On your birthday, Louis surprises you with something loud, chaotic, and impossibly sweet—a backyard bouncy castle and a day full of laughter, filth, and love.
Tags: Louis x reader, smut (fem receiving oral, fingering, unprotected p in v, overstimulation) and a lot of fluff
You wake to the soft, persistent press of lips against your shoulder.
Then—definitely—your neck.
A sleepy hum escapes you, eyelids fluttering as you shift beneath the duvet. The air is still cool from the morning, but Louis is warm, all bare skin and lazy heat as he curls around you. His kisses are gentle, unrushed. One after the other. Like he’s tracing a path he’s memorized a hundred times before.
You turn your face into the pillow with a groggy little groan. “What time is it?”
“Time to wake up, birthday girl,” comes his voice—low, amused, still rough around the edges from sleep.
You blink your eyes open, lashes brushing the pillowcase. The first thing you see is the sunlight slanting through the curtains, soft and golden. The second thing is Louis—propped on one elbow beside you, grinning like he’s already done something and can’t wait for you to find out.
His hair is a mess, flattened on one side and sticking up wildly on the other. His eyes are still a little puffy with sleep. He’s not even wearing a shirt—just warm skin and that stupid silver chain that always finds a way to distract you. And somehow, even like this, he’s smug.
“Good morning,” he says, leaning in to brush his nose against yours.
You squint. “You’ve got that look.”
He gasps dramatically. “What look?”
“The one that means you’re up to something.”
He presses a kiss to your forehead. “I’m always up to something.”
“That’s what worries me.”
Louis laughs, his hand slipping beneath the duvet to find your waist, thumb brushing the dip of your hip in slow, sleepy circles. “Come on, you really think I’d cause trouble on your birthday?”
You shoot him a look. “Do I need to remind you of last year’s indoor fireworks?”
He winces. “Alright, fair. But I’ve matured. I’m responsible now.”
“You literally just spilled coffee on your shoes yesterday because you were trying to moonwalk across the kitchen.”
“Details,” he says, grinning wider. “Look, no chaos today. Just a surprise. And maybe a bit of bouncing.”
He winks. “No questions.”
You narrow your eyes. “Louis—”
“Nope,” he says, already pushing the duvet off your legs and tugging playfully at your hand. “No questions. Just trust me, get up, get dressed, and wear something comfy.”
You sit up slowly, body still heavy with sleep, and run a hand through your hair. “This better not be another scavenger hunt that ends in me covered in glitter.”
“It’s not,” he promises, utterly unconvincing. “But if it was, you’d still be hot.”
You shake your head, unable to hide the smile tugging at your lips. He leans in again, kisses you once more—longer this time, a little softer.
“Happy birthday,” he murmurs when he pulls away. “I’ve got something special planned. Just for you.”
And even though every part of you is bracing for whatever nonsense he’s cooked up… you still feel warm all over.
You both change into something comfortable—well, you change into something comfortable. Louis changes into a pair of joggers with a hole in the knee and a shirt that says birthday queen in glittery letters. Which, you assume, was not originally made for him.
“Subtle,” you say, eyeing the shirt.
He shrugs as he adjusts the collar. “I wanted to match your sparkle.”
Before you can fire back, he’s grabbing your hand and tugging you toward the door. “Come on. Time for the surprise.”
You barely get your trainers on before he’s pulling you down the stairs, your fingers tangled in his. He’s practically bouncing with every step—barefoot, of course, and buzzing with the kind of excitement that only means something chaotic is waiting for you outside.
“Louis,” you warn as you round the last step. “If I open that door and there’s, like, a band of clowns waiting to sing—”
“There are no clowns,” he says, pushing the back door open. “I swear.”
He steps aside dramatically, gesturing for you to go first. You narrow your eyes, but step forward anyway—and stop dead on the patio.
A giant, full-sized, rainbow-colored bouncy castle, sitting proudly in the middle of the backyard like it’s just always belonged there. The kind with turrets and mesh sides and little flags on top. It’s absurd. And it’s amazing.
There are balloons tied to the fence, a speaker in the corner already playing a ridiculous party playlist, and—just to the left—a folding table covered in snacks, drinks, and a homemade sign that says BOUNCE IF YOU LOVE HER in bold, wonky letters.
You blink. Then blink again. “You didn’t.”
Louis beams. “Oh, but I did.”
You’re speechless for a second, staring at the inflatable monstrosity as it gently sways in the breeze.
“You got me a bouncy castle?”
“I got us a bouncy castle,” he says proudly, slipping his arms around your waist from behind. “Because you deserve a birthday that’s fun and loud and stupid and exactly your kind of ridiculous. Just like you.”
You huff out a laugh, trying and failing to sound annoyed. “You’re insane.”
“Yeah, but I’m your insane,” he murmurs into your neck. “And I’m getting first bounce.”
You twist to face him, eyes narrowed. “We’re absolutely going to break something.”
Louis grins wider. “Then we better make it worth it.”
You don’t stand a chance.
Louis is already halfway across the lawn by the time you kick your shoes off, jogging in that loose, loping way that makes his hair bounce and his joggers slide just low enough to be criminal. He scrambles up the side of the inflatable like he’s done it a hundred times and disappears with a loud, exaggerated yell that echoes off the vinyl walls.
You shake your head, laughing as you follow.
The second you climb inside, he’s there—grinning like a menace, arms out, bouncing lazily from foot to foot.
“I swear to God, if you tackle me—”
You shriek, barely dodging him, and the next few minutes dissolve into utter chaos. You're bouncing and slipping, shrieking with laughter as Louis tries to pin you down and you shove him off balance in return. He rolls, dramatic as ever, arms flailing like he’s been shot.
“Unprovoked,” he groans, flopping to the floor. “The birthday girl’s turned violent.”
“You tried to tackle me!”
“I was being affectionate!”
“You jumped at me like a wild animal!”
“You liked it,” he says smugly, pushing himself up onto his elbows.
You stick your tongue out, breathless and grinning, your cheeks already flushed from laughing. The plastic beneath you squeaks with every movement, and the sun’s warm on your back, filtering through the mesh walls.
You both collapse in the center eventually, tangled and panting, lying on your backs side by side.
Your arm brushes his. Then your thigh.
Louis turns his head toward you, eyes crinkled at the corners from smiling so hard, chest rising and falling with each breath. “Told you it was worth it.”
You hum. “Still not convinced it’s better than a spa day.”
He rolls onto his side slowly, propping himself up on an elbow again. “Spa day wouldn’t get your heart racing like this.”
You raise a brow. “That’s because it’s meant to be relaxing.”
“Mmm.” His eyes flick over your face, your mouth, the curve of your neck. “You’re cute when you’re flustered.”
“You’re out of breath. You’re glowing.” His hand drifts lazily to your waist, thumb brushing just beneath the hem of your shirt. “And you’ve got that look.”
“The one that says you want me to kiss you.”
You open your mouth—maybe to deny it, maybe to tell him to shut up—but nothing comes out. Just a breath. A little too shallow.
Louis grins. Slow. Dangerous. “Yeah. That one.”
His lips brush yours—once, then again, firmer. The kiss is warm and open-mouthed and just a little messy, the kind that makes your stomach flip and the inflatable dip beneath you. His hand settles more firmly on your waist, fingers splaying, anchoring you.
The castle shifts again beneath your bodies, squeaking, swaying slightly in place.
You pull back, breathless, laughing into his mouth. “We’re definitely gonna die in here.”
Louis hums, eyes dark now as he presses his forehead to yours. “Then I hope we go out bouncing.”
You pull away from the kiss, laughing breathlessly as the bouncy castle tilts again, sending both of you sliding a few inches across the floor.
“Okay,” you gasp. “We are definitely going to break something.”
“Hopefully not a hip,” Louis mutters, flopping onto his back beside you with a groan. “God, I forgot how exhausting these things are.”
“You’ve been in here for five minutes.”
“And I’ve done more cardio in those five minutes than I’ve done all year.”
You nudge him with your foot, but you’re panting too, hair sticking to the back of your neck and your shirt starting to cling uncomfortably to your skin.
Louis notices. Of course he does.
“You’re warm,” he says, sitting up and tugging at the hem of his ridiculous glittery shirt. “Too warm. Birthday rule—no overheating.”
With one smooth motion, he peels the shirt over his head and tosses it to the side.
And just like that, your brain short-circuits a little.
Because there he is—bare chest glinting slightly with sweat, muscles shifting as he stretches his arms overhead like he’s not doing it on purpose. That damn silver chain catches the light, drawing your gaze right down the slope of his collarbones, over the ridges of his stomach, until you’re not really breathing properly anymore.
“Better,” he sighs, shaking out his hair like a smug little bastard. “Should’ve made this a topless bounce to begin with.”
You scoff, trying to play it cool. “Then the neighbours definitely would’ve called the cops.”
“They still might,” he says, crawling toward you on all fours now, the movement making the castle rock again. “But at least they’ll know we went down having fun.”
You try to wriggle away, laughing as he lunges again, grabbing at your ankle. “Louis—”
He grabs your hips instead and flips you effortlessly onto your back, pinning you with a grin. “Birthday girl isn’t going anywhere.”
Your breath stutters. The world sways slightly beneath you, the air pump humming in the background, and suddenly he’s not smiling anymore. Not the same way.
His gaze drops to your mouth, then lower, and when his hands slide up your sides, under your shirt, they’re slower. Hungrier.
“You’re all flushed,” he murmurs, voice lower now. “Is it the heat, or is it me?”
You open your mouth to answer, but it comes out as more of a breath than a word when his thumbs graze just under your bra. You can feel the tension rising between you like static—thick, buzzing, ready to snap.
Louis leans in again, nose brushing yours, lips barely touching as he whispers, “Still think the spa would’ve been better?”
You manage to whisper, “Maybe,” but it’s shaky, and he grins like he knows exactly what kind of effect he’s having.
Then he kisses you again.
It’s slower this time—deeper. Less playful, more intent. His tongue brushes yours, lazy and confident, and his hands don’t stop moving. They trace along your sides, slipping under the hem of your shirt, fingers dragging lightly over overheated skin.
“Too many clothes,” he murmurs against your mouth, and before you can reply, he’s tugging your shirt up and over your head.
The air hits your skin like a wave, cooler than before, making you shiver even though the sun’s still warm and the castle beneath you is radiating heat.
Louis sits back for a second, eyes dragging down the length of you, pupils blown wide. He lets out a breathy little fuck, almost to himself, before ducking back down to kiss along your collarbone.
“You’re so fucking pretty,” he mutters, lips brushing the edge of your bra. “Might keep you in here all day. Forget the party. Forget everything.”
His mouth trails lower, warm kisses pressed between your breasts, over the curve of your stomach. His hands are on your thighs now, thumbs stroking the inside of them through your joggers, just enough pressure to make you twitch.
You mean it as a warning. A plea. Maybe both.
He just hums, mouth pressed to your hip, teeth grazing the waistband of your pants.
He doesn’t break eye contact as his fingers hook into the waistband of your underwear.
“Gonna take this off now,” he murmurs, voice low and reverent like he’s unwrapping something fragile. “Because I want to taste you properly. Want you dripping on my tongue.”
Your breath catches, a sharp flutter deep in your belly as he drags the fabric down—slowly, so fucking slowly—exposing inch by inch, his gaze fixed between your legs like he’s already addicted. The elastic catches slightly on your thighs before sliding free, cool air brushing over your slick skin and making you twitch.
He tosses the underwear somewhere behind him without looking, too focused now—settling fully between your thighs, palms flat, spreading you wide.
“Look at you,” he breathes, dark and awed. “So fuckin’ pretty. Already messy for me.”
You squirm under the weight of his stare, but there’s nowhere to go. His hands are firm on your thighs, grounding you. And then his mouth is there—hot and wet and filthy.
He doesn’t start gentle this time.
His tongue licks a long, slow stripe from your entrance to your clit, groaning at the taste, and your entire body jolts in response.
“God, you taste better than cake,” he mutters, voice muffled against your skin. “Could eat you all fuckin’ day.”
He devours you like it’s the only thing that matters. Like the party can wait. Like the world can wait. He licks and sucks with messy, open-mouthed hunger, burying his face between your thighs, nose nudging your clit as his tongue circles lower, lapping up every drop of slick like he’s trying to memorize it.
You moan, loud and desperate, fingers diving into his hair, anchoring yourself as the bouncy castle squeaks beneath your hips. He groans back against you, the vibration shooting through your entire body.
When he flattens his tongue and drags it in one long, rough stroke up your centre before sealing his lips around your clit and sucking, your hips lift clean off the inflatable floor.
He growls something low, something obscene and almost smug, gripping your hips to pin you in place as his tongue works you open. He licks in deep, then flicks the tip over your clit in rapid strokes, alternating just to keep you on the edge, to feel you twitch and pulse and beg without saying a word.
He pulls back just enough to speak, voice hoarse. “You gonna come on my tongue, birthday girl?”
You nod helplessly, thighs trembling around his head.
“Then give it to me,” he whispers, tongue back on you before you can beg.
It’s filthy—loud and wet and relentless. His tongue works faster now, matching the stuttering of your hips as your orgasm builds sharp and fast. The heat coils in your gut like a vice, your whole body wound so tight you feel like you’re going to snap.
And then he sucks hard, lips sealed around your clit, and you break.
You come with a cry, body seizing, back arching off the soft vinyl. Your thighs clamp around his head but he doesn’t stop, licking you through it, groaning like he lives off the way you taste. You shake beneath him, breath torn out of you in shallow bursts, fingers tugging at his hair, thighs trembling uncontrollably.
Only when you whimper—completely spent—does he finally slow, easing up with soft, lingering kisses to your inner thighs. His mouth is wet, chin glistening, and when he looks up at you, it’s with the eyes of a man completely gone.
“Better than birthday cake?” he rasps, licking his lips, swollen and red from how hard he’d been working you.
You try to nod, still panting, but you can’t even find words. He kisses your thigh again, slow and sweet. “Thought so.”
He kisses his way back up your body, over your hips, your stomach, mouthing at the underside of your breast before licking a stripe over your nipple through your bra. You’re still gasping for air when he settles between your thighs again and smirks against your skin.
“Think you can give me another, birthday girl?”
Your laugh comes out shaky. “Louis…”
“You can,” he murmurs, voice dark with certainty. “And I’m gonna take my time with it.”
He dips his head again, tongue dragging slowly through your folds. You’re already oversensitive, but the moment his tongue hits your clit, your hips jerk with a choked moan.
“Fuck, you’re twitchy,” he murmurs, lips brushing your cunt as he speaks. “So fucking sensitive. Already wrecked and I haven’t even started yet.”
His fingers slide up to your entrance, spreading you, and then one sinks in—slow, deliberate. Your walls clench around him immediately, still fluttering from the last orgasm.
He groans, deep and hungry. “God, feel that. You’re fucking soaking for me.”
You gasp as he starts to move—deep and slow, one finger curling to press against that spot inside you that makes your toes curl. And then he adds another, stretching you open, sliding them in and out at a pace that’s downright teasing.
But his mouth is anything but.
His lips close around your clit again, tongue flicking against it with filthy precision. Every stroke is perfect, every suck calculated to make you come apart all over again. His fingers curl inside you in sync with his mouth, and the pressure is building so fast you can barely think.
You sob his name, legs shaking, hips grinding up against his face. He keeps you down with a firm hand on your lower belly, rubbing small circles into your skin as he works you through it.
“You’re so good for me,” he murmurs, lips brushing your clit as he speaks. “Making such a mess, baby. My fucking favorite mess.”
You can feel it coming—hot and high and about to snap.
“Come for me,” he demands, voice a growl now. “I want to feel you come around my fingers while I’ve got my mouth on this perfect fucking pussy.”
You scream his name as you fall apart—your second orgasm tearing through you so violently it feels like your whole body’s coming undone. Your cunt clenches hard around his fingers, slick dripping down your thighs, thighs trembling around his head as he sucks you through every second of it.
You’re gasping, twitching, trying to squirm away, but his hands are firm—pinning you down, spreading you open, devouring you like he’ll never get enough.
Only when your body goes slack beneath him, too sensitive to take another flick of his tongue, does he finally pull back.
He looks ruined—face soaked, eyes wild, lips swollen, breath coming fast.
And still, somehow, hungry.
“You’re mine,” he growls, voice rasped and reverent. He drags his tongue along his bottom lip, tasting the mess he’s made. “All fuckin’ mine.”
Your vision is hazy, limbs heavy, your body boneless. But when he shifts—pressing his cock against your thigh, thick and rock hard—you feel your pulse thrum all over again.
He’s panting too now, jaw clenched tight like he’s been holding back this whole time.
“Look at you,” he murmurs, dragging his fingers slowly down your oversensitive cunt, watching the way your hips twitch helplessly. “Already fucked out. And I haven’t even been inside you yet.”
You whimper, blinking up at him, dazed. He leans down to kiss you—slow and messy, tongue slipping into your mouth like he owns it, letting you taste yourself on him. You moan against his lips, overwhelmed, but he just deepens the kiss and groans low in his chest.
“Still want it?” he rasps, reaching down to tug his joggers down just far enough to free himself. His cock bobs up against his stomach, flushed and leaking at the tip. He wraps a hand around it and strokes once, slow and tight, watching your face the whole time.
You can barely speak, but you manage to gasp, “Yes. Please.”
“Yeah?” he breathes. “You want more?”
You nod frantically, thighs parting in silent invitation.
He grins—wicked and dark—and settles between them. “Good girl.”
Your body’s already sensitive, everything too much, too hot, too tight—and still, you want. The stretch as he sinks into you feels endless, your cunt fluttering around him, trying to pull him in deeper.
“Fuck, baby…” he groans, burying himself to the hilt. His forehead drops to your shoulder, jaw clenched tight. “You’re fucking soaked—dripping for me.”
You whimper, fingers digging into his arms as he gives you a second to adjust—then pulls almost all the way out, and slams back in.
You cry out, legs shaking, walls clenching around him hard enough to make him stutter.
“Fuck me,” he gasps. “You’re still squeezing me—Jesus, baby, I’m not gonna last if you keep doing that.”
But he does. He sets a pace that’s brutal and deep, hips slapping against yours with each thrust, the castle bouncing slightly beneath you both, making every snap of his hips rock through you harder.
His silver chain swings in time with every movement, dragging across your chest, cool against your burning skin.
You’re barely holding on, body jolting with each thrust, your breath coming in ragged gasps, tears pricking the corners of your eyes from how fucking good it feels—too good, like your body can’t keep up.
“You’re gonna come for me again,” he growls into your neck. “Gonna let me ruin you completely, yeah?”
You nod, choking on a moan as his hand slides down again, fingers slick and practiced as they rub tight circles over your clit—merciless now.
“You can take it,” he murmurs. “You’re my good girl, yeah? Birthday girl’s gonna give me one more.”
You’re trembling all over, but your body answers before you can.
You come again with a sob—your third orgasm ripping through you, cunt clenching hard around him, soaking him, your thighs quivering uncontrollably as your vision blanks out. You cry his name, voice hoarse, shaking beneath him as he fucks you through every last wave.
“Fuck, yes,” he growls, thrusts turning ragged now. “That’s it—fuck, I’m gonna—shit—”
His hips slam into you one last time and he spills deep inside with a rough moan, his entire body tensing above you. You feel the heat of it flood you, thick and hot and perfect, and he holds there, buried deep, panting against your throat.
For a moment, all you can hear is the sound of the air pump and the wet sound of your breathing tangled together.
He stays there for a moment, panting against your neck, his entire body still twitching with the aftershocks. His hand strokes lazily over your waist, soothing, grounding.
Then, carefully—so carefully—he lifts his head and looks down at you, all heat and reverence and something dangerously close to love burning in his eyes.
“You alright, birthday girl?” he asks softly, fingers brushing back your damp hair, voice lower now—warm and real.
You blink up at him, dazed, your body a useless puddle beneath him. “I think you broke me.”
He laughs, but it’s gentle, his thumb swiping lightly over your cheek. “Yeah, you’re gonna be feeling that one tomorrow.”
Then he shifts, moving slowly—pressing one last kiss to your mouth before his hand slips between you. “Gonna pull out now, yeah? Easy…”
You flinch as he moves, the sensitivity making your breath catch in your throat.
“Shh, I’ve got you,” he murmurs, voice soft as silk, lips pressing to your temple. He draws out slowly, gently, holding you steady as you whimper from the overstimulation. “There you go. Good girl.”
You let out a shaky exhale, eyes fluttering shut.
Louis stays close, one hand braced beside your hip, the other smoothing gently over your side. “You’re alright,” he murmurs, kissing your temple again. “I’ve got you.”
You hum, too soft and wrecked to say anything else, and that alone seems to make him smile. He pulls away slowly, moving with care as he tucks himself back into his joggers and adjusts the waistband. His breaths are still a little uneven, the flush still high in his cheeks, but his focus is entirely on you now.
He grabs his discarded shirt and folds it in his hands, then carefully nudges your thighs open again. You wince from the sensitivity, and his voice drops even lower.
“Sorry, sweetheart. Just gonna clean you up, alright?”
You nod faintly, cheeks heating even as your limbs remain limp and useless.
He presses the soft cotton between your legs, slow and deliberate, wiping up the mess he left inside you. It’s not clinical—it’s intimate. Thoughtful. Reverent. Like he’s still savoring every second of it but refusing to let you feel anything but cared for.
Once he’s done, he sets the shirt aside and reaches for your underwear and joggers, easing them up your legs with the same care he used to take them off. When he gets them up over your hips, he tugs the waistband into place, smoothing the fabric over your thighs, then glances up at you with a small, crooked grin.
You hum something that sounds like just barely.
He chuckles. “Alright, let’s get this top on next.”
Your arms are still limp at your sides, chest rising and falling slowly, skin flushed and a little sticky. He reaches over for the loose t-shirt you’d been wearing earlier—soft, oversized, worn to hell. Just like he likes it on you.
He sits back on his knees and lifts it up carefully.
“Arms up, birthday girl.”
You groan. “You’re dressing me like a doll.”
“Exactly. My favorite one.”
You shoot him a look, but it’s weak at best. Your arms float up halfway, and Louis gently guides them through the sleeves before pulling the shirt down over your head, smoothing it over your chest and belly. His fingertips linger just a little too long against your skin.
“There we go.” He grins. “Clothed and technically functional.”
You blink up at him, still sprawled and limp on the floor of a goddamn bouncy castle.
“Functional is generous.”
He leans in and kisses your forehead. “Good thing I’m carrying you.”
Slipping his arms beneath your back and under your knees, he lifts you up without a word, cradling you to his chest like he didn’t just fuck you into a puddle ten minutes ago. You melt into him, head tucked under his chin, the scent of sweat and grass and him clinging to your skin.
The backyard is still quiet when he steps out of the castle, the sun low and golden now. The party will start soon—balloons dancing lazily in the breeze, drinks chilling in tubs of ice. But right now, none of that matters.
He carries you through the door and up the stairs, each step slow and steady, murmuring quietly into your hair the whole time.
“You’re doing amazing,” he says. “Gonna get you into something fresh. Brush your hair. Pretend I didn’t just turn your legs to jelly in front of a child-safe inflatable.”
You snort against his throat, too tired to laugh properly.
He nudges open the bedroom door with his shoulder and carries you straight to the bed, laying you down gently on top of the sheets like you’re breakable. Then he leans down and kisses your temple again, fingers brushing your cheek.
“Yeah,” you whisper. “Sore. Floaty.”
His face softens. “Perfect.”
Then he straightens up with a quiet breath, hands smoothing down his joggers like he’s mentally switching gears.
“You stay there,” he says gently, brushing your hair back from your face again. “I’m running you a bath.”
You blink up at him, still so floaty you’re not sure if you imagined it. “You’re serious?”
He leans down, kisses the tip of your nose. “Deadly. You can’t greet guests looking like I just fucked your soul out. Or maybe you can, but I feel like we should at least rinse you first.”
You let out a sleepy giggle, limbs sinking deeper into the mattress. “You’re ridiculous.”
“And yet,” he says, already walking toward the ensuite, “you just came three times for me.”
You hear the water start running, then the unmistakable sound of him rifling through the cabinet under the sink. When he returns a minute later, it’s to light one of your favorite candles and balance it on the windowsill.
“Lavender,” he says, catching your eye. “Because your legs are jelly and you look like you’ve been gently electrocuted. Thought it’d help.”
You burst out laughing, weakly swatting at him. “I hate how good you are at this.”
He smiles, warm and wide. “I know.”
When the bath is full and steaming, the bubbles high and silky, he returns to your side, scooping you up without a word. Your arms go around his neck instinctively, and he carries you like you’re weightless—like this is just something he does for you on the regular.
The bathroom smells like heaven. Steam curls along the ceiling. The soft flicker of candlelight dances over the tile. You sigh before your foot even touches the water.
He helps you undress again—this time slower, more reverent. No teasing. Just his fingers slipping under the hem of your shirt, guiding it up and over your head, then easing your joggers down your thighs. He lets your underwear fall away last, brushing a kiss to your shoulder before helping you into the tub.
You sink in with a moan that borders on obscene, every muscle melting as the water hugs your skin.
“Holy fuck,” you whisper. “I might never get out.”
Louis smiles, crouching beside the tub with his chin propped on his arms. “You earned it. You want music?”
You nod faintly. “Soft stuff. Not that playlist from earlier with the ‘Sexy and I Know It’ remix.”
He chuckles and disappears for a second, returning with his phone and propping it on the counter. The room fills with something mellow and acoustic—soft guitars and sweeter lyrics. The kind of music that makes your heart ache a little.
While you soak, he leaves again, and you hear him moving around in the bedroom. Drawers open. Hangers clink. Then his voice, muttering to himself—something about “the yellow one,” and “makes her look like sunshine.”
When he returns, he’s holding your favorite sundress—soft cotton, pale yellow with tiny embroidered daisies.
“This one?” he asks, showing it off like he’s presenting an Oscar.
You nod, already smiling. “Yeah. That’s the one.”
He sets it carefully on the bed, lays out fresh underwear, and disappears one last time—returning with a towel already unfolded and warm from the dryer.
Eventually, when your skin has gone pink and the water starts to cool, he helps you out, wrapping the towel around your body with a little dramatic flourish.
“Still jelly?” he murmurs as he walks you back toward the bed, arms steady at your waist.
He grins. “I like pudding.”
He pats your thigh and nods toward the vanity stool. “Sit. I’ll brush your hair.”
He raises a brow. “You think I went through all that just to stop now? Nah. You’re getting the full birthday princess treatment.”
He towel-dries your hair gently, fingers combing through the strands like he’s doing something sacred. Then he picks up your brush and works through the tangles carefully, section by section, murmuring little compliments under his breath.
“Look at you,” he mutters, brushing over your shoulder. “So pretty. Bet everyone’s gonna lose their minds when they see you walk outside.”
You smile, half-shy, half-melted. “Think they’ll be able to tell?”
He catches your eye in the mirror, eyes twinkling. “That I railed you silly before cake? Probably.”
You swat at him again, cheeks burning, but he just laughs—soft and smug and so in love.
When your hair is brushed and braided loosely over one shoulder, he helps you into your dress. Zips it up slowly. Smooths the skirt down over your thighs with both palms.
Then he pulls back to admire you.
“Perfect,” he says again, this time with a softness that knots something deep in your chest. “Absolutely fucking perfect.”
Your lips twitch. “Stop staring at me like I’m the dessert.”
He grins. “But you are the dessert.”
You roll your eyes, but he dips down to kiss your cheek anyway—slow and sweet, his hand brushing the curve of your waist like he’s reluctant to let go.
“Alright,” he says finally, backing up a step. “I’m gonna go change before someone shows up and sees me in cum-streaked joggers and no shirt.”
You let out a little snort, shaking your head. “Charming.”
“Accurate.” He smirks, tugging his chain off and tossing it on the dresser before heading toward the wardrobe. “Give me five minutes.”
You turn back toward the vanity, catching your reflection in the mirror—cheeks still flushed, lips swollen, your braid a little loose and skin glowing in a way no skincare routine could fake.
Louis glances over his shoulder as he unzips a hoodie. “Hey. Just stay up here for a bit, yeah? I’ll come get you.”
“Because I love an entrance,” he says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “And also because if someone else gets a look at you before I’m standing next to you, I’ll probably kill them.”
You smile, small and fond, and nod once. “Alright. I’ll hang back.”
He finishes tugging a clean shirt over his head—something soft and snug and not ridiculous for once—then tosses a wink your way. “Gimme ten. Don’t fall asleep.”
You salute lazily. “Don’t forget deodorant.”
You just grin as he heads out, the bedroom door clicking shut behind him.
The quiet that follows is warm. Still. You breathe it in.
And then you turn back to the vanity, reaching for your makeup bag.
It’s comforting, in its own way—familiar little motions after all the chaos. You dab concealer under your eyes, smooth a bit of color onto your cheeks. Nothing heavy. Just enough to feel fresh. You swipe on mascara, a bit of gloss, watching yourself settle slowly into softness again.
It’s almost funny, really.
Your thighs still ache. You’re wearing a sundress over skin that’s barely recovered. Your lips are still tingling from Louis’s kisses, and you’re touching up your mascara like you didn’t just have the filthiest morning of your life.
But there’s a peace in it, too.
You hear faint sounds from downstairs now—music shifting, the back door opening, a few early guests arriving. A couple of low voices, laughter drifting in from the garden.
But for now, up here, it’s just you. A mirror. A heartbeat that still stutters every time you think about him.
There’s a knock at the door.
Then it opens slowly, revealing Louis with one hand on the frame, the other holding two glasses—one water, one fizzy pink something with a slice of lime.
“Told you I’d come back,” he says, stepping inside. “And I brought you hydration and a party drink. I’m officially boyfriend of the year.”
You smile, rising to your feet. “That’s bold. It’s only April.”
He grins, handing you the water first. “Then I’ve got eight months to defend the title.”
You drink a few sips while he watches you with the kind of quiet admiration that makes your chest ache in the best way. Then he offers his arm, crooked and waiting.
You slide your hand into the crook of his elbow, still barefoot, still floating. “Yeah. Let’s do it.”
He leads you down the stairs slowly, like he knows your legs are still a bit shaky, and kisses the top of your head once before nudging the back door open.
And are hit with the warm, chaotic sound of celebration.
The garden is full of people—your closest friends, your family, familiar voices calling your name as they turn and cheer. There’s a new banner hanging across the fence that reads HAPPY BIRTHDAY Y/N in glitter letters (his handwriting, obviously). Balloons bob in the breeze. Streamers wrap the posts. A cake sits proudly on a table nearby, covered in candles and your favourite frosting.
You blink, overwhelmed—but Louis is already whispering against your ear.
Someone hands you a wrapped box. Someone else hugs you tight. A camera flashes. There’s laughter. The speaker kicks into a cheesy pop anthem. And through it all, Louis stays close—his arm always at your back, fingers brushing your waist, his eyes never far.
“You planned all this?” you ask when the first wave settles, looking up at him.
He shrugs, but his smile gives him away. “I had help. But yeah. The bouncy castle was just for me. This bit’s for you.”
You lean into his side, breath catching on a bubble of joy you hadn’t expected. “I love you, you know.”
He tilts his head down, eyes soft and bright. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “I know.”
And then he kisses you—gentle, warm, reverent—right there in front of everyone.
Because this is what today was always meant to be.
Laughter. Cake. Presents. A ridiculous inflatable castle. Your cheeks still aching from smiling. Your heart so full it could burst.
