Title: Stars and Satellites
Pairings: Louis/George Shelley, Harry/George
Wordcount: 4, 903
A/N: I am so sorry if you wind up hating this, but I tried. Thank you for letting me fill :) xx
Pairings: Louis/George Shelley, Harry/George
Wordcount: 4, 903
A/N: I am so sorry if you wind up hating this, but I tried. Thank you for letting me fill :) xx
Prompt/Summary: Louis has got himself a new boyfriend, some guy from the X Factor named George Shelley. Harry instantly hates him; he's taking his best friend away from him. Louis says George is perfect and sweet and his soulmate. Turns out, when Louis leaves, George is a bitch toward Harry. Harry is out to get rid of George, but George has other ideas. Sexy times ensue; whether Louis finds out is up to the author.
"@Louis_Tomlinson Look at George, isn’t he cute? Pic.Twitter.AS2466DG"
Harry stares at Louis’ latest tweet on his mobile. The person in question is George Shelley, Louis’ new boy toy. Or so he says. Harry’s pretty sure they’re not just fuck buddies; Harry is fairly certain FWB don’t hold hands and call each other cute (okay, so he calls Niall cute, but that’s very different). Harry doesn’t really know how he feels about George; he’s only met the lad once, and while he seemed nice enough, Harry didn’t really see why Louis seemed to like him so much. He was extraordinarily short, with unremarkable brownish green eyes and hair that looks just like Louis’. He seemed to hang on to Louis’ every word, and shout a lot; Harry wasn’t quite sure why, but Louis always shouted back, and they seemed to giggle like schoolgirls every time. All in all, Harry didn’t really like George all that much.
Wanna hang out??
Harry logs off twitter and types the text out slowly on his tiny mobile. He’s bored; Zayn and Niall have gone out on the shops, and Liam’s gone to the gym. Normally Harry’d’ve gone with him, but Liam said he was going to box, and Harry just didn’t want to come home covered in bruises and have to explain to the paparazzi who inhabit the bushes outside his house that Liam doesn’t know his own strength.
Harry’s blackberry buzzes and he sees that Louis’ answered. He opens the message and frowns disappointedly at the screen: Can’t im with George rite now. You could come over if you want but we’re just watching a movie so ya
Harry rolls his eyes and types (nearly as slowly as he speaks): what movie
A few moments later his phone buzzes again and the text from Louis pops up
Harry immediately feels a pain worse than if Louis had thrown him an actual punch to the sternum; that’s their movie, the one just for them. Harry’s never seen it with anyone else, and he loves the special feeling he gets when he watches it with Louis, who always lays with his head in Harry’s lap and sits up for cuddles when he cries at the end. Harry really doesn’t want Louis to be doing that with George; He’s practically just met the lad, for God’s sake
Harry’s decided for sure now that he doesn’t like George, and so he grabs a hoodie and tugs it halfway over his head before dashing out the door to his car. He waves to the paps as he drives away, and drives as quickly as being Harry Styles will let him. He knows the way to Louis’ flat better than the way to his own, and he speeds down the roads that will take him to Louis’ flat.
When Harry hops out of his Audi, he strides up to the door and presses the button to ring Louis’ flat numerous times before passing a hand over his forehead; it’s then Harry realizes he’s scowling worse than Harry Potter when he’s wearing that horcrux. He tries to smooth out the lines creasing his forehead before he hears a shuffling, and Louis pops his head out the door.
“Oh, it’s you,” says Louis. “C’mon then.”
He tugs Harry by the arm up the stairs till they reach his flat. Louis walks in and pushes Harry ahead of him before kicking the door shut behind them.
“George, it’s Harry,” Louis says loudly.
“Oh, hey Harry,” George says a minute later, sauntering into the room with an expression that’s half sneer, half falsely cheery. Harry feels his jaw drop then, but it’s not his expression. It’s what he’s wearing.
George is wearing absolutely nothing but a pair of boxers, slung low on his hips. He’s also got Louis’ beanie that reads ‘I just had sex, jealous?’ perched jauntily on top of his feathery hair.
Louis smirks at Harry’s expression (Harry imagines it must be quite ludicrous) before pinching George on the bum and striding into the sitting room. George laughs and says, “Aye, I’ll have none of that, you wanker,” before running after him.
Harry’s kind of still in shock, but he follows the two of them into Louis’ sitting room. He looks up just in time to see George sliding into Harry’s spot in between Louis’ legs, on the worn brown leather couch against the wall. Louis tugs a blanket over himself and George and pulls the lad back against him. Harry looks around for a place to sit and settles for an armchair off to the side of the room.
He sits stiffly, still in his boots and hoodie, and watches the other two, as he can’t really see the screen. George is leaning right against Louis, who obviously doesn’t mind. Louis’ face is completely normal; he just looks happy. Maybe as happy as he looks when he’s alone with Harry.
Harry looks down. Why has Louis taken to George so strongly? What in the world can this stupid little X Factor contestant have that Harry doesn’t? Harry knows he obviously not Louis’ only friend (I mean, come on, they’re in a bloody band) but he thought he could count himself at least as his best friend. Louis is Harry’s best friend; there’s no one in the world he trusts more, no one he’d rather spend time with. Put simply, Louis makes Harry happy, and Harry thought he kind of returned the favor, but in light of recent events, Harry thinks maybe he’s being replaced.
Louis coughs gruffly and tries to pretend he’s scratching his eyebrow while brushing away tears, and George turns around in his arms and presses a big kiss on Louis’ cheek
“Hey now, Lou, it’s just a film.”
Louis laughs and sniffs loudly. “I know. I’m just gonna, um, make some, uh, tea. Yeah, tea.”
George laughs and scooches down the couch so Louis can get up. Louis walks quickly out of the room into the adjoining kitchen, and Harry can soon hear sounds of a kettle puttering on the stove.
Harry looks around the room, remarking a couple new photographs on the cork board by the doorway. He gets up and crosses the room in a few short strides to examine them.
The first one is a snapshot of Louis and George together in a bar; they’re making a loser sign against their foreheads and sticking their tongues out.
The second is just George. He’s wearing a monkey onesie and scrunching his face up just like Louis sometimes does. Harry actually thinks he looks quite adorable (what can he say, George isn’t exactly mingy) but he hates the picture, as he can see it was taken on Louis’ bed.
The third new photo is simply George and Louis hugging; Harry has no idea how the photographer got so close without the boys seeing whoever took it, but they’re a pretty fantastic artist. Harry can see the twinkle in Louis’ eyes, see how tightly he’s pressed George against him, see the way he’s tucked his chin against George’s shoulder the way Harry loves.
“That was right after we got kicked off,” George says quietly. He’s come up behind Harry, so quietly Harry hadn’t noticed until now. “Lou came out to watch. Said he wanted to be there when we got through.”
George sounds sad. Harry supposes he can sympathize; after all, it wasn’t so long ago that he needed Louis to help him get over the pain of losing. Though considering, Harry supposes he won.
“Sorry,” he ventures. “I know what it’s like.”
“Don’t be,” replies George. “I mean, Cher Lloyd got fourth place, and look where she is now. Maybe we’ll blow up like that too.”
Harry somehow doubts it, but he decides to leave it, and tentatively pats George on the shoulder. George smiles tightly and turns to the photo again, pressing a few fingers against Louis’ lips.
Harry decides to leave him there, and he strides into the kitchen to join Lou.
“Hey,” Louis says. “How are you, Haz?”
Harry looks up and meets Louis’ eyes. He doesn’t reply and after a moment, Louis comes over to him and sits on his lap.
“Hey,” he says. “Hey, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” says Harry.
“Harry,” says Louis. “I have known you, like, three years. I have spent like every waking and every sleeping moment with you. I know you better than I know myself. So please, just fucking tell me what’s wrong.”
Harry smiles. “It’s nothing, Lou, really. I just woke up and felt all, melancholy I guess. I think it’s the fact I haven’t seen Niall for a while.”
Louis smile back and presses a loud, smacking kiss to Harry’s cheek, and hops up off his lap. As he walks away, Harry slaps his bum, and Louis smirks, “Aye, Styles, I know you love my bum, but still.”
“That I do, good sir,” says Harry, putting on an olde english accent. “It’s quite exquisite, if I may remark so,” he says laughingly.
“You may,” says Louis, wiggling said bum in Harry’s face before walking over to the stove to take the kettle off.
Harry feels a lot happier. He had expected Louis to act like a stranger, but maybe nothing’s changed. Maybe George is just a chap Louis happens to like at the moment, and he’ll forget about him in week or so when they have a row over something like who likes carrots more (obviously George has never seen their video diaries).
“Hey, Haz,” Louis says. “You know what’d go great with this? Brandy and something to eat.”
Harry nods enthusiastically (he’s hardly eaten anything for the past 24 hours) and says, “Maybe fish and chips? Wings?”
“Yeah,” Louis says, “Make it a party. Add salsa and maybe curry and we’ve got ourselves a proper feast!”
Harry giggles and nods happily.
“Aye, George,” Louis shouts. A minute later the boy strides in
“I’m gonna run out and pick up some take away and shit. D’you wanna come, or --”
“No, I’ll stay,” says George. “Clothes take too much effort at six pm.”
Harry smiles at him, and for the first time George shoots him a genuine grin.
“Okay, whatever,” Louis pouts. “I’ll just go look like a loser, buying beer and wings on my own then.”
“Yup,” says George, “Pretty much.”
Louis sticks his tongue out, then strolls out.
“Oi, Harry, I’m taking your car!” he bellows as he walks out.
“But you don’t have the...” Harry quickly pats his pockets, and realizes that his keys are gone. “Oh, for fuck’s sake, I would have given them to him,” he mutters.
After a minute of sitting at the wooden table, he feels a gaze on him, and Harry looks up to meet George’s eyes. They’re actually quite pretty; nothing like Louis’, of course, but quite nice as far as eyes go (Harry just thinks Louis has the prettiest eyes ever).
Harry has to say, the more he looks at George, the more attractive he finds him. His hair is a mix between Harry and Louis’; it’s perfectly styled, and pushed to one side. His lips are quite big and soft-looking. Harry has no idea why, but he finds himself wanting more and more to kiss him
Harry shakes his head as if ridding his ears of water, and blinks a few times. George is Louis’. When he looks up again, he realizes that George’s expression has turned from open and genuine to contemptuous and snotty.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” he says.
“Like what,” says George sneeringly.
“Like that,” says Harry, feeling more and more wound up by the second. “You, you’re looking at me like I’m a piece of dog shit on your shoe or something.”
“Maybe it’s because that’s what you are,” George says, completely straight faced.
“W-what?” stutters Harry.
“You’re a fucking cunt, you know that?” says George. “No one actually likes you. You’re such a fucking twat.”
“Oh, sod off,” says Harry. “I don’t need to be abused by you. I can just up and leave.”
“Lou’s got your car,” says George nastily. “And anyway, you’re going to stay no matter what I say, because you’re in love with Louis and you would never wreck a relationship of his.”
Harry brushes a stray tear angrily off his cheek. Why is he crying? “Shut up.”
George smiles. “Alright, listen up, yeah? Louis is mine. Stay away from him. I don’t want you even talking to him if it’s not absolutely necessary. Don’t even look at him. I want Louis and I get what I want, so hands off, yeah?”
“You fucking wanker! You can’t dictate Louis’ life,” Harry bellows tearily.
“I don’t want to dictate his life,” says George. “I just want to keep you out of it.”
“Fuck this,” says Harry, and he walks out the door.
Louis’ still got Harry’s car, and his keys, so Harry grabs his extra key from under Louis’ welcome mat and strolls out the doors at the bottom of the stairs.
what happened last night
g said you felt sick and went home
cmon haz i still have your car
haz plz answer me
haz if you dont reply i may b forced to come over and sing to you
Harry stares at the texts. He’s been getting one about every twenty seconds. He’s in the process of deleting them.
He’s listened to George. He hasn’t texted back, hasn’t picked up the phone when the caller ID calls out Call from: Louis. Harry’s not quite sure why he’s listening to George; but he has, and Louis, apparently, has not been filled in on the new arrangements.
HARRY FUCKING STYLES STOP BEING A WANKER AND BLOODY ANSWER ME BACK CUNT
Harry hits delete before the text has even finished loading.
Harry supposes the reason he’s listened to George, or “G”, as Louis calls him, is that he’s angry at Louis. It’s always hard for him to admit when he’s feeling out of sorts with his best mate, but Harry hates Louis for letting George take his place (and more), and he knows it’s selfish, but he’s angry that Louis is fine with two best mates. Or maybe just one; Harry’s certain ‘Louis’ best mate’ is no longer a label he can apply to himself. And it certainly looks as if ‘best mate’ isn’t the only label for George. Also, Harry may just be the tiniest tad of a bit jealous.
Nearly 40 minutes later, Harry’s only gotten angrier, and he finally snaps. He needs to get his car anyway. So he grabs a leather jacket (it’s getting colder every day) and catches Niall on his way out of the flat (they share buildings).
“Hey, Niall,” says Harry. “Where’re you headed?”
“Nandos,” says Niall predictably. “You?”
“Louis’,” Harry says, proud of himself for not stuttering when he drawls the name.
“Oy, want a ride?” Niall offers with a smile. “Nandos is close by his house anyway.”
“Love one,” says Harry, and smiles back.
Niall drives him up to the front doors on Louis’ building, and waits until he grabs Lou’s spare key from under the mat before driving away happily.
Harry lets himself in; it’s still quite early, so he’s as quiet as the creaky stairs allow him to be. He walks up the stairs slowly, wincing at every creeeaaaak and grooaaaan the wood lets out. When he reaches Louis’ door, he simply inserts the key and walks in; no point in knocking. Louis wouldn’t want him to.
“Lou?” he whispers. He doesn’t want to speak loudly, as the walls are thin, and Mrs Hudson, Lou’s neighbor, hates to be disturbed.
There’s no answer, and so he tiptoes through the flat, checking each room for Louis. His search is fruitless, until the only room left is the bedroom.
Harry strolls over to the door marked Luigi Tommo. Keep out! UNLESS YOU ARE NIALL OR FOOD.
Harry pushes the door open, and nearly falls flat on his face. At first he doesn’t realize what’s going on, until he sees the cold hard facts: Louis on top of George, who’s splayed open limbed across the bed. Louis, naked, rocking his hips down, and George, thrusting up to meet him. Sweat rolling down Louis’ back. George, just looking completely well-fucked
When Harry half-coughs, half-chokes, George’s eyes fly open, and at that moment, he shudders with a groan, and spills his load onto Louis’ stomach. Louis feels his tensing up, and turns to look up at Harry.
“Shit! Harry, what are you doing here, I wasn’t -- This isn’t what it looks like, I --”
“I’ll just, uhm, wait in the sitting room, then” says Harry loudly. He turns on his heel and walks down the hall into Louis’ sitting room.
Harry has no idea what just happened. Did he really just walk in on Louis and George fucking
“Harry,” says Louis. He walks in wearing a pair of green boxers that Harry recognizes; Niall dared Louis to buy them during the tour, as they read ‘sexy arse’ on the seat.
Louis sits down on an armchair and rubs his face in his hands.
“Hazza, I’m so sorry.”
Harry can’t look up; he’s far too mortified.
“Harry, really, I didn’t want you to see that.”
Harry looks further away from Louis and swallows.
“Harry, please look at me,” Louis says, sounding close to tears. “Listen, I need to tell you about me and George.”
Harry knows that this is something he should hear, so he tries to meet Louis’ eyes, but he only gets as far as the come stains on Louis’ muscular stomach before he freezes.
“Listen, Harry. George and I... We’re... We’re in love.”
Harry finally looks up, and shoots Louis a glare. “How long have you even known him? A week? You’re not in love with him, Louis, you just like butt sex.”
“So?” Louis says angrily, his cheeks quickly coloring. “Butt sex is pretty fucking awesome, Harry.”
Harry frowns. “Yeah, whatever, but why didn’t you just tell me?”
“I would’ve if you had fucking answered my texts!” Louis bellows. “I texted you, what, a hundred times that I needed to talk to you, and you never replied. It’s not my fault that you didn’t know sooner. And what the fuck is up with you freezing George out all the time? You hate him, don’t you, you’re jealous of him, you --”
“What is there to be jealous of?” Harry roars. “That he’s fucking you? You’re probably shit, anyway, despite your slagginess, you being a fucking minger and all --”
“FUCK you,” says Louis, “Fuck you. Just fuck off, Harry, why don’t you, because I HATE you!”
“What are you,” Harry demands, “A fucking teenaged girl? ‘I hate you’? Real mature, Louis, real mature.”
“Fuck OFF!” Louis screams, and he runs out the door.
Harry is completely shell-shocked. What just happened? He can’t believe he actually just had a row, a serious one, with Louis of all people. He has no idea where the words came from; they just poured out of him. He has no idea what he even said; all he can think is how much it hurt, the way Louis was looking at him. Like he had hurt him to badly to say.
“What the fuck was that?” a voice calls down the hallway. It’s George.
Harry doesn’t reply, and after a minute, George walks into the room, frowning.
“Harry, what the fuck was that? Where’s Louis?”
“Lou’s gone,” Harry says slowly (as always), “He left.”
“Well where’d he go?” George demands.
“How the fuck would I know?” Harry says incredulously. “I just had a frigging row with him.”
George looks down, giving Harry an opportunity to look at him.
His hair is completely messed up, with random strands sticking up all over the place, and a few sticking to his face, stuck there with sweat. He’s covered in sweat, but also goosebumps - Harry realizes it’s freezing in the flat.
George’s stomach is flat and muscular, and he’s wearing a pair of low slung blue boxers that look as if he simply hadn’t any time for anything else. They show off his deep v-line, and Harry is finding himself strangely attracted, even after what George said to him the last time he was in this flat.
His stomach looks as if there were something hastily wiped off, and considering what he just saw, Harry doesn’t need to be Sherlock Holmes to figure out what it was.
Harry brings his eyes back up George’s body, slowly, just in time to catch George’s hungry gaze on him.
The air between them suddenly feels heavy, charged with electricity, and completely unexpectedly, Harry can’t breathe. He just stands there and looks into George’s eyes, and George gazes hotly back, never flickering, just eyeing him up.
Abruptly, just when Harry thinks he can’t take it anymore, George strolls across the room, and presses his lips against Harry’s own.
Harry realizes why Louis likes George now.
Thinking of Lou reminds him who he’s kissing, and Harry steps back from the best snog he’s ever had, and puts a hand to George’s chest.
“Wait,” he gasps, “What about Louis?”
“Fuck him,” George says lustily. “Actually, while you’re at it, fuck me too.”
Harry groans, feeling the words go straight to his crotch.
George moves in again for another kiss, and this time, Harry lets himself go, lets himself feel everything George is giving him. Their mouths are open, and George’s tongue is doing things to Harry’s that he needs to learn, now. George is pressing their crotches together and rubbing in a slow circular motion, and even though Harry’s still in jeans, the friction feels amazing against his hard-on (when did that happen, again?). George grabs Harry’s arms and tugs them around his torso, and stands on his tip toes. The change in angle does things for Harry that he should remember, because he feels like he could come in his pants just from this, just from the snogging and the grinding.
George pulls back, and begins to kiss Harry’s neck, nipping a bit and turning Harry into a shivering, groaning mess. Harry’s sure he’ll have bruises tomorrow and Liam will ask him about them and fuck why is he thinking about Liam?
Harry grabs George under the arms and pulls him up again for another snog. He pushes his mouth against George’s desperately, anxious to feel everything George can give him again. The fireworks that travel straight down to his groin start again and Harry closes his eyes in ecstasy; why is he so good at this?
Harry didn’t realize it, but George has been tugging him backwards, and Harry trips a bit over the carpet in the hall. George lets out a huff as he catches Harry, and pulls him up again. He grabs Harry’s hands and pulls him; Harry doesn’t pay attention to the room, he simply knows he’s falling down onto something soft and then George’s lips are on him again.
Harry literally has no idea what George is doing differently from any other lover he’s had, but it’s driving him mad, making him go crazy. He can’t get enough of George, can’t stop greedily taking his kisses like it’s the very sustenance he requires to stay alive (not that George is objecting). The bloke is moaning filthily and pressing both their rock-hard erections together, swinging his hips in a circular motion, groaning back just as lustily as Harry is
“Clothes,” he gasps, “Too many.” He’s practically incoherent, but George hears him and pulls every single item of clothing off with his teeth while simultaneously tugging off the boxers that are now the only thing separating their boners.
Harry feels like he’s being touched by more than ten digits; George’s hands are everywhere and Harry’s skin is sizzling with the electricity of it
George slips his arms under Harry’s back and flips him over, and suddenly, Harry’s on top. George still somehow manages to take control of the snog, though; Harry is being pulled down and tugged on until he nearly collapses on top of George.
“Fuck me,” George groans into Harry’s ear with a gust of hot air.
Harry’s done this before, and he can’t deny he wants it, but he has to admit, there’s something different. Maybe it’s because this is the first time Harry’s not in the dominant position (though technically he is); he’s never been topped from the bottom, so to speak.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” George mutters, and flips them over again (Harry can’t figure out how he keeps doing that).
Harry is getting more flustered by the second, and for a few long minutes, George stays out of his sight. Harry’s just about to sit up and find the bloody wanker when George climbs back on the bed and straddles him once again. Harry has no idea what’s happening until George slides on on to Harry’s cock.
George stays still for a minute, letting himself adjust to Harry’s size (he’s comfortable getting naked as he knows he’s got nothing to be ashamed of) and length before slowly beginning to bounce.
Once Harry gets past the shock of the tight, wet heat, he realizes he’s being fucking ridden like a horse and starts to truly appreciate, whatever it is this is.
This is obviously more for George than for Harry, but it’s still amazing for Harry; George is probably the best shag he’s ever had. George is speeding up, really starting to bounce. Harry just lets it happen and wonders how this is his life.
Harry is really very impressed with George’s stamina; had he been the one doing the riding, he would have collapsed long ago. As is, however, George’s arms on either side of Harry’s head are beginning to tremble, and while Harry can just tell that George isn’t that close, he’s beginning to slow his rhythm on top of Harry’s cock.
Harry really feels as if he ought to give George a break: the lad’s been doing all the work, here, anyway. So Harry attempts (emphasis on ‘attempts’) to do what George, earlier, did twice, and flip them around, and he sort of succeeds, by in the process, George slips off his wet dick, and they both let out a groan at the loss of sensation. As soon as Harry settles his arms over George’s head, he pushes back in, and nearly cries with relief. At this point, any friction at all is helping, and Harry can feel, with a growing urgency, a heat building in his lower abdomen. He’s determined to last longer then George, however, and so he shifts about a bit until he finds the sweet spot that makes George catch his breath like a schoolgirl with a fancy. He thrusts down, into George, pushing hard. George is clenching around him, and Harry can tell neither of them will be able to last much longer, so he tries to make this part the best
Judging from the moans spilling out of George’s mouth with every thrust, Harry’s succeeding, but Harry instinctively knows he can do better, be better than this, and so he grabs George’s muscular legs and hitches them over his shoulders. The change in angle makes them both gasp, and suddenly, George is clenching around him and spasming around his cock, white ribbons of spunk spurting in long squirts from his cock. The combination of heat and pressure on Harry’s dick becomes too much, and suddenly, he releases, spilling white hot liquid into George.
Harry slows imperceptibly, and suddenly, pulls out, and the two groan a bit at the sudden cold and empty feeling. George sits up and adjusts his legs on the bed so there’s room for Harry.
Harry sits down beside George and rubs his face with a hand. Now that his sex-crazed mind has calmed a bit, he’s realizing what could happen if Louis ever finds out. It’s not pretty.
“Lou never finds out,” George says abruptly, speaking the words Harry has been thinking. “You leave now, pretend everything’s dandy, be best mates with him again. Never tell him,” he says with a glare. “Louis cannot know this happened.”
Harry nods, and sets about grabbing his scattered clothes off the ground. George sits and watches silently; Harry feels more naked now than he did before, pulling his pants over his goose-bump covered legs.
When Harry has everything on, he gets up, and walks to the door. He stops in the doorway, and turns to face George.
“George,” he says quietly. “Thanks. For not -- I don’t know. Just thanks, mate, yeah?”
“Not your mate,” George says. He doesn’t smile back.
And two weeks later, Harry just ignores Louis’ text:
How come your boxers are on my floor and they smell like sex?