louis—”

“I don’t want to talk about it anymore,” Louis says, voice cracking. He swallows hard, forcing it down. “Please.”

Gemma hesitates, sympathy flickering across her face, but she nods, offering him a small, understanding smile.

“Come on, Lou,” Niall says gently, rummaging through the takeout bag. “We got enough Chinese to feed a small army. You need to eat.”

Louis sighs, the tension in his chest easing just slightly. “Yeah, alright.”

They spread the food out on the coffee table—curry, lo mein, dumplings—the savory scent filling the room. The first bite is warm and spicy, coating Louis’ tongue, but it’s hard to swallow around the lump in his throat. He keeps eating anyway, chewing slowly as Gemma and Niall chatter about something inane on the TV.

It’s easier to pretend for a little while. Easier to let the food and warmth and noise drown out the echo of Harry’s voice in his head.

Louis is half-heartedly picking at the last of his noodles, twirling them around his fork until they go limp, when there’s a knock at the door. The sound echoes through the flat, dull and heavy. He doesn’t even flinch; he’s too tired, too numb to care who it is.

Instead, he looks at Niall with wide, pleading eyes, hoping his best friend will get the hint. Niall sighs dramatically, setting down his curry and nudging Gemma off his lap. She rolls her eyes, landing on the recliner in an exaggerated huff while Niall drags himself toward the door.

Louis doesn’t lift his head at first, staring blankly at his food. The knock must’ve been the Amazon guy, or maybe Delaney dropping by until a voice filters through the quiet.

That voice.

Low. Rough. Familiar.

Louis freezes, the fork slipping from his fingers and clattering against the plate. His pulse spikes so hard he can feel it in his throat.

“I don’t think he wants to see you, mate,” Niall says firmly from the hallway.

Louis’ stomach twists. He thought he didn’t want to see Harry, thought it would be too painful, too humiliating, but the second he hears him standing just a few feet away, everything in him aches to be closer.

Before he can stop himself, he’s on his feet, the blanket falling off his lap and pooling at his ankles. He stumbles toward the door, his heart thudding loud in his ears.

And then he sees him.

Harry standing in the doorway of his tiny, dimly lit flat, looking so good it feels unfair. He’s changed out of his professor clothes, the stiff button-up and slacks replaced with a tight white t-shirt that clings to his chest and soft gray joggers hanging low on his hips. His tattoos peek from under his sleeves, curling down his forearms, dark ink against golden skin.

Louis’ breath catches. His brain feels like static. He looks so domestic, so boyfriend-like, like he could belong here, like he’s always belonged here.

Harry’s mid-sentence when he spots Louis. He goes still, green eyes locking onto blue, and for a moment the air between them feels too thick to breathe.

Niall glances between the two of them, eyes narrowing as the tension hits him full force. “Right,” he mutters, grimacing. “Hey, babe,” he says to Gemma, “how about we, uh, go grab some ice cream?”

Gemma slides off the recliner, smirking knowingly. As she passes her brother, she stops, fixing him with a pointed look. “Don’t be an idiot, Haz.”

Harry lets out a weak laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Thanks, Gems,” he murmurs, voice low.

The door shuts behind them, and suddenly the house feels unbearably small. Too quiet. Too warm. The air hums with unspoken things.

Harry shifts on his feet in the doorway, the sound of his trainers scuffing softly against the wood floor. His hands fidget—first running through his hair, then tugging at the hem of his shirt. He looks nervous, out of place in his own skin.

“Can I come in?” he asks finally, voice softer now, almost pleading. His thumb brushes against his lower lip, tugging at it in a nervous habit, and Louis can’t stop staring at the way his mustache moves with the motion, that stupid, perfect mustache that makes him go weak with one look.

Louis swallows hard, trying to collect himself, to remember that he’s supposed to be shutting the professor out. But when it comes to Harry Styles, logic doesn’t stand a chance.

He steps aside without a word.

“Sorry about the mess,” Louis mutters as Harry steps past him, brushing against his shoulder just enough to make his skin prickle. He closes the door behind them, his voice coming out softer, smaller. “Niall still hasn’t cleaned up from the party.”

Harry smiles faintly, that familiar curve of his lips doing dangerous, dizzying things to Louis’ already fragile sanity. His stupid mouth—soft, pink, framed by that damn mustache Louis pretends not to stare at—lifts into a small, rueful grin. It’s devastating. “Doesn’t bother me,” he says, voice warm and a little raspy, like he’s been shouting or laughing too much. Or maybe like he’s nervous.

Louis gestures for him to sit at the kitchen table, trying to ignore the thrum under his skin. “Would you like a cuppa?”

Harry shakes his head, curls swaying, the faint scent of his cologne spilling through the air. “No, it’s fine. Louis, I need to tell you something.”

Louis furrows his brows. Didn’t he already tell him everything at school earlier? But he sits anyway, sinking into the chair across from him, fingers worrying at the loose hem of his sleeve. The kitchen feels too small all of a sudden, too quiet except for the faint hum of the fridge and the soft creak of Harry’s chair as he shifts, restless.

Harry takes a deep breath, mouth opening and closing as if the words refuse to leave him. His fingers drum lightly against the table, and Louis watches the motion, his stomach twisting tighter with every second. Eventually he gets frustrated and huffs, “Spit it out, professor.”

“I like you, Louis,” Harry blurts, cheeks blooming red under his stubble and that  mustache Louis dreams about. “I like you a lot.”

The air is knocked right out of Louis’ lungs. Harry likes him? Like—likes him, likes him? His brain can’t seem to wrap around it. This is Harry Styles. His maddeningly hot, sexy mustached professor, who he thought had gone home with someone else that night. His stomach swoops, painfully confused.

“What?” is all Louis can manage, voice small and breathless.

“I’ve liked you for so long,” Harry admits, voice rough, eyes darting away. “Probably since the first day of school when I saw you laughing with your friends. You have such a beautiful smile.” His mouth curls into something self-deprecating, eyes flicking up. “I tried to push you away because you’re my student. But fuck, I can’t do it anymore.”

Louis’ head spins. The words buzz in his skull like static, impossible to process. That’s insane. He can’t mean that. He can’t mean me. His pulse thuds in his throat as he croaks, “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because I’m leaving,” Harry says, voice quieter now, softer. “I won’t be your teacher much longer, and I’d love to ask you out.” He bites his lip, eyes hopeful in that stupid, beautiful way that makes Louis want to scream.

Louis’ chest goes tight, too tight, and he can’t tell if it’s a good thing or if it’s panic clawing at his ribs. He narrows his eyes instead, skeptical. “What about your shag the other night? In my bed? What about him?”

Harry groans, dragging a hand through his hair until it’s all messy curls and frustration. “I want you. That night was… special, but he wasn’t you. You’re pretty, and funny, and so fucking smart.” His voice catches a little on the last word. “I’ve hated turning you down, but my job, I had to stay professional. But you’re so worth it. I know it. More than the fuck on Halloween.” His laugh is rough, nervous. “Besides, I never even saw his face.”

Louis swallows hard. The truth burns at the back of his throat, sharp and inescapable. He can’t keep it from him, not now. “Harry,” he says quietly, fiddling with his sleeve again, his voice trembling. “You have seen his face.”

Harry blinks, confusion flickering.

“I’m the one you slept with the other night.”

Silence.

It stretches between them, thick and heavy, until Louis can hear his own heartbeat pounding in his ears. Harry’s expression shifts, shock, disbelief, the faintest trace of wonder, like his brain’s trying to piece it together and can’t.

Finally, Harry breathes, “How did—did you know the whole time?”

“No, of course not,” Louis rushes out, shaking his head. “I had no idea during y’know, the whole thing. I only figured it out at school when you said Gemma was your sister. She mentioned you were dressed as Ghostface at the party.” He hesitates, then adds, softer, “The main giveaway was your shoes. I draw that same smiley face all the time.”

“I know.” Harry’s smile this time is small, real. “You always doodle them on your papers. I drew it on my shoe when I was drunk one night and couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

Louis’ heart lurches painfully, warmth pooling in his chest and making him want to hide his face in his hands. So he really does like me. The man he’s been pining after, the man who fucked him so good, who he thought was unobtainable, actually feels the same. It’s absurd. It’s terrifying. But it’s thrilling.

“So we…” Harry starts, shaking his head, still dazed. “We actually…”

“Had sex,” Louis finishes for him, meeting his eyes. “We had sex, Harry.” His voice drops, throat tight. “The best sex of my life, actually.”

“Same,” Harry breathes, gaze flicking to Louis’ mouth, the air between them thick and humming. There’s so much unsaid; want, disbelief, a spark of something neither can name and Louis can feel every charged inch of it pressing down on the small kitchen.

“Harry,” Louis blurts, standing so quickly his chair screeches against the tile, sharp and startling in the quiet kitchen. His heart is hammering, his skin electric. “Kiss me.”

For a heartbeat, neither of them moves. Then Harry does, like he’s been waiting for permission all this time. He pushes up from the chair, closing the distance in three long strides.

And then it happens.

Harry’s hands—big, warm, steady—cradle Louis’ cheeks, thumbs brushing over the edges of his jaw before pulling him in for a kiss that knocks the air right out of him. Louis swears he can hear his pulse in his ears, feel it thrumming against his ribs as their lips crash together. It’s heat and hunger and something that tastes like relief.

It’s lightning, white and wild, sparking behind his eyelids the moment they touch. All those stupid things people say about fireworks and butterflies and time stopping? They were apparently all true. Because right now, Louis feels like the entire earth might just disappear leaving just Louis and Harry here in this moment.

Harry’s mouth moves against his, slow and deliberate, like he’s learning him by heart. Every brush, every gentle tug makes Louis melt a little more. It’s everything he’d hoped his first kiss with Harry would be, tender but greedy, reverent but desperate. Home.

He didn’t get to kiss him that night on Halloween. That night had been about bodies and heat and instinct. But this is personal. This is Harry Styles, his impossibly charming, infuriatingly attractive professor, kissing him like he’s something to be treasured.

And god, the mustache. Louis had fantasized about it before, sure, but nothing could’ve prepared him for the way it feels, coarse and soft at the same time, tickling his upper lip and nose with every pass. It makes him shiver, makes him want to grab Harry’s face and rub against it just to feel it everywhere.

He can’t help but giggle into the kiss, the sound bubbling out of him before he can stop it. Harry pulls back just a breath, brows knitting in amused confusion. Louis grins, breathless. “You really still like me after the postbox incident?”

Harry laughs, that low, silent, crinkly-eyed laugh that Louis adores and his hands shift, one cupping the back of Louis’ neck, the other resting warm against his waist. “Especially after the postbox incident,” he says, grinning so wide his dimples cut deep and his bunny teeth are on full display. Louis’ chest aches at the sight. “You have no idea how much I wanted to take you inside right then and have my way with you. But I had to remind myself of my job. And I’m pretty sure Freida was ready to beat me with her rake.”

Louis snorts, unable to help himself. Freida definitely wanted to beat Harry with her rake.

He leans in closer, eyes glinting, lips brushing Harry’s when he murmurs, “Well, you could make up for lost time and have your way with me now, if you’d like.”

“Yeah?” Harry’s tone drops, rough and teasing, one brow arched in challenge. His hands slide lower, big palms fitting perfectly around the curve of Louis’ thighs.

Before Louis can even process it, Harry grips and lifts, strong and effortless, and Louis lets out a startled laugh as his feet leave the ground. Instinctively, his arms loop around Harry’s neck, fingers tangling in the curls at the back of his head.

“You know which room,” he breathes, nose brushing Harry’s jaw. 

Harry smirks, that dark, confident curl of his mouth that makes Louis’ stomach twist in the best way. “I do.”

The world blurs; the stairs, the hallway, the door, all reduced to flashes of light and sound. The dull thud of Harry’s shoulder against the doorframe. The low grunt he lets out when he kicks it open. The soft click of the door shutting behind them.

Then Louis is falling backward onto the bed, the mattress dipping and creaking beneath him as Harry looms above. For a heartbeat, it’s déjà vu — the same heavy air, the same trembling anticipation from Halloween night — but this time, there’s no confusion, no masks, no doubt about who’s touching him.

Just Harry. Just Louis.

If Louis thought the sex with Ghostface had been mind–numbingly good, this already feels like it’s going to ruin him for anyone else. Because now it isn’t just some mysterious stranger in a mask; it’s Harry. His professor. The man who laughs with his whole face and smells like sandalwood and new books. The man Louis has dreamed about far too many times to admit.

Harry’s presence feels heavier now, more intimate than it ever had that night. He moves closer, eyes hooded and dark as he hooks his fingers under the waistband of Louis’ soft briefs. He hesitates just long enough for Louis to catch the question in his gaze. Louis nods—eager, breath shallow, heart hammering in his chest.

The fabric slides down his thighs in one smooth pull, the cool air kissing his bare skin as Harry tosses the briefs aside. Louis flushes under the attention, his skin prickling, every nerve alight. He’d think to cover himself, to hide, but the way Harry’s eyes drag over him—slow, reverent, hungry—makes him forget how to be embarrassed.

Harry’s expression turns worshipful, like he’s looking at something sacred. Then he bends, lips brushing Louis’ inner thigh before wrapping around the tip of his cock.

Louis gasps, back arching off the bed, hands flying to Harry’s hair. He’s not used to this, most men assuming that his dick isn’t worth a blowjob since he’s smaller than average so the novelty of this hits him like a wave. Warm, wet heat surrounds him, and Louis can’t stop the strangled noise that slips out, part surprise, part sheer pleasure. His fingers tighten in Harry’s curls, tugging instinctively as those soft, red lips slide down, slow and steady.

Harry pulls back just enough to murmur against him, voice rough and breathless, “Love your little cock… didn’t get to properly play with it last time.”

Louis feels his stomach twist deliciously, his face burning. Then Harry presses a gentle kiss to the head, looking up through his lashes with that devastating smirk. “It’s so soft and pretty, just like the rest of you.”

Louis’ breath stutters. The words shouldn’t affect him this much, but they do. He feels seen, adored in a way that makes his chest ache.

When Harry takes him back into his mouth, deeper this time, Louis’ thoughts scatter. He feels the wet glide of Harry’s tongue, the subtle scrape of teeth, the rhythmic bob that makes him tremble. And then there’s the mustache—rougher than he imagined, the bristles dragging against the smooth skin above his cock. The friction is maddening, delicious, and Louis can’t hold back the whimper that spills from his lips.

It’s Harry down there, he keeps thinking. Harry, with his perfect mouth and his stupid mustache and his clever hands. 

But then Harry’s mouth is gone. The sudden absence makes Louis gasp, his body twitching at the loss of warmth. He’s about to complain, to beg even, when his words die on his tongue.

Because Harry’s standing now, and Christ, Louis can’t look away.

The soft lamplight hits every plane of him as he drags his shirt over his head, muscles shifting and flexing with each movement. His skin glows golden, a faint sheen of sweat catching along the curve of his biceps and the trail of ink winding up his arm. Louis feels his throat go dry, his eyes drinking him in greedily.

Harry’s joggers come next, then the boxers, both tugged down in one smooth motion. They fall to the floor in a careless heap, and Louis has a fleeting, dizzy thought that he’s never seen anything so beautiful. His eyes flick instinctively down, and oh god, he remembers that cock. Thick and flushed and heavy, the same one that split him open on Halloween and left him shaking for days after.

He doesn’t get nearly enough time to admire it before Harry’s on him again, tugging Louis’ oversized shirt up and over his head, leaving him completely bare and breathless.

Louis opens his mouth to say something, he’s not sure what, but then suddenly the world flips.

“Harry!” he squeals, voice pitching high as strong arms scoop him up, twist, and, holy shit, spin him upside down.

Everything tilts. His stomach swoops like he’s on a roller coaster, hair falling as he hangs there, upside down in Harry’s grip. The older man’s laughter rumbles through his chest, low and rich, vibrating against Louis’ torso where Harry’s arms lock tight around him.

For a second, panic flares, some instinct telling him he’s going to slip, crash to the floor, maybe break his neck. He’s small, light, and Harry’s easily got fifty pounds on him, but still.

“Harry, you’re gonna drop me!” Louis gasps, gripping at the man’s forearms even though they feel solid as iron beneath his hands.

But Harry just grins down at him, eyes sparkling, muscles shifting under his skin as he adjusts his hold. “I’d never drop you, sweetheart,” he says, voice teasing.

All thoughts of falling vanish the moment Harry lunges forward, grunting low in his chest, his body pressing against Louis with unrelenting force as his mouth dives in between his cheeks.

Louis gasps as Harry’s tongue traces a long, deliberate stripe from his taint up to the top of his hole, each flick setting sparks alight in his stomach. Harry’s mustache scrapes against the sensitive skin around his hole, and the feeling is everything Louis had imagined it would be and more. It’s delicious.

Harry’s cock presses insistently against his cheek, precome smearing across his skin, sending shivers darting through Louis’ spine. Instinctively, Louis opens his mouth, and Harry’s cock slides past his lips. Thick, warm, impossibly perfect—filling him in a way that makes his head spin. He can taste the tang of Harry, clean soap mixed with sweat, and it makes him shiver, weak in the knees despite being suspended in Harry’s arms.

Louis bobs his head, slowly at first, then with more urgency, taking more of Harry into his mouth with every motion. The angle is awkward, the weight unfamiliar, but he adjusts, gripping Harry’s pert little bum cheeks for leverage, finding rhythm and confidence in the motion. Every slide in his mouth sends sparks through his nerves, lighting up every fiber of his body.

But it’s impossible to focus on just Harry’s cock when his rim is under assault, Harry’s tongue attacking him with more intensity than any other man ever has. Every flick inside him, every wet, precise lap makes Louis cry out, body trembling. 

Previous partners had treated it like a chore, mechanical, disinterested. But Harry devours him. He wiggles his tongue with feral need, sucking and licking like he’s starving for Louis, making obscene, wet sounds that fill the room and echo in Louis’ chest.

Louis gasps around Harry, muffled sounds of pleasure and need spilling out as he clings tighter, body trembling with overstimulation. He can feel the heat pooling deep inside him, the familiar coil of pleasure tightening, his orgasm building with terrifying speed. He’s always come easily from being rimmed, but this is something else entirely. 

He tries to warn Harry, to give him a hint that he’s close, but Harry’s careful, commanding hand slides off Louis’ torso and finds the crown of his head, pressing gently, guiding him. Louis coughs, a little choke catching around Harry’s length, but none of it matters—he can barely breathe, can barely think, can only register the rough graze of Harry’s teeth across his rim. And then he comes.

The orgasm hits like a tidal wave, sudden, overwhelming, leaving him trembling and gasping. His cock spills where it’s trapped between his stomach and Harry’s chest, hot and slick, his hips moving instinctively, rocking against Harry’s mouth as his hole spasms uncontrollably. He sobs, head thrown back, eyes squeezed shut, every nerve ending alight with the never-ending pleasure.

Eventually it tapers, the shudders of release ebbing slowly, but Harry doesn’t pull away. Instead, he presses in deeper, murmuring against him, “Fucking take it, baby. Take it like the good boy you are.”

Louis obeys without hesitation, taking every inch of Harry with a raw, hungry need that leaves him dizzy. His nose presses into the warm, slick weight of Harry’s balls, breathing shallow and ragged, while saliva drips from his mouth onto the floor. Nothing else exists—no embarrassment, no shame, only the sensation of being used, exactly as he was meant to be used, by the man he’s wanted for so long.

Harry builds up a steady rhythm, holding Louis steady as he thrusts into his mouth, slow at first but soon finding that deep, unrelenting pace that has Louis seeing stars. Louis breathes through it, throat stretching, the salty tang of Harry’s skin and sweat filling his senses.

Each thrust makes his tears spill faster, running hot down his forehead, his nose slapped with the heavy weight of Harry’s balls with every push forward. Spit slicks his chin, dripping down to his cheeks, into his hair, until he’s a mess of tears and saliva and a little bit of snot but he doesn’t stop. He wants this. Wants to be good for Harry.

It’s only when Harry senses the blood rushing to his head, the way Louis’ body trembles, that he slows. Gently, he slides free and shifts Louis upright, laying him carefully on the bed, his head cushioned by the pillows. The sudden stillness makes Louis dizzy, air rushing back into his lungs as Harry climbs onto the bed, hovering over him.

For a moment, the room is quiet except for the sound of their breathing. Then Harry’s hand comes up, large and warm, brushing the wetness from Louis’ face. His thumb trails over Louis’ bottom lip, tugging it down just a little, studying him with a kind of reverence that makes Louis’ heart surge.

“You’re so beautiful, y’know that?” Harry murmurs, a crooked smile pulling at his lips. His voice is soft, still rough from exertion. “I hope that was okay.”

Louis’ breath catches, his throat raw, voice barely working. “Loved it,” he whispers, a small hiccup breaking through. “Love feeling used.” He swallows, blinking up at Harry, pupils blown wide. “Need you in me.”

“I know, baby,” Harry croons, brushing Louis’ sweaty fringe off his forehead, his tone dipping lower, gentler. “You got a condom?”

Louis shakes his head weakly. “Don’t want you to use one. ‘M clean, I promise. Want to feel all of you.”

Harry’s eyes flicker with something: hesitation, care, restraint. He studies Louis like he’s trying to read every thought behind those pleading eyes. “You sure?” he asks softly.

Louis nods, desperate.

Harry exhales, the decision heavy in the air before he gives in. “Okay. I’m clean too.” He pauses. “Lube?”

Louis shakes his head again. “Don’t want to use lube.”

Harry’s expression tightens, a trace of concern cutting through the lust. “Lou, I’ve noticed your limp. I clearly did a number on you the night of the party.” His voice is firm but gentle. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” Louis breathes out, voice trembling but steady in its conviction. “Yes, I’m sure. I want it to hurt. Want it hard and dirty again.” He grabs his legs, hooking his hands behind his knees and spreading wide for Harry, shameless and hungry.

Louis watches through heavy-lidded eyes as Harry sits back on his haunches, muscles in his forearms flexing as he spits into his broad palm. The wet sound makes Louis’ stomach twist with need. Harry spreads the slick over his cock, mixing it with the remnants of Louis’ saliva that have already begun to dry and glisten faintly under the soft light. His big hand works himself slow and deliberate, thumb sliding over the flushed head, and his lashes flutter as he exhales a quiet, guttural sound that goes straight to Louis’ core.

It’s obscene how beautiful he looks like that—naked, flushed, focused. The sight alone makes Louis’ own cock twitch, half-hard again just from watching Harry stroke himself. He can feel heat spreading across his chest, a familiar ache curling low in his belly, his body desperate to be filled again.

When Harry finally leans forward, his cock heavy and glistening, he slaps it against Louis’ smaller one. The wet smack makes Louis gasp, his hips jerking up before he can stop himself. Harry does it again, teasing and almost playful, then slides lower, dragging the wet head over Louis’ rim. The sensation makes Louis’ breath hitch, his body tensing, anticipation buzzing beneath his skin like static.

And then Harry presses in.

Louis’ world narrows to that single, impossible stretch. Every inch of Harry sinks into him slowly, steadily, until Louis can practically feel him in his throat. He grips Harry’s shoulders, clawing hard enough to leave marks, nails biting into skin as he tries to find air. Each push sends sparks racing down his spine, the pain and pleasure tangling so tightly he can’t tell them apart.

When Harry bottoms out, he stills, breathing raggedly against Louis’ neck. Louis can feel the tremor in his arms, the heat radiating from his skin.

“You want it rough, right?” Harry grunts, voice low and rough, his gaze flicking up to meet Louis’ with that same feral focus that makes Louis shiver.

Louis nods, eyes glassy, lips parted as he whispers, “Yeah. Want you to ruin me.”

The first thrust makes him gasp, his whole body jolting from the force of it. Harry starts to rock into him, slow at first, careful even, but it still burns. Louis can feel every drag of thick cock as Harry pulls out, the stretch sharp and dizzying. He isn’t fully healed from two nights ago; every movement flares a dull ache deep inside him. But it’s that ache that makes him moan, the sting twisting into something darker, hotter.

It hurts, yeah, but the pain makes the pleasure brighter. It’s too much, almost unbearable, and yet Louis doesn’t want it to stop. He’s trembling beneath Harry, eyes wet and unfocused, lips parted around little gasps that sound almost like sobs.

When Harry grabs both his wrists and pins them above his head in one large hand, Louis’ breath catches. The restraint only makes him harder, needier. Harry starts to move faster, hips snapping forward with a deep, wet rhythm that knocks the air out of Louis with every thrust. Each time Harry pulls out until just the slick head is left inside, Louis whines helplessly—then cries out when Harry slams back in, harder, deeper, until it feels like he’s splitting apart in the best possible way.

“Fuck, baby,” Harry grits out between thrusts, voice breaking into a growl. “You’re so tight—so good for me. My good boy.”

The praise hits Louis harder than the thrusts. He’s loud now, moaning without care, the sound bouncing off the walls. He’s grateful Niall and Gemma are gone because there’s no way they wouldn’t hear the obscene slap of skin on skin or the broken noises spilling from Louis’ mouth.

He feels himself floating, untethered, his world narrowing to the heat and weight of Harry above him, the steady thrusts that keep pushing him higher and higher.

Harry’s body gleams with sweat, curls sticking to his forehead, chest heaving. Louis tries to keep his eyes open, to watch, to memorize how beautiful he looks when he’s like this—wild, unrestrained—but his head keeps falling back, neck arching with each deep thrust.

Then Harry’s free hand comes up suddenly, gripping Louis’ jaw. The touch is rough, not cruel, and before Louis can process it, Harry slaps him. Not hard enough to hurt, but enough to make his cheek sting, to shock another moan out of him.

Louis’ eyes fly open just in time to see Harry’s pupils blown wide as he slaps him again, firmer. Louis gasps, chest heaving. The sting burns and fades, replaced by a rush of warmth low in his belly. Then Harry’s fingers grip his chin, forcing his mouth open and he spits.

It’s hot and filthy and Louis whimpers when it lands on his tongue. It feels like being claimed. Like being wanted.

He swallows without thinking, eyes glassy, whispering, “Fuck, Harry…”

He’s never been slapped before. Never been spit on. Never had anyone talk to him like this. But the second it’s Harry—the second it’s those green eyes darkened to black and that deep, wrecked voice rumbling through the air—it stops feeling degrading and starts feeling like worship. He knows, bone-deep, he’d crave it forever. Whatever Harry wants, Louis would give happily.

Harry’s thrusts get rougher, brutal and punishing, each one driving a desperate sound out of Louis’ throat. “You like that?” Harry growls, his voice raw and low. “Like being my little whore? Like being owned?”

Louis can barely breathe, barely think. “Yes,” he gasps, nodding, fringe falling onto his sweaty forehead. “Yes, fuck, I love it.” All he can do is take it, take what Harry gives him and hope he never stops.

Harry’s thrusts grow sharper, each one hitting deep inside, sending sparks up Louis’ spine. “Who do you belong to?” Harry grunts, hips snapping fast and ruthless.

Louis’ brain is white noise, his body arching off the mattress with each slam of Harry’s hips. When Harry finds his prostate, his cry comes out broken and high. He tries to answer, but it’s just breath and sound, no words.

Harry doesn’t like that. He growls, low and dangerous, and lands a slap on Louis’ other cheek. The sting makes Louis jolt, eyes watering, but the dark look on Harry’s face makes him melt.

“I asked who you belong to.”

“You!” Louis sobs, voice breaking as the words tumble out. “Yours, yours, yours.” His whole body is trembling, flushed pink from the heat and friction. He feels claimed, branded from the inside out.

“That’s right,” Harry hums, and his tone softens even as his pace stays punishing. He slides two fingers between Louis’ lips, presses down on his tongue, watching him drool. Then he spits, the wet sound filthy in the air, and it lands deep, sliding down Louis’ throat.

“Now suck,” Harry orders, his smirk lazy, eyes gleaming.

Louis closes his lips around the offered fingers, hollowing his cheeks and sucking like it’s the only thing keeping him alive. Harry’s cock keeps pounding into him, rhythm unrelenting, and Louis’ muffled moans vibrate around the man’s fingers.

“Good boy,” Harry croons, breath catching as sweat drips down his temples. “So pretty when you’re falling apart for me like this.” His free hand slides down, finds Louis’ cock, and pinches the small length before stroking it hard. “Want us to come together.”

The words make Louis unravel. His back arches, muscles straining, and then his orgasm hits, sharp and all-consuming. His body shakes violently, the sound that leaves him more sob than moan. White streaks splatter across his stomach, joining the dried mess already there. His vision goes fuzzy at the edges, pleasure so intense it borders on pain.

Harry curses low, hips jerking erratically as Louis tightens around him. The heat that floods Louis’ belly is immediate, Harry’s hand tightening around his wrists as he spills into him. He groans into Louis’ shoulder, voice hoarse, body shuddering through the last few thrusts.

The room smells like sex and sweat and come. The only sounds left are their ragged breaths and the faint creak of the bed beneath them. Louis can barely move, muscles trembling, body buzzing with overstimulation.

Harry recovers first, the edge leaving his body as he drops soft, open-mouthed kisses down Louis’ neck. “You did so good,” he murmurs against his skin, each word warm and breathy. “So fucking good. Hope I didn’t go too far.”

Louis swallows thickly, voice raw when he finally manages to speak. “You were perfect, babe.”

Harry chuckles, the sound low and fond, before slowly pulling out. Louis winces at the drag, at the sudden emptiness, and cracks open one heavy eye. Harry’s gaze is locked between his legs, eyes dark and unreadable.

“What?” Louis rasps, voice wrecked.

“Nothing, just…” Harry trails off, thumb circling lazily over Louis’ tender rim, and Louis shudders at the touch. “You’re gaping,” Harry murmurs, voice thick with awe.

“Fuck,” Louis breathes, too limp and hazy to even feel embarrassed. Every muscle in his body feels loose and trembling.

Harry eases him onto his stomach, slipping a pillow beneath his hips. The shift makes Louis whimper, his body still twitching with aftershocks. Then he feels Harry’s breath ghost over him—hot, deliberate—and his stomach flips.

“Harry,” he gasps, flinching when a wet tongue darts over his hole. “It hurts—” His voice cracks, a hiccup breaking through as he tries to escape Harry's hold on him. “Can’t come again.”

“I think you can,” Harry soothes against his skin, his voice low and coaxing. His palms sweep over Louis’ thighs, grounding him. “Can you try for me? I’ll go slow this time, promise.”

Louis wants to protest, but when he glances back, Harry’s gaze is so gentle, hopeful even, that the words die in his throat. He just nods, dropping his forehead to the pillow. “Okay,” he whispers. “We can try.”

“Oh, you’re so good,” Harry murmurs, a smile audible in his voice. “So perfect for me.”

He spreads Louis open again, careful and reverent. The air is cool against Louis’ skin, sticky with come that’s begun to drip down his perineum to his balls. Harry follows the trail with slow, featherlight licks, collecting every trace, his tongue moving like he’s savoring him.

Louis shivers under the touch. True to his word, Harry is gentle at first—every movement soft, coaxing, patient. His tongue flicks and circles, dipping shallowly before retreating, letting Louis breathe.

When Harry finally pushes his tongue inside, Louis’ rim flutters, tightening around the intrusion before melting open again. It’s tender, almost too much but Harry takes his time, worshipping instead of devouring. His tongue cleans him softly, licking up every trace of himself inside Louis.

“Good boy,” Harry praises, low and dark. “That’s it. Just breathe.”

He licks him open, long strokes that make Louis shake. Eventually, Harry gives up being soft, his movements becoming firm, hungry, obscene. His tongue pushes deeper, twisting, and Louis’ hands claw at the sheets, desperate for something to hold on to.

“God, look at you,” Harry groans, pulling back just long enough to breathe before diving in again. “Dripping and shaking like you were made for this. Made for me.”

Louis sobs into the pillow, body twitching from the overstimulation. His rim flutters helplessly around Harry’s tongue, clenching and releasing in uneven spasms. He’s too tender, too raw but the heat building in his belly says differently.

He doesn’t realize he’s about to come until his hips jerk forward. “Harry—fuck, I—”

“Do it,” Harry growls, one hand gripping his thigh to keep him open. “Come for me.”

The command hits something deep inside him. Louis shatters, coming with a strangled cry that tears through his throat. His whole body locks up, shaking violently as his cock dribbles weakly against the sheets, muscles spasming under Harry’s hold.

Harry licks him through it, tongue dragging over his swollen rim until Louis’ body goes slack and trembling.

He finally lets up, placing a slow kiss to the inside of Louis’ thigh before hauling him up against his chest. Louis is still panting, limp and sweat-slick, his lashes clumped together with tears. Strong hands stroke down his back, soothing and warm. “You did so good, baby,” Harry whispers against his hair. “So, so good for me.”

Louis barely manages to lift his head. “Harry,” he murmurs sleepily, voice slurred. “Will you stay till morning this time?”

Harry’s face softens into something impossibly tender. “Of course, baby,” he says, pressing a kiss to Louis’ temple. “Wouldn’t dream of leaving you now. I’ll only go when you get sick of me.”

Louis smiles, dazed and half-asleep. “I’d never get sick of you, Harry.”

Harry chuckles quietly, brushing his thumb over Louis’ cheek. “My precious boy. Go to sleep, I’ve got you.”

Louis drifts off, skin marked and aching, but utterly safe wrapped up in Harry’s arms, still trembling from the aftershocks of being taken apart and put back together again.

***

Harry does eventually have to leave him to get ready for class at his own place, but Louis clings to him for as long as he can. His body still aches, the good kind, the kind that hums low in his belly whenever he shifts in the sheets. Harry kisses his temple, his jaw, the corner of his mouth until Louis is laughing quietly, drowsy and unwilling to let go.

“Gotta go, sweetheart,” Harry murmurs, already half-dressed. His voice is still rough from sleep, from the night before.

“Stay,” Louis mumbles into the pillow, even though he knows Harry can’t.

Harry just chuckles, the sound warm and fond. “I’ll make it up to you. Breakfast?”

Ten minutes later, Louis is sitting at the counter in an old shirt while the older man flips eggs in a skillet, hair still damp from the shower and mustache glinting golden in the morning light. Louis can’t stop staring at him—at the slope of his back, the broadness of his shoulders, the way the hem of his gray sweatpants dips dangerously low when he moves.

When Harry turns and catches him looking, he grins. “Like what you see?”

Louis just hums, cheeks heating. “You should keep the mustache forever.”

“Really? Gemma keeps nagging at me to shave it off. She calls it my furry caterpillar,” Harry laughs, as he slides a plate in front of him.

“It’s the sexiest furry caterpillar in existence then,” Louis grins, teasingly, raising a brow at Harry over mug as he takes a sip of tea. 

Over eggs and toast, they promise each other that they’ll be careful. That they’ll be mature about it while they’re still in school. That they’ll keep things quiet, at least until winter break, when Harry leaves for his new job in London.

Louis agrees because he has to, but the idea makes something ache in his chest. He wants the whole world to know. He wants to shout that he’s with Harry—the Harry Styles—with his stupidly perfect smile and his unfairly soft mustache and his ridiculous talent for making Louis come undone. It’s not just some silly schoolboy crush anymore; it’s real. Harry wants him back.

He can be patient. He has been all this time. What’s a few more weeks?

Still, he can’t keep something like this from his girls. Harry had sighed when Louis brought it up, but eventually relented, telling him he could tell them as long as they promised to keep it to themselves.

So by the time Louis slips into his seat between Quinn and Delaney in the lecture hall, he’s practically buzzing. The room smells faintly of coffee and printer ink, and he swears he can still taste Harry on his tongue.

His heart stutters when Harry walks in.

It’s criminal how good he looks in a button-down, sleeves rolled to his forearms, hair pushed back haphazardly. His mustache is neatly trimmed today, framing his mouth in a way that makes Louis’ stomach swoop. When their eyes meet, Harry gives him a small, friendly smile—one that means nothing to anyone else but everything to Louis. It’s restrained, professional, but the glint in his eyes says I’m thinking about last night too.

Louis looks away before his expression gives them away completely.

“Hi, Lou,” Quinn greets, a knowing grin already spreading across her face.

“What happened to you yesterday?” Delaney asks, brows raised. “You got all weird after class.”

Louis bites his lip, fighting the smirk tugging at his mouth. “I have to tell you something, but you both have to pinky swear not to breathe a word of it.”

They hold out their pinkies without hesitation. Louis hooks his around theirs, feeling the excitement bubble up in his chest.

“I found out who Ghostface is,” he whispers.

Both girls’ eyes go wide.

“So who is it?!” Quinn shrieks, loud enough that a few people glance over. Louis shushes her frantically.

“Professor Styles,” he breathes, barely above a whisper.

“What the fuck?!” Delaney hisses, eyes bugging. Then, realizing she’s too loud again, she lowers her voice to a fierce whisper. “What the fuck?!”

Quinn claps a hand over her mouth. “You’re telling me the mystery man who gave you the best dick in your life is Professor Styles? Your silly little crush?!”

Louis grins, cheeks aching. “That’s exactly what I’m telling you. He came over yesterday, told me he felt the same, and then we—uh—” He drops his voice even lower. “We fucked. Again. He made me come three times, practically in a row.”

Quinn practically chokes. “Three? For dicks, that’s like… legendary numbers.”

Delaney laughs, nudging his shoulder. “No wonder you’re glowing.”

Louis ducks his head, trying not to beam as he sneaks another glance toward the front of the room. Harry’s leaning against his desk, flipping through papers, expression neutral but Louis knows the lines of that face too well now. He can read the soft curl of his mouth, the subtle glint in his eye.

Quinn leans close, whispering, “What about you being his student? Isn’t that risky?”

“He’s leaving for a new job after this term,” Louis murmurs, smiling faintly. “After that, we’re free.”

“You lucky bastard,” Quinn says, shaking her head in disbelief.

“Yeah,” Louis says, gaze drifting back to Harry again. The older man’s eyes meet his for a brief, electric second.

Louis’ chest swells. “Yeah, I really am.”

Delaney smirks. “At least now you can stop obsessing over who your Ghostface was.”

Louis laughs softly, heart thudding. Harry glances up again, giving him that same tiny, private smile that no one else would notice. Louis feels it like a spark under his skin.

“Yeah,” he says quietly, smiling to himself. “I don’t have to wonder anymore.”