let's forget the deadlines (1/?), a stylinson fic
Title: let's forget the deadlines
Pairing: harry/louis
Rating/Warning: pg15
Word Count: ~2800
Summary: louis is a journalist at an entertainment magazine who interviews harry, the biggest pop star in the world, and neither of them are quite ready for the other.
A/N: yay!! i've been working on this for forever, so i hope you guys like it!!! i think it will be 3 or 4 parts, so look for that in the coming weeks. a Massive Thank You (tm) to grace, morgan and caroline for being better than your faves title/cut from taylor swift's "22". anyway, enjoy! :)
Louis felt sort of bad for listening to the new Two Door Cinema Club album and playing Angry Birds at work, but he had finished his article an hour and half ago, and it wasn’t like he could afford to just get up and walk out (much as he might want to).
“Good work there, Tommo.” He jumped slightly and swore at the sound of a voice behind him. One of his coworkers, and arguably his favorite, Danielle, was grinning at him over the divider between her cubicle and his.
“Damn it, Dani, you made me lose a black bird. D’you know how much I needed that?” He frowned as he stared at his phone, and she laughed.
“I’m glad you’re contributing to this fine publication by playing on your iPhone,” she smirked.
“Finished my article already, dear.” He pocketed the phone and flashed a smile he’d perfected over years and years of kissing ass. “No one can say I’m an underachiever.”
“Yeah, well, Alan can, and he does, every time you walk out of the room.”
Louis rolled his eyes. “Fuck Alan. I do what he hired me to do, I don’t know why he expects me to be Mr. Pulitzer himself or something.”
“Because you’re good, Lou!” She propped her head up with one hand and twirled a strand of her frankly huge curly hair in the fingers of the other.
(To any outsider Danielle looked like some ditzy secretary type, but Louis knew her well enough to know that she was the most persistent, hard-working writer the magazine had. But that didn’t stop Louis from mouthing off to her any chance he got.)
“You’re, like, brilliant!” she continued. “Your articles from uni were amazing, I’ve read them, but now that you’re actually a proper, working journalist, it’s like you don’t even try.”
His eyebrow quirked up in an oh honey do you really believe what you just said manner. “I’m not a ‘proper journalist’, I’m writing blurbs and little two-paragraph things about movies I know nothing about so I can get paid. I’m a prostitute, Danielle. I’m a whore.”
“No argument here,” Danielle quipped, smiling. “Alright, well, while you’re launching cartoon birds at cartoon pigs, some of us have real people work to do.” She pretended not to see the finger Louis was shooting her as she lowered back down to her desk. As much shit as they might give each other, Danielle was the closest thing to a best friend that Louis had.
He wondered if it came as much of a shock to people who knew him that he didn’t really make friends easily. Multiple times he had claimed it was because they couldn’t handle his scathing wit, but the majority consent was that he was kind of an asshole. Most people did not abide it. Well, besides Liam, who was Danielle’s boyfriend and a pretty cool bloke as far as athletes go.
Danielle and Louis worked at a quickly growing entertainment magazine. Danielle’s main job was interviewing celebrities and doing profiles, while Louis was kind of a catchall for all the articles no one else wanted to write (Danielle had been there longer).
Louis had this dream in college of stepping off the stage at graduation and into the newsrooms of the New York Times or the Wall Street Journal. He dreamt of writing thought provoking, beautiful pieces about poverty or hard-hitting exposés on corrupt politicians. He was going to be the youngest feature writer for a major publication and his articles would spark debate across the world, and he would be important.
As life would have it, none of those things ended up happening. He graduated school, moved to New York, and looked everywhere he could possibly think to look for internships and jobs, but the economy took his bachelor’s degree and laughed in his face.
He was bemoaning this fact one hot, sticky summer night to Liam over a beer in a small pub on 11th. “I’m trained for fuckin’ nothing, Li,” he whined into Liam’s shoulder as the younger boy signaled a waitress for another pint. “I worked my ass off for four years staying up till 4 in the morning working on the paper to be a good journalist, and it doesn’t mean anything to anyone. And now I’m drinking beer that a cow wouldn’t claim as its piss.” He continued to drink it anyway.
“Hush,” Liam soothed his friend in the way that really only he knew how. His chest vibrated with the noise against Louis’ head and it vibrated through and calmed him. “It matters to you. And to your mum.”
“My mum isn’t going to hire me, Liam.”
The waitress arrived with their beer, and Louis took it and started chugging, and probably would have drunk the whole thing if Liam hadn’t wrenched it away from him.
“Yeah, Jay might not, but you know who could?”
“Argos?” Louis deadpanned.
Liam rolled his eyes. “No, you moron. I’ve told you, Danielle is working-”
“No, no, Liam, not the entertainment magazine, for the love of God, I’m not going to-”
“Going to what? Get a paying job?” Liam didn’t like breaking out the Stern Older Brother voice but necessity called for it from time to time. “Not everyone can get a great job right out of uni, Lou. You looked as hard as you could and nowhere was hiring, and sometimes that’s what happens. You’ve just got to take what you’re given.”
“Yes, please tell me about suffering,” Louis scoffed. “I bet being a professional rugby player is just brutal, all those scouts wanting you since we were in trainers.”
Liam shrugged. “It’s not terrible, no.” Louis rolled his eyes and threw back the rest of his pint of beer, so Liam continued, “But really Louis, let me talk to Danielle for you. Really. I promise having a shitty job is better than having no job.”
Louis groaned and Liam knew he had won. “Fine, Liam. Fine, talk to Dani. Jesus, you sound like my mother.”
“And you love me.” Liam nuzzled his head into the older boy’s neck and Louis would never say it, but yeah, he did.
So that’s how he ended up where he was, in a little cubicle with a huge Mac and not much else. He wasn’t really one for interior decorating, especially at work, but he had hung up three pictures to keep himself sane. The first was a professional family portrait his mother had had done of Louis and all of his sisters on a beach, and the second was a picture of Louis as a baby wearing a backwards pink baseball cap and heart sunglasses. (His mother swore he put them on of his own accord but he wasn’t so sure.)
His favorite of the three was a little Polaroid of him, Liam, and Danielle. They had been watching Friends all piled together on Liam’s tiny, dirty couch and Danielle had just bought this ancient camera and was snapping pictures of basically everything that moved. She had raised the camera in the air and aimed the lens at the three of them while Liam pulled them so they were squished against each other, and Danielle pressed the button.
At the last minute, Chandler said something funny on TV and Louis was laughing, which made Danielle laugh, and Liam was just smiling as big as he could. It was a bit blurry and definitely not the best picture of Louis ever taken, but every time he looked at it he could feel all the stupid love he had for these two well up in his chest, and it made working a lot easier.
Not like he was a sentimental type or anything. Louis Tomlinson didn’t do sentiment.
He had returned to Angry Birds for all of two seconds when Danielle popped back up. “No, Louis, you know what?”
“That’s the second time you’ve made me lose a level?” he mumbled.
“No. Yes. I don’t know, sure. Anyway, I just had the best idea.” She raised her eyebrows and smiled. Louis stared, saying nothing.
“Well? Aren’t you gonna ask what?” she said, bouncing up and down so her curls did, too.
He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “What is it, Dani.”
“I’m going to give you my big profile for the month!” She beamed, but her smile as Louis laughed and returned to his phone. “What? What is it?”
“No you’re not, Danielle,” he chuckled.
She wrinkled her nose in part indignation, part confusion. “Wh-yes I am!”
“No, you aren’t. You’re not going to hand over that pop star to me to interview, I’ll do a terrible job. I’ll ruin your column.”
“You won’t ruin it! You’re a brilliant writer, Louis, how many times do I have to tell you?”
Louis barely had enough time to come up with some absurd number before Danielle whipped herself out of her cubicle and flounced off towards Alan’s office.
“Dan-Danielle!” Louis shouted, but she kept going. He swore under his breath, but returned to his chair. Alan would laugh in her face, so there wasn’t really much reason to fight her.
He answered a couple of emails and read an article in USA Today before he heard a door open and Danielle and Alan’s voices floated out of the room. Louis couldn’t tell whether he had rejected the idea or not because they were so quiet-but he was sure the editor wouldn’t have let Danielle hand over one of her biggest profiles to date to a slacker like Louis.
Danielle nodded and Alan returned to his desk, and Louis was sure she hadn’t gotten her way. He didn’t even try to feel guilty about the relief that caused him.
She approached Louis’ cubicle and leaned on the divider, studying her nails. Louis hated how he couldn’t read her when she didn’t want him to; it proved very annoying when he was trying to find out if she’d had sex the night before.
“…So?” he said, trying to keep the smugness off his face.
“So you’ve got the article,” Danielle smirked, looking up at him.
“I’ve-what?” Louis stuttered
She nodded and a grin found its way onto her face. “Yep! You’ll be interviewing Harry Styles tomorrow at 6, and you’ve got until then to learn everything there is to learn about him.”
Clapping one hand over her mouth to suppress a laugh, she wiggled a few fingers in a wave and skipped away before Louis could murder her.
Louis was going to do an actual, proper article that would probably be one of their best-selling issues of the year. He had an interview with pop sensation Harry Styles in a little over 24 hours, and in that time span he had to research the guy, come up with an angle, and write questions based on that angle.
“Fucking Christ, Dani,” he muttered, closing his eyes. “I guess I’m not finishing Breaking Bad tonight.”
“Nope!” he heard from somewhere behind him. He didn’t bother turning around. He would kill Danielle Peazer soon enough. Liam would just have to deal with it.
----------
It was 10 at night and Louis was still doing research on this guy. It was ridiculous. He was pretty sure he couldn’t find this much useless information on Barack Obama even if he tried. A lot of the stuff he found was from blogs of teenage girls and fans and “official” fan websites. But he’d weeded through the crap and basically found out everything from the time Harry Styles was born to now, including every bowel movement he ever took and every cup of coffee he ever ordered from Starbucks.
Essentially, this dude was every 14+ girl’s wet dream. He was English (from Holmes Chapel, Louis found out. He didn’t know anyone had ever lived in Holmes Chapel) and 20 years old and, in Louis’ professional opinion, the most obscenely full and red lips anyone had ever seen.
He’d started out at 16 on The X-Factor. Louis watched some of his songs from the show, and he had to admit, the kid was good. He sang and his voice didn’t soar, really; rather, it curled around you and settled itself down inside of you like smoke. Harry would smirk after he finished a song, Louis noticed, like he knew he was charming, knew he was good. The judges were putty in his hands and even Louis could see it.
He’d gone on to place third in the competition, which wouldn’t usually earn him a record deal, but one of the judges Simon liked him so much that he decided to change the rule just that once. Louis wasn’t surprised-he bet Harry went through life having exceptions made for him left and right. He had that sort of face.
After the X-Factor tour he’d gone on to tour the UK and it was around this time that the tabloids began to be littered with headlines of “Britain’s New Bad Boy” featuring various pretty girls claiming to have spent one steamy night with him in some seedy hotel or another. Louis rolled his eyes, making a mental note to never talk to anyone if he ever became famous.
Since then he’d recorded three albums that had enjoyed varying amounts of success in the UK and the US, with a number singles, and he was working on one currently. Louis laughed and ran his fingers through his hair. He had to admit-the dude was a machine at music making. And his albums had received generally positive reviews, even while being aimed towards the lovesick note-passing giggly teenage girl set.
“Color me impressed, Mr. Styles,” he murmured after taking a sip of his coffee (venti low-fat coconut mocha frappuccino with light whip-Louis Tomlinson, every barista’s worst nightmare.)
He stood from his chair to stretch his legs and take a piss. Looking around the office, he noticed that he was the only person left (big shocker) and, as the urge overwhelmed him, yelled, “I hate my life and it hates me back!” No one was there but even if they were, he was pretty sure they would have taken it in stride.
After taking care of his business, he found himself Googling. Nothing specific, just Googling. And if “Harry Styles shirtless” happened to slip in there, well, so be it. He was all alone in the office, and if a man couldn’t have a wank at his desk every once in a while, then what was life really about?
Louis hadn’t really dated anyone in a while. He went on dates, sure, but none of them ever panned out due to some flaw or another. He was alright with being single most days, but sometimes he came home to find Liam and Danielle on the couch with her hand up his shirt and his arm around her, just watching TV, and he’d have to fight the bile crawling up his throat.
So yeah, he was okay with being single, just-not other people’s happiness, generally.
He kept scrolling and had to stifle a moan as he stumbled upon a series of frankly beautiful pictures of Harry on a boat somewhere, and if Louis had to guess, he’d say his swimming trunks were held up by his dick, and the thought was enough to get him hard. He began rubbing his crotch to the sight of Harry dripping wet, bathing suit barely hanging off his hips, and kept getting worse and worse until he just undid his pants and shoved them down to his ankles, grabbing his cock through the opening in his boxers. And it wasn’t like it didn’t occur to him that he was about to get off in his place of work, but it’s more like he just didn’t give a fuck.
He rubbed his thumb up and down his shaft,l eaning back in his chair, eyes closed, picturing Harry’s gorgeous mouth wrapped around his cock, sucking (he almost comes already just from the thought of it, but he squeezes himself to stave it off). Using the precome from his tip, he picked up the pace, breath hitching in his throat as he pictured all one-point-eight meters of Harry (he just spent an ungodly amount of time researching this boy, he knew how tall he was) riding him, fingers digging in his back-
He came with a strangled gasp. Squeezing his eyes shut, he tried not to think about the mess he’s made, much less the fact that he made it from jerking off to a teen superstar he’s never met before.
“Fuck,” he mutters. “I’m in trouble.”