A/N: This was written for my dear friend Summer's birthday. (IN QUARANTINE) I hope you'll like this little MollyLouis!
It was also written for the January 13th's set over at the Prompts, oh Prompts thread at the NGFs. There I got these prompts: sinful; tempestuous ; music ; raspberries, as well as a quote ["what we do is innocent / just for fun and nothing meant / living in sin is the new thing" - 3, Britney Spears].
And, the timeline in this is non-linear.
And, finally, many thanks to my betareader mew-tsubaki.
rolling hills could never stop them
Her lips taste of raspberries and that shouldn't be a big deal, because they've been eating raspberries with cream, but it still is, because it's so sweet and soft and fruity.
He could do this his whole life, he thinks. Sit here with her on a quilt, eat raspberries with cream, and kiss her. And kiss her, and kiss her.
He will do this his whole life.
He will never leave that quilt.
"Louis, what are you doing?" she has her back pressed up against the wall, and his hands are on both sides of her head, so that she can't escape.
Not that she'd want to.
"I'm seducing you," he answers with a grin and Molly really, really, doesn't want to laugh, but she can't stop herself.
He stares at her whilst she tries to calm down, because this is hysterical.
"Am I that bad of a seducer?" he asks, and suddenly he leans a little closer, and Molly couldn't laugh even if she had wanted to, because his breath is heavy against her neck, and his eyes are a little dim, and his lips are a little chapped but still look so soft.
"No, Lou, you aren't," she whispers. "But you're my cousin, and you're younger than me, and why would you even want to seduce me?" She stumbles over the words, as if they don't really matter, as if she could say anything as long as it wasn't quiet.
"Anyone wants to seduce you, Mols," he whispers back, and she wonders if she'll only be another of the girls Louis has been with, and she wonders if it really matters, and she wonders why she doesn't push him away when his lips meet hers.
"What are you doing here?" Molly is standing in the kitchen, and she's only wearing a t-shirt, and Louis takes a huge sip of his glass of milk before answering.
"I had a sleepover with Lucy."
"With Lucy?" she asks, rubbing her bedhead and taking a bowl out from a cupboard.
"Yeah, me, Lucy, James, Roxie and Tim."
"Why didn't I notice that?" She pours some cereals in a bowl, and Louis can tell that she isn't awake because she's grasping in the air after a non-existent spoon as she gazes at Louis.
"Well, it wasn't a sleepover, because we didn't really sleep. We came home two hours ago."
"And you're awake because?"
"Because I couldn't sleep."
"Oh." She's quiet, and then she looks as if she catches herself. "That isn't an answer."
"I know. I think I'll go back to bed now."
"Okay, good night."
"Or, good morning."
"Yeah," she says when he almost is gone. "Good morning."
They stand on the top of the hill, or that's what it feels like, and they're holding hands, and there is nothing that can stop them.
They have left every rude word, every disgusted look, every resentment, every shudder (mock or not) down there, by the foot of the hill.
And the judgment won't be able to climb the hill either, because every single second they stand there with entwined fingers, the hill becomes higher.
They won't let each other go.
"Where are you going?" he asks, and he sounds so small, so fragile, so desperate. But she has to go.
"Away—why?" she retorts, and he clutches the sheet across his upper body, and she doesn't want to hurt him, she doesn't, she doesn't, but she has to hurt him.
"Why, Molly?" he asks and she didn't thought it was possible for him to look so young…but now he does, and she has to look away.
"Why wouldn't I? I mean, it's not as if this means something, it's just for fun and means nothing, right?"
He just stares at her—stares and stares and stares.
"See you tonight, huh?" And then she walks out of the Room of Requirement, and she is afraid she's broken everything now, but there was nothing else she could do. At least she tells herself that.
It's sinful. It's wrong. It's disgusting.
They are cousins.
They are related.
They have grown up together.
They shouldn't do this.
But it feels oh so right.
He lies on their bed, and he is sobbing, his body is rocking with each sniff, and she wants to hug him, she wants to tell him it's all right, that they won't listen, that they are they no matter what everyone says.
But when she had put a hand on his shoulder, he had shivered and shaken it off, so now she doesn't dare touch him.
Instead she lies down next to him, carefully making sure there is space between them but close enough to be sure that he can hear her whisper. "What we do is innocent, Louis. I promise."
He doesn't answer, and he doesn't look up from the pillow he has pressed against his face.
"Don't let them do this to you, Lou. It doesn't matter—we, you and me, we're the only thing that matters."
But he doesn't answer nor look up, and she begins to doubt.
There is pounding music and flashing lights and she's there, and she twirls and smiles and her hair flies and her hips swings.
And then she grabs his hand.
He's so lucky.
He's warm against her fingers; his chest is practically burning at her fingertips. She rips his shirt off, because she has to, she just has to rip it.
He grins down at her between kisses, and damn, it's all too tempestuous, it's nothing but raw and real.
He is slipping a hand beneath her shirt now, and she's almost angry with him, because he's doing everything so slowly.
And he's grinning all the time. Like a fool. Does she look funny or what?
She nibbles on his lip, and he moans a bit in her ear. That's right, that's what you get for laughing at me.
Then, after that, he speeds up. Thankfully.
When they sleep, they are so close that they look like one person. They are clutching onto the other as though it's the only thing that can save them. His blonde hair looks as though it is hers, and her reddish hair looks as though it is his, and if they were just one tiny bit closer, even their eyelashes would be touching.
"What are you doing?"
"What are you reading?"
"A good book."
"Stop being a jerk."
"…what did you say?"
"You're still a jerk—kissing me does not help."
They sit by their kitchen table and watch the streetlights outside and feel the autumn season wrapping itself around them, all coziness and warmness and coldness and leaves and scarves and tea.
"Sometimes, it's as though living in sin is the new thing," Molly says, and she leans forward and puts her chin in her hand.
"What—why? Do you mean…we're doing…er…this, just to be fashionable?"
"No, of course not!" she shakes her head so that her curls are flying all over the place, or at least in Louis' mind. "Just that, you know, no one we know just goes for what was believed would happen. James and Dom, for example. Scor and Al."
Louis raises his eyebrows. "But we were first."
"That's so like you, saying that."
"And that's why you love me."
And that's why she loves him.
They're Molly and Louis and they can do anything.