Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/6068722.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      One_Direction_(Band)
  Relationship:
      Harry_Styles/Louis_Tomlinson
  Character:
      Louis_Tomlinson, Harry_Styles
  Additional Tags:
      Daddy_Kink, Light_BDSM, Spanking, Underage_Drug_Use, Underage_Sex, Harry
      is_seventeen, Plot_What_Plot/Porn_Without_Plot, Coming_Untouched, Bottom
      Harry, Top_Louis, Dom/sub_Undertones, honestly_they're_not_really
      undertones, harry_likes_billie_holiday, there_is_weed_involved, Louis
      Tomlinson_Calls_Harry_Styles_Pet_Names, mentions_of_liam_and_zayn_but
      barely, honestly_this_was_just_an_excuse_for_me_to_write_daddy_louis,
      shut_up, references_to_the_novel_lolita_by_vladmir_nabokov, cos_i'm
      literally_the_worst
  Stats:
      Published: 2016-02-20 Words: 2770
****** yes, daddy, i do ******
by mydarlinglime
Summary
     harry is a seventeen year old starlet and louis is his twenty eight
     year old producer.
Notes
     i found this in my old documents from like a fucking year ago and
     decided it was time to finish it. it's basically just a shameless
     excuse to put daddy louis, strawberry milkshakes and spanking into
     the same fic.
     even though it says in the tags i'm just gonna warn you again that
     harry is underage, and that there's an eleven year age difference
     between him and louis. also harry smokes which i know makes no sense
     because he has asthma, but for the sake of this au let's just say he
     doesn't.
     unbeta'd so i'm sorry for mistakes!! please let me know if you find
     any big ones.
See the end of the work for more notes
harry listens to billie holiday when he's high. 
louis’ got all her albums on vinyl—as the owner of record label liam had told
him that it was a requirement to own a full collection of at least one of the
great jazz singers; ella or frank or chet or billie—and when harry is buzzed
off of zayn's weed he'll wander over to the record shelf and spin the needle
over a disc, lie on the floor with his curls sprayed around his head like a
copper halo, eyes fluttery, body light as paper.
he'll usually lie there naked—loves the cool of the hardwood floor on the fever
stickiness of his skin—, but sometimes he creeps into louis' closet and takes
the pretty things he keeps there for harry, like today. 
when harry is good and sweet like cherry pie louis gives him presents, lace and
silk, diamond studded thigh highs and pastel pink panties and black garters
that press against the curves of harry's thighs just the way he loves. they all
come from louis’ closet, which he never lets harry go into. “it’s a secret
place,” he says, but harry knows where he keeps the key.
there are drawers full of other things in the closet too, toys and cuffs and
meters of soft silk rope. sometimes harry likes to sneak in just to look at
them.
today he’d slipped into the room this afternoon while louis was sleeping and
stepped into a pair of white lace panties with three sweetheart cutouts down
the back, and three tiny lavender bows. he's wearing a pair of soft, worn
joggers over them. 
sometimes—most times— when harry smokes, louis wanders downstairs barefoot,
iPad in hand, wearing trackies or boxers or nothing at all, hair fluffy from
the sheets of their bed.
today it's glasses and grey calvin klein briefs that hug the curves of his bum.
he's wearing one of liam's hoodies and his hair is damp and ruffled from the
shower. 
harry looks at him and thinks about how when he had walked into the recording
studio of triple string ltd. as a naive sixteen year old he’d had no idea that
a year later he’d be getting tied to his twenty seven year old producer’s bed
every second night and fucked so hard he saw stars.
louis wanders over to harry, yawning his tiger yawn, and crouches down to pluck
the joint from harry's hand. "billie?" he says, tilting his head to the record
player, his thumb running over the vinyl case beside harry. 
harry's lashes blink slow and heavy over his cheeks as he watches louis take a
long drag, the rolled paper burning between his delicate fingers. "yeah. what,"
harry says, rasping lazily, as louis blows out smoke in an artistic grey
slither. no doubt he's been practicing. 
louis shrugs in response. the stubble on his jaw makes his jawline look carved
from marble. "s'this stuff yours?" he asks, holding up the joint, his voice
husky with sleep and smoke. his lips stick a little to the paper when he takes
it away from his mouth and his eyes are electric and hazy. harry wants to pull
louis down on top of him, wants louis to see the lace under his trackies, wants
louis to tell him how pretty he is. 
his fingers find their way around the curve of louis' ankle bone instead.
"s'zayn's," he rumbles.
louis hums, taking another inhale and blowing out, "mhm, z's got the best
weed," and harry doesn't really know much about drugs, but he can at least
agree with that. this stuff is deep and earthy. makes you feel full; warm, with
this spicy, cinnamon undertone. 
harry reaches his hand up to touch louis under the chin, "c'mere?" he says as a
sort of question, but louis just quirks one side of his mouth up and presses
the joint back between harry's lips. he stands up, his movements slow to the
velvet beats of the record player.
"m'gonna make a milkshake, want one?" he wonders, and toes harry in the ribs
when he starts humming my milkshake brings all the boys to the yardbecause,
"yes, darling, we know," and louis' eye roll could span continents, "but do you
want one."
"m'just gonna have some of yours," harry murmurs, looking up at louis with
these lovely pine eyes, his arms reaching above his head, stomach pulled taught
with the stretch, the laced ink of his ferns and butterfly breathing with him. 
"are you now?" louis asks with a gorgeously curved eyebrow and a cocked hip.
his eyes roam over harry's body unabashedly as harry stretches out further, his
muscles all loose from the weed, skin golden from the LA sun, and he loves when
louis looks at him. 
"mhmm," harry slurs, giggling a little when louis' toes wiggle in his armpits,
"but make it strawberry," and then, as quick as he can, he adds a sugary,
"please," because louis may be kind, but he's still the one who gives the
orders. 
"yes, princess," louis murmurs, his eyes glinting darkly in the dim light of
the living room. he doesn't miss the soft shiver that runs the whole way down
harry's spine before he walks out of the room, hips swaying like sin, fingers
reaching up to comb through long, sleepy hair. 
harry breathes in earth songs until the joint burns out and watches the glowing
clementine ashes flutter to the ground by his right hand, listening to louis
move around the kitchen. he hears the blender churning up ice cream and syrup,
closes his eyes against the sound, too loud in the dusk.  
louis returns with a tall glass of pretty, pink milkshake, topped with whipped
cream and a curly straw and he sits down on the floor next to harry, his back
against the couch. "here, baby," he croons, stroking a finger along harry's
cheekbone and pressing the straw into his lips and harry hums happily at the
pastel taste on his tongue. 
they share the milkshake in silence, louis leaning down to lap away a drip at
the corner of harry's mouth when he spills it. 
he lights up another joint and rubs absentmindedly at harry's tummy, watches
the straw caught between harry's lips, and wouldn't those just be beautiful
wrapped around his fingers, his hipbones, his cock. his fingernails dig into
harry's stomach and harry arches against the carpet, lets out this soft,
breathy noise that goes straight to the pit of louis' belly. 
he takes the milkshake from harry's hands, shushing him when he whines again,
and murmurs, "c'mere, pet," patting his lap. 
harry blinks at him dopily and clambers up to straddle louis' thighs, his body
all lean and teenager-clumsy. sometimes louis forgets that harry is so young.
blushing, soft and only seventeen. louis’ got eleven years on him and that
should scare him, but harry is ages older than he is on paper. knows more about
the way the world turns than louis’ gran did at ninety three.
louis takes a long inhale of smoke into his mouth and drags a finger across
harry's lips, pushing it inside so his mouth falls open. he pulls harry in with
a hand on the back of his head, fingers tugging at harry's curls, and breathes
the smoke out into harry's mouth. 
harry drinks it in like ambrosia, his mouth wet and berry red, letting louis
kiss him gently, bite at his bottom lip. 
louis runs his hands down to harry's bum and harry's hips jolt forward, lace
rubbing rough against his skin. he lets out a little "ahh" and louis' fingers
sneak under his waistband as he kisses harry, hips rolling up into him with a
heady slowness.
he tugs harry's trackies down over his bum and his whole body goes still when
he touches the lace.
he pulls back from harry's ballet bruises lips and his eyes are suddenly so
dark, "darling," he says, "did you go into my things without asking?" and his
fingers find one bow and then the second, tracing light as can be down harry's
body. 
harry drops his head, flushing down to his toes, and he can't stop the little
whimper in his throat. guilt runs around in his tummy on heavy tiger paws. 
"these were going to be a present for you, love," louis says, his voice slow
like molasses and fire.
harry whines when louis stop moving, cants his hips down to grind them
together. he doesn't answer louis and bites at the skin on his lips, his hands
balled up into pawed fists against louis' chest.
"harry," louis says, sliding his hands up to grip harry's hipbones, stilling
him, "kitten. turn around for me." 
harry sucks in a shaky breath, turns himself around in louis' lap so his knees
are on either side of louis' thighs. he rests his forehead on the floor and
bites out a gasp when louis' fingers grip his thighs hard. 
"are you supposed to go into other people's things without asking?" louis asks
and his hands slide up to harry's bum, pulling his trackies down his thighs and
snapping the band on the lace so harry jumps a tiny bit.
"no," harry murmurs softly.
"what was that, love?" 
"no, daddy." harry corrects, his hands curling into little fists on the floor. 
louis' hum is honey, but the hand he brings down on harry's ass is sharp and
harry gasps with it, soft and sweet, arching back on his heels as louis rubs at
the spot he just hit. his hand comes down again in the same place and harry
swallows a whimper.
"are you sorry, baby?" louis asks, smacking harry's bum three more times. it's
starting to tingle all warm and velvet through harry's body. "sorry for
spoiling your present?"
harry nods, but louis twists his fingers into harry's curls and pulls his head
back. harry lets out this filthy, beautiful whine.
"tell daddy you're sorry," louis says.
louis brings his hand down again, hard, and harry's breath hitches over the
words as they tumble out, his thighs and bum and tummy in tingles, "sorry,
m'sorry daddy," he gasps, his eyes shining wet with tears. 
"you know you don't get nice things from daddy until you're especially good."
louis continues, and each time he spanks harry it leaves a lovely little pink
flush behind. louis can see his fingerprints on harry's skin. it does funny,
twisted things to his insides.
"i—i know, daddy," harry says. he sounds ruined already. "i just wanted to be
pretty for you. i'm sorry, i’m sorry,” a tear slips down harry's cheek.
louis spanks him one more time before he let's go of harry's hair and drags his
hand down harry's back instead, pushing him down so his forehead rests against
the floor.
he leans down to kiss the warm skin of harry's raw bum before he curls over
harry's body and presses kisses between his shoulder blades and on the tips of
his ears, wipes away the little tears escaping harry's eyes. "you're always
pretty for me, love," he says, and then, gentle but firm, "but you can't go
into my things without asking from now on, understand?" harry starts to nod,
but— "use your words, baby."
"yes, daddy," harry says in this soft, icing sugar voice, "promise."
"good boy," louis says and watches a tiny shiver run down harry's back at the
words. louis sits back on his heels and spreads harry’s cheeks apart, rubbing
his thumb over harry’s little pink furled hole. harry makes a surprised sound
and his hips push back.
louis swats him on the ass lightly again, “still,” he says and harry
immediately stops moving, even his breathing gets softer.
louis leans down and kisses the raw, red skin of harry’s ass, biting at the
places where his fingerprints are still visible, white stripes surrounded by
stinging pink. harry’s chipped mint fingernails scrape and louis watches him
shift on the hardwood floor, scrunch his nose up when his bones don't sit
right.
"do your knees hurt, baby?” louis asks, pulling back to watch harry’s face.
harry swallows, hesitates, "a little, daddy."
louis clucks his tongue, but he grabs a pillow from the couch behind them and
pushes it under harry’s knees. “better?” he asks.
“yes, daddy,” harry murmurs, “thank you.”
“such good manners,” louis chuckles and when he leans down and gets his tongue
back on harry he makes the sweetest little sigh. louis’ tongue swipes across
his hole, wet and fiery hot, and harry’s whole body quakes. louis is slow with
this, always, long presses of his tongue down where harry tastes the sweetest,
his pink parts that only louis gets to see. he licks into harry until he’s a
mess of strawberry sounds, filthy and wet with louis’ spit, clenching and open
around his tongue.
harry tastes clean like soap and cherry lube from last night and he’s still
loose enough for louis to get two fingers in on the first try, takes them in
all the way up to the third knuckle. harry’s back arches and he keens when
louis thrusts slow and deep. louis gets his tongue in beside his fingers and he
doesn’t have to tell harry not to touch himself because harry is good. he knows
what his daddy wants.
louis gets a hand down the front of his own briefs and jerks himself in time
with the thrusts of his fingers inside harry, drawing long moans out of his boy
every time he hits a sweet spot.
harry comes untouched through his lace when louis shoves against his prostate,
whispering a wet, “come for me, darling,” against his tailbone, following him
over the edge barely a second later with the way harry mewls out, “daddy,
fuck,”in a voice so wrecked it’s criminal.
harry shudders for a full minute after, clenching greedily around louis’s
fingers, little milky stripes dripping from the head of his cock onto the floor
between his legs. if louis had harry in his black leather collar he would make
harry clean it off the floor, but today harry is milky sweet with a belly full
of strawberry and he’s whispering “thank you, daddy,” into his hands and louis
knows that today is a softer kind of day.
louis pulls his fingers out of harry and tugs him up into his lap to pet his
hair, letting harry wrap his long, clumsy legs around louis’ waist. louis wipes
his hand off on the couch and kisses harry, feeding him the taste of himself
with pink, pink lips. harry is half hard again by the time louis pulls away.
louis chuckles. “insatiable, aren’t you?” he asks.
harry hums and nuzzles into louis’ neck, lapping at his skin and rolling his
hips into louis’. their cocks rub together, slick and oversensitive. louis
shivers. “daddy, will you fuck me now?” he says.
louis tips his head back and bares his throat for harry to bruise, “only if you
promise to keep your lace on, darling.”
harry wriggles happily in his lap, all seventeen and a half years of him
grinning full and wide. “anything you want, daddy.”
louis groans. he doesn't know he's survived this long with harry in his house,
all starlet sweet on mile long legs with a smile to rival any show girl, any
queen.
harry unfolds himself from louis' lap and takes his hand to lead him up the
stairs and louis goes because he knew the second harry walked into his studio
that first day, in an olive green beanie with wide fawn eyes and jeans ripped
over knobbly knees, that this boy would be his.
harry throws him a sticky smile over his shoulder as he twirls into louis'
bedroom, lace clinging to his hips like sin, like he knows he's the death of
everything that louis could ever call innocent.
"you," louis says as harry lays down on the bed, stretches and rolls over onto
his tummy to look up at louis with eyes that say daddy please in the dirtiest
way.
"me," harry purrs. 
louis doubts that any seventeen year old has felt or done most of the things
that harry has in the past year, but harry's not just any seventeen year old.
he's louis' hip-swaying, sweet-mouthed baby; styles on the stage, harry in the
schoolyard, kitten in the sheets. 
he's got louis wrapped right around his long, pretty fingers and when he smiles
it's because he knows that  louis' always gonna give him just a little more
than he take. 
End Notes
     please leave comments!!
     feed the starving author!!
     she needs something to nibble on when her self-confidence is hiding
     beneath the couch and she wants to do nothing but sleep.
     (i honestly want to continue this, turn it into something long and
     chaptered when i have time. would anybody would be interested in
     that?)
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