Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

“There is a fever inside me that burns for you all night through”

— Adonis, from ‘Psalm’, Selected Poems (trans. Khaled Mattawa)

♡

Moving in with Harry all those years ago has got to be one of the best decisions Louis has ever made.

Harry’s always been tidy, a good cook, (usually) knocks before entering a room, and asks before he invites company over. And because they share a similar taste in interior design—a bit basic by way of taste in furniture, but with a definite flare for pattern and color when it comes to actual decor—they’ve made quite the home out of their cozy two bedroom flat in northern London.

They have an impressive film collection to boast, trinkets and toys and tourist-y bits collected from work trips across the globe littered across miscellaneous shelves and tabletops, the softest periwinkle rug spread across their sitting room floor, and an eclectic mix of posters and paintings framed across the pale walls of their flat. With their small balcony, thoroughly decorated with hanging plants and herbs and a glass table for Louis to smoke at, facing the afternoon soon, their space always feels open and bright, warm and lived in.

Harry is also painfully domestic, meaning he’s taken over the majority of the cooking—and baking, because they both have a penchant for patisserie—which is good because Louis under or overcooks most anything that requires heat to become edible, and can hardly hold most kitchen utensils the correct way, and he prefers to be the one who cleans, which is also good because Louis likes things tidy but will only really clean when he’s anxious or agitated.

And Louis does his best to help, as to not take advantage of Harry’s kindness. Perhaps spoils Harry a bit at times—being a label owner has its perks in the world of sponsorships and business connections, after all—if he’s honest, but he’s more than happy to give what he can in turn. Try and compensate. Be it coyly purchasing a couture blouse or designer bag Harry’s been mooning over, bringing home takeaway he's been craving for dinner, even offering a cuddle and massage after Harry’s spent all day bent over his laptop, he’ll eagerly oblige.

They’ve been best friends for years, after all. Have been attached at the hip since meeting back in university, when the two incidentally ended up at a co-ed party the Queer Alliance was holding in one of the theatre halls and a tipsy Louis accidentally walked in on Harry, then just a shy string-bean of an eighteen year old, having a wee in the upstairs toilets. It only made sense once Harry accepted Louis’ messiness and Louis took Harry’s mother-henning in stride—honestly, neither of which took long at all—that they’d bunk up together.

That all said, moving in with Harry is also one of the worst decisions Louis has ever made, and this is because he’s been devotedly, hopelessly, embarrassingly in love with Harry almost as long as the two of them have been friends.

It hadn’t come as a swift and panicky realization, or in an incredulously duh moment. He simply woke up next to Harry in his bed after one of many nights spent watching movies together on a shared laptop, and rubbed his tired eyes to find Harry sleeping peacefully mere inches away from him. Had looked angelic curled up in the tangle of blankets pulled over them, sunlight peeking in through a split in the drapes to illuminate pink lips parted softly and lashes fanned dark over rosy cheeks, dark waves spilling across creased sheets.

All it took was a curious sweep of his thumb over Harry’s cheek, which incited a kittenish snuffle and green eyes fluttering half-open, a sleepy smile that broke into a raspy, g‘morning, Lou, and the swift beating of Louis’ heart made all the sense in the world. Thought a simple, oh, alright, as realization dawned upon him and lazily pet through Harry’s hair, mirrored a smile, g’morning, sunshine.

He wasn’t even twenty-one back then and knew he was in love with Harry. Louis is thirty now and he doesn't think he'll ever not be in love with Harry. Has spent a majority of his adult life pining from afar, never daring to cross the line into unknown territory lest he incidentally trip, fall, ruin everything they’ve built together. Being an alpha to Harry’s omega, too, he more than understands the potential implication of what it’d mean were he to make a first move, even though their secondary gender classifications have never mattered to each other before.

He won’t risk loss, but Louis also cannot deny his pining, his want.

To him, Harry is an enticing balance of hard and soft in his delicate waist and ample chest and long legs alongside his lean muscle and shock strength and crushed velvet voice; masculine and feminine at once with his often-had scruff and pillowy mouth, dreamy eyes and broad shoulders, frumpy athleisure and ripped jeans and boxer bands to lace negligee and billowy frocks and perfectly lacquered fingertips.

He is cracking dry wit, natural charisma, a warm hug; so modest in his intelligence, so coy in his talents, so comfortable in his skin. His fingers easily pluck at guitar strings and dance over piano keys. His song is a hypnotizing melody deep as the ocean and high as the stars.

He is honey, peaches, cinnamon. For a winter baby, he’s always smelled so richly of summertime, radiating it like golden sunshine in his scent and his laugh and his touch. And just like everything else Harry-centric, Louis is a greedy man: he wants it all for himself.

Were poetry his choice of medium, Louis would waste his life writing sonnets and ballads trying so desperately to properly encapsulate Harry’s beauty, in all senses of the word. Working in the music world, though, he does so through song instead, and he can have someone else narrate his love letters for some semblance of anonymity. Gets paid for it, too.

It’s not really catharsis—he thinks he’s making himself worse, indulging in all this fantasy.

Truly he’s fucked, and he knows it. Never making a move out of fear things go crumbling down around him, parts unsalvageable, but still hoping that Harry just might mirror his affections, and one day act on impulse and have Louis know as much. But, seeing as things are have been going, and are continuing to go, that doesn’t seem the case.

The nagging of his friends, both his alone and those he shares with Harry, is growing ever insistent, which only makes things worse, because even when he’s not around Harry, whether that’s at the studio or the local park’s footie pitch or with some mates mischiefing about in a pub or discotheque, wherever, he’s constantly reminded that in spite of his successes, at the end of the day, he’s still a lovelorn sap who’d rather mope and morn over Harry than do something about his feelings.

They just don’t get it, he assures himself. Things are—they’re fine, they’re fucking great, fantastic, whatever. He and Harry are best friends and they share a lovely home, and if things are meant to change between them, then they will. But if not then—then that’s fine, too. He’ll figure it out.

Really.

♡

“Why don’t you just ask Harry to help you out already?”

“Niall, for the last time, I am not asking Harry to help me through my rut.”

Niall heaves a sigh, throws himself back heavy in the office chair he’s situated in besides Louis. Crosses his arms over his chest, a petulant child.

Looking directly at Louis, he says, “You’re an idiot,” his brows raising with it. Then, “Wait, no, hold that thought,” waving one hand dismissively, shaking his head for only a moment, because: “you’re both idiots.”

Louis thanks his past self for having the foresight to have this conversation with Niall after everyone else has left the studio for the evening, because he’s not about to watch his volume or his tone at the accusation that him and Harry are idiots, by Niall’s standards, of all things. Especially not when they’ve both put down two bottles and are working on a third, already loose-lipped and lackadaisy.

With the bottle lip pressed to his mouth, “Know what? You can fuck right off, Neil.”

“Please, you know I’m right, and anyone would agree with me,” looks around the empty, quiet studio—the recording booth long since dark, lights overhead them dimmed low, soundboard clicked off, downed bottles sitting wayside on a cleared writing desk, “well, if anyone else were here right now, they would. Just trust me: idiots.”

“Because I won’t sleep with m’best friend, who I also live with?” Louis squints and quirks his brow, trying to track the logic.

“Who you’ve also been in love with for, like, years now.” Niall shakes his head, clicks his tongue. “Tragic thing. You're a real sadist.”

This conversation, they’ve had countless times, and Louis really isn’t in the mood to have it again. He has a problem, here, one completely separate from this whole love and feelings thing, and he’d like for Niall to be understanding and not a know-it-all for two seconds to try and give him actual advice and maybe some comfort, instead of insulting him.

See, while all his capital-F feelings have mostly hindered his desire to properly date—and seeing as the constraints of Louis’ physical attraction is more so limited to men and so-called ‘passing’ masculinity rather than what someone’s got in their pants, he’s actually got a rather decent pool to fish from—Louis has taken on partners in the past to help him through his ruts. With the fevered thoughts and hormonal fluctuations, he gets extra spiral-y and has long-since learned having another body around at least gives him something to focus on that isn’t Harry-based.

The problem right now is that his most recent rut partner, an omega named Robbie that he’d been seeing for upwards of two whole years, has just ended their arrangement to pursue a, quote, ‘unfairly pretty’ beta from his office’s finance department, while their company is on retreat in the Canaries.

And, like, who is Louis to stand in the way of that? It’s not like they’d really seen each other outside of his ruts or Robbie’s heats anyway, and they always met up in a hotel located halfway between both of their respective flats for their ‘activities’ rather than going to either of their homes, so there’s nothing really to miss besides some learned comfort and the convenience of having someone there.

But if his calendar and the minor side effects he’s been experiencing—some muscle aches, spiking tetchiness, brief hot flashes—prove right, he’s somewhere between five days and a week out, and he’s not about to find a casual hookup to tide him over. He’s not that kind of person, with or without this whole Harry affliction. Even if the thought of being alone in some hotel room over the course of his rut with only his fist and some pillows for aid sounds absolutely miserable, he’s not been alone in rut for years, and it worries him a bit.

Before he can find a roundabout way to get them back on topic though, he has to ask: “Wait, why’s Harry an idiot?”

Niall tilts his head and looks at Louis like he’s absolutely the stupidest person he’s ever met. Louis just widens his eyes, indicating to Niall he’d like some guidance here, please, stop looking at me like that, and Niall thankfully concedes with another heart-heavy kind of sigh.

“Same reason you’re an idiot.”

Which is—not helpful.

Tells him so. “That tells me nothing.”

Niall sips off his bottle, then pins it between his thighs, making an obscene gesture Louis tries quite pointedly to ignore, to rub his eyes in clear irritation. “Jesus, how do you—I don’t know why you two’re so set on, like, I dunno, denying yourselves? Self sabotaging? Being generally clueless? Whatever it is, wish just one of you’d get your head out of your arse and fucking do something already.”

A wild imagination and grand sense of delusion—that’s what Niall has. If this weren't his fixation, his drive would be more admirable.

“If Harry and I are in denial, then you’re definitely guilty of indulging in dangerous levels of delusion.”

And maybe it does sound a bit like deflection, but that’s what Niall gets for being the most unhelpful person in the world. Because at this point, Louis will return home no closer to figuring out what to do with himself—because like hell is he asking for Harry’s input on the situation; he doesn’t even know what Harry does or who he sees or even where he goes when he leaves for his heat—and his rut is coming up fast. Solutions are necessary like, now.

And as of right now, he’s sure he’s going to be more than miserable coming out of his rut—his knob rubbed raw, his wrist cramped, his need hardly curbed. His inner alpha will be left further unsettled by having nothing and no one to scent, spoon, to be comforted by, post-rut.

Only shrugging, Niall is clearly unbothered by his accusation. “Whatever gets you through the day, Tommo.”

“Can we just—can y’try and help me out here? Please?”

Niall starts shooting him a long sideways glance which initially reads as ‘no’ and ‘seriously?’ at once. Has Louis considering it’s not worth it and he may just need to accept his fate and get over it, get used to spending his ruts by his lonesome, until Niall’s hard look falters into his umpteenth sigh of the day, and he seemingly concedes.

“I guess… well,” and he shrugs, tilts his head to the side, only for his eyes to suddenly light up, “you could always spend it at home.” Holding his finger up in silence when Louis opens his mouth ready to argue—like hell is he going to try and kick Harry out of their flat just so he can masturbate without worry, “Hear me out, mate. If you’re gonna be on your own when you’re not used to it, which can already mess things up f'you, then y’should at least be somewhere that’s actually, like, familiar.” Pale brows raise to emphasize, “Somewhere safe.”

Well. He has to admit Niall brings up a good point in that. Leans forward so he’s balancing his elbows in his knees, hands clasped together under his chin. Considering earnestly.

It’s not just omegas that need that sense of safety and familiarity in their surroundings when they’re stuck in their cycle, after all; alphas require similar circumstances in order to finish their ruts successfully—well, perhaps not always by way of the initial biological reasoning, but at least in feeling some sense of accomplishment and inner peace afterwards.

As it’s said: there’s no place like home.

Yet it’s important to remind, “But Harry’ll be there too, ‘cause ’m not gonna boot him from our flat so I can,” and he makes a vague wanking gesture, “you know…”

He doesn’t like the way Niall cocks his head to the side, quirks his mouth in thought. Like that’s kind of the idea, and this whole proposal only serves as more instigation. He chooses not to take it to heart, though; Niall’s only here as the idea guy, not the man of action. Louis can see things through as he pleases.

“You’ll figure it out,” is all Niall says, and goes to make a toast.

Louis begrudgingly tips their bottles together.

♡

When Louis returns home, the Cockteau Twins’ ‘Heaven or Las Vegas’ is playing through the speakers in the lounge and Harry is singing along from the kitchen, perfectly in tune.

He can’t help smiling as he toes off his trainers, drops his knapsack by the door. Finds Harry stirring something that smells toasty and like garlic in a large pan at the stove, his fringe pinned away with a small claw clip and his person comfy in smiley print sleep pants and a snug t-shirt, faded cream with a leaping black rabbit across his chest. There’s a glass of red next to one side of the stove and two plates ready for serving on the other, so Louis goes for the cutlery drawer to fetch them forks.

Bopping along, Harry sings, “‘I suspect I’m singing to you a tune,’” and then turns to Louis, grinning as though unsurprised to find him there, “‘and still you find the beat and sing it to you soon…’”

Louis sets the forks next to the plates and offers his hand for a spin, which Harry takes. Does a delicate turn in his socks on the tile, the wooden spoon he was stirring with still in hand, sticky with rice and brandished like a wand. Louis wants to take both of his hands and sway with him as the ending, a choir of electric guitar, slowly fades away, but Harry leaves him hanging to give the pan an aggressive shake.

“Shouldn’t be too long,” Harry says. Louis only flexes his fingers and hums an affirmative. The song transitions into something beach-rock, San Diego—one of the tracks from Sun Room, a ragtag group of SoCal teens Louis has taken to mentoring—and the volume sinks down. “How was it today?” Then, before he can respond, “Hey, stop hiding back there, I haven’t seen you all day.”

“Missed my ugly mug, did you?” Louis jokes, but he leans against the counter anyway, so he's right in Harry's sights.

Harry scoffs, shakes his head. “‘Ugly’? Gotta work on your stand up routine, Lou.” He’s smiling, though, cheeks dimpling. He raises the spoon to his mouth and gives the steaming browned rice a few blows, gives it a taste. “Hm,” smacking his lips, he turns Louis’ way and offers the rest of the spoonful, “it need anything?”

He cups his palm under Louis’ chin as he takes a bite, just in case he spills. Louis chews thoughtfully. It’s still quite temperature hot, but it’s definitely tasty—a simple fried rice, and he can see bits of carrot, green bean, scallion, and scrambled egg heavily laden through the heap of rice, but it’s definitely flavorful.

“Nah, s’good, babes,” to which Harry looks more than pleased with himself.

Just as they do most nights, they eat side-by-side on the sofa. Louis passes Harry the remote, easily allotting him control, and Harry immediately parses for the ‘Jersey Shore’ episode he fell asleep watching the other night.

While they have a shared penchant for trashy reality TV—although Harry’s more of the cattiness and petty drama type, and Louis unabashedly enjoys shenanigans and minor secondhand embarrassment—Louis can only pay half attention to the episode. More infighting, provocation, mostly cause and effect of too much alcohol. Same old, same old. Mulling over Niall’s suggestion takes precedent anyway, and he needs to think up a way to ask Harry about spending his upcoming rut at home and, if Harry’s on the fence at all at the proposition, have a backup plan or compromise to utilize. And soon.

So far, as he stabs again at a pea that keeps rolling away from him, all he can think is to drop lots of ‘pleases’ and offer some kind of later consolation—even if it sounds like he’s trying to buy Harry’s affection—so Harry will allow it. A bit lacking by way of imagination, sure, but he’s at a loss as to what he should do otherwise.

“...swear to god the man’s got no object permanence, like the second his girlfriend’s not physically in front of him, he forgets she exists!” Harry gestures to the screen, scowls. “Total fucking dickhead. What a stereotype.”

Shaking his distracted thoughts away, Louis tries to make it seem like he’s been watching. “Don’t they stay broken up in the end, though?”

Harry hums an uneven note. “Yeah, but it happens between the end of the first show and the reunion series, so we’ve still got two and half more seasons of this shit,” and stabs a piece of egg with his chopsticks; Louis is less skilled, so he’s kept his fork. “And they bring back that girl from the first two seasons for a bit in the reunion, uhm,” snaps his fingers, “the one everyone fought with…”

“Oh, her?” genuinely surprised. “Didn’t they call her a hamster? Yeah,” in an incredibly poor show of something stereotypical and Jersey-ish: “‘you dirty little hamster’.”

Harry cackles and nods. Likely more at his abhorrent attempt at the accent than the nickname itself. American makes him sound obnoxious and nasally.

“Among other not-so-nice things. But it’s, like, trashy entertainment. Y’can’t expect anything less.”

After finishing the rest of the episode and getting halfway through the next, Louis leaves Harry to put away leftovers and clean up their dishes. There’s not much to tidy up past putting things in the dishwasher—only the pan and cutting board and some utensils to leave drying on the rack. He just needs some time to finish getting his thoughts together, and Harry is distracting. More distracting than the early twenty-tens club music and flashing lights on the telly.

Because they can’t even sit in the same room without Louis stealing seconds to watch him. Admire how Harry fiddles with his rings, bites at a hangnail, checks his nail polish. How his nose scrunches up when he wants to laugh or how when he gets sleepy, he crosses his arms over his chest and tucks his chin, will stretch his legs out across the sofa or onto their glass top coffee table and cross them delicately at the ankle. How is he supposed to get any work done, let alone think when Harry unintentionally holds his gaze like a magnet?

He’s wiping down the counters and has thought up nothing more than that he needs to tell Harry that is rut is coming soon, when Harry comes into the kitchen to fill up the kettle for two cups and set it to heat. He hums quietly as he parses through the stuffed bevvie cupboard, sharing space with all the herbs and spices and mixes, above and next to the kitchen sink.

“D’you want coffee, some tea?”

“If we’ve still got some of that decaf Yorkshire, yeah, ‘ll have that, thanks.”

Plucking two clean mugs off the dish rack, “Same way as always?” as if he even has to ask.

Louis gives a quick nod anyway, and Harry bumps his hip as he goes to the refrigerator for some milk. He watches quietly, finished with his easy tidying now, as Harry finds the designated box of decaf Yorkshire, then titters about until he finds something herbal and in a fancy metallic tin for himself.

‘Midsummer Peach’, the label reads. A simple decaffeinated China black with peach aromatics—how fitting. Once it gets warmer, Harry will make a large pot and set it to cool with ice, maybe adding in spoonfuls of honey and slivering yellow peaches that will drown and sit along the bottom for a later treat.

Now, as the kettle rumbles to a boil, he keeps it hot in a white mug with a heart-shaped handle and a pastel rainbow printed on the front. In goes a twist of lemon, pre-cut from the crisper drawer, and a spoonful of honey. What an honest personification, Louis thinks.

Of course, Louis’ cuppa is already complete with its splash of milk. He uncharacteristically lets it sit while he watches Harry fix his own drink, then go to the freezer for something sweet.

“Oh, did you—Lou,” and Harry pouts. He’s holding a personalized carton of limoncello sorbet, although the carton itself is only a plain white cardboard. Non-descript enough for him to just know. “When did you go and get this?”

“Yesterday, on m’way home,” and he shrugs, no big deal. Not at all gleeful that Harry’s happy to have found it.

Harry keeps on pouting as he fetches himself a spoon. Says softly, “Y’didn’t have to… that shop’s all the way on the other side of the city…”

I know, and traffic was a bitch to get through, but I’d do it for you every and any day you wanted it.

Instead: “S’no big deal, honest; I was already over that way, H.”

In reality he was at the studio all day and the studio is closer to the flat in the opposite direction, but he still buggered off through shitty evening traffic because on his way home, he remembered Harry mentioning that the small shop had already started releasing its summertime collection, and his favorite was already batched and ready for ordering.

“You spoil me,” Harry says with a sigh, shaking his head fondly. He removes the lid and wiggles his fingers excitedly, tongue tucked between his teeth. “Seriously, whoever you shack up with,” then making one gentle glide of the spoon over the crystallized top of the sorbet, and rolling up a nice spoonful of pale yellow, “isn’t going to know what hit ‘em. Makes me jealous already.”

“Bit premature to get jealous,” and misguided, “besides, s’not gonna stop me from treating you, Harold.”

Louis takes an offered spoonful even though it’s not his favorite flavor. Harry is delighted he takes it though, grinning and offering another, even as Louis shakes his head, no, thank you, darling. With a shrug, Harry indulges in the heaping bite himself, his eyes fluttering in pleasure as he sucks the citrusy sorbet clean off the spoon.

“Shouldn’t do that; you’ll make ‘em jealous,” he notes, a cheekful making his words muffle and slump together.

What, you’ll be jealous of yourself?

Louis shrugs and takes hold of his mug. “I’m sure they’ll understand,” he assures, blowing the steam away; as if his tongue’s not already scarred over from taking too many premature sips.

Harry leans back against the counter and hums a thoughtful note. “Maybe,” he muses it over, drawing out the ‘a’ sound, “I guess I’m projecting. I wouldn’t like it, if I were them. I can be a very jealous and possessive lover, you know.”

He says it with almost too much seriousness, Louis thinks it may be a joke. Harry’s a little drama queen, can be a bit of a diva if he so wishes. He’s already so charming, though, it doesn't take much of the theatrics to get him his way, if he hasn’t already had it. But this possessiveness he speaks of? Louis’ not seen it firsthand.

Asks, “Really? You, jealous and possessive?” and makes sure Harry can tell he’s not being sarcastic by raising his brows and tipping forehead slightly, sipping off his cuppa.

Harry nods solemnly. “Oh yeah, definitely. Not in a, like, overbearing way, like those people that don’t even want their partners to look at other people, but I get this like… sixth sense, I guess, if I think someone’s being too cheeky or flirty with the person I’m with. And I know,” giggling a little, chastising himself, “I know it’s silly, to want to make a show of, like, ‘this person is mine and y’better get on your way, mate’, but I can’t always help it!”

Hearing this, Louis can’t, he can’t say he’s really witnessed that before? Harry’s dated people on and off over the years they’ve known each other, none of the relationships lasting particularly long. Seeing as he's been dragged along—at Harry’s insistence—to clubs and bars and whatever other social gatherings Harry’s privy to given the field he works in, even with his partner at the time also present, he's never seen Harry get particularly defensive or possessive. If anyone was acting inappropriately, it was him, wanting to shove aside the arm draped around Harry's shoulders or the hand resting low on his back, cradling his hip, and replace it with his own touch.

Although, logically, perhaps he’s just not been there when Harry's supposed 'possessive' behavior as reared its head; can’t say something doesn't exist just because he hasn’t seen it firsthand.

“At least you’re aware of it,” he supplies, quite unhelpfully.

“Mm, I try to be; acting on it is what I have the issue with,” and Harry shrugs, seemingly unbothered now. “Can’t always help m’self. I get all...” waving his spoon about, “territorial? Like even if ‘m not doing something drastic like climbing my person like a tree in front of everyone, I definitely do that, y’know,” two fingers pointed to his eyes, then to Louis, all serious-like, “intense glare-thing. Niall says I've done it a lot, apparently; calls it my 'creepy love stare'.” Chuckling, "And Mitch said the same thing when I asked 'im—said I look genuinely scary doing it, sometimes."

Louis gulps a bit uneasily, as he too has had a similar accusation from Niall, although his proposed 'creepy love stare' has been directed at whoever's cozied up with Harry. And he has, actually, seen that look on Harry's face a few times, but it’s never seemingly been directed around people demanding of his boyfriend or event date’s attention. Has mostly witnessed it in passing, like he'll turn his head and Harry’s glaring proper daggers, like thunder and hellfire level, at someone near to him. He can snap out of it oddly quick, too—his attention will get diverted or he'll catch sight of Louis, maybe even another friend, he's right back to his cheery party-host self.

(There's a bit of a reason why everyone they know together has said Harry is the scariest person to see angry, because it takes a lot for him to be angry. Louis' always had more the propensity to snap if limits were pushed after a clear warning, but he's had to deal with enough bullshit in both his personal and professional life already that he figures his tolerance for shitty behavior is just gone, now. And understandably so.

But the last time he even thinks he saw Harry properly angry was years back, now; remembers it was out in WeHo while he was interning at some American studio for the summer, and Harry came out to visit him with the rest of their little uni group for a week. A group of slightly older alpha men and women, wannabe socialites who'd bought their way into VIP at the club Louis and the rest of them had endcapped their night at, were heckling the rest of them for some unknown reason as they walked back to their hotel and Harry had just snapped. Nearly had Niall jumping into Zayn's arms at the first enraged oi! he'd echoed out across the empty street.

And Louis' still got the photo Liam snapped of Harry laying into this one woman in particular who'd been making passes at him all night—even when Harry had made it abundantly clear he was not interested, thank you, and had even tugged Louis closer to him while dancing in the club so she'd take the hint. Was gesturing with a flat hand directed at her, jaw clenched, still carrying a shopping bag from earlier in the day.)

“Okay, yeah, seen that; it is a bit menacing.” He wants ice cream too, now, thanks to watching Harry indulging cheerily in his personal limoncello container. He’s about to move for the freezer when Harry sets his sorbet down and opens the door, plucks out Louis’ personal mint chip, and passes it wordlessly over his shoulder. “Oh, thanks,” blinking in surprise as he takes it.

Harry pops himself up onto the counter and gets back to his limoncello. “Was rude of me, stuffing my face when I didn’t even ask you if you wanted anything,” and he gives a pointed look when Louis goes to protest—speaking of death glares—so Louis just makes a show of zipping his lip and eating his ice cream.

The conversation tapers off after that. Louis settles on the countertop perpendicular to Harry’s and digs into his own dessert, although his container is already half-finished. Harry eventually puts his sorbet down and burps behind his fist, primly wiping his mouth after and putting his container away for later. His spoon then gets slipped into the dishwasher and he hops up right beside Louis so their thighs are touching. Even through Harry's sleep pants and Louis' joggers, Harry's warmth is palpable.

“You look like you want to say something,” Harry starts. His feet kick gently against the lower cabinet doors. “Well, let’s hear it," bumping Louis' shoulder, "I know there's something you want to talk about."

Louis lets the dark chocolate chip on his tongue melt away before he favors answering. It’s not like there really is a better way to deal with this than to ask than directly; he’ll just figure out what else to do once Harry gives his answer. Best to get it over with.

He mumbles, “M’rut’s coming soon,” while still pickinf at his ice cream, excavating a large chip from a mountain of minty green in favor of meeting Harry’s gaze. “And, y’know, me an’ Robbie aren’t, ehm, meeting up for that anymore…”

Stiffly, “Mm. That I do.”

“‘m not asking you to help me with it, if that’s what you’re worried about,” Louis adds quickly, not liking Harry’s shift in tone just now, “I just… I don’t really want to be at the hotel, by me’self. Won’t do me any good if ‘ve got no one else with me.”

Nudging their knees together, “What’re you asking me then?”

Always wants it to the point, he does. Bullshit doesn't slip past Harry often. Louis takes a breath in an attempt to keep his voice level, but when he peers up from his ice cream, trying to be an adult and actually look Harry in the eyes, Harry is already staring so intently at him, that he accidentally swallows down his first words.

“Can I,” but he clears his throat, “I mean—would it be alright with you, if I stayed here?”

For a good thirty seconds, Harry says nothing. Understandable, given what he has to consider. He stays watching Louis intently, emerald eyes flitting around his face as though studying him, like he doesn’t quite recognize him, but then—

“D’you want me to leave, then?” And suddenly Harry’s voice is small, unsure. His brows start to curve up slightly, and he turns his head. Scratches the side of his nose and rubs his lips together a few times—nervous habit. “Because I can, I’ll leave, if you want me to. So you can be here, and, like, feel safe and that—”

“H,” he says it too sharply, because Harry stops abruptly, eyes bugged like he's been scolded, and Louis—he can’t have that. Softens immediately with a, “Darling,” and takes Harry’s hand to squeeze it gently over his knee. He waits until Harry squeezes back to continue. “I only want you to leave if that’s what you’d feel better doing. And if you do want to leave, I’ve, ehm, you can stay at the hotel, and I’ll pay for the room f’you, if you’d rather do that. Or! Or stay with friends, go see your mum? ‘M sure—”

Harry shakes his head quickly. “No, uhm, that’s… that’s okay,” wetting his lips, “thank you, though, for offering. But I can, I can stay here. With you.”

“Harry…”

So earnestly it makes Louis’ chest ache, “Come on, Lou; I don’t want you all by yourself, even if you’re here. At home. I’ll, I'll stay here with you, make sure you’re eating and all that, and if you want anything for,” his cheeks stain slightly, cream to strawberry filling in the blank, “like, anything like that, y’can borrow whatever you’d like.” He shrugs, moving their hands slightly, but not breaking hold. “If, if of course, you want to.”

Louis can’t really believe what he’s hearing.

“Are, are you sure? ‘Cause I know ‘m asking a lot without much notice and I don’t want you to feel, like, pressured to say yes—”

Harry cups a warm palm over his mouth before he can finish and chuckles. “I’m sure, Louis. Positive.” His hand is removed before Louis can do something childish like lick it. “We’ll make it work, yeah? I’ve got neutralizers I can put in the wall plug-ins and, and we’ll put towels under your door! Plus, I can work at that cute little coffee shop down the street, or go into the office,” which he doesn’t even like doing, and why he tends to work from home more often than not, “and when I come check on you, I’ll just leave some stuff outside the door, come back for it when you’re done.”

“Like ‘ve got the flu, or something.”

Nodding, “Like you’ve got the flu.” He brings their clasped hands up and presses his lips to the back of Louis’—not quite a kiss, but tenderly affectionate nonetheless. “We’ll make it work, alright?”

The way Harry looks into his eyes, and the way he sounds so sure, well—

Louis can’t do anything but believe him.

♡

Louis’ rut hits four days later, actually, starting painfully early in the morning the following Monday, and ends three days after that, making it week since their conversation in the kitchen.

It’s a relief he’s out of it as quickly as he is, seeing as when he was younger and by himself for the course of it, it always took about five days for it to finish, and the sixth day he was left a tender and touch-starved mess. Wrung out, bruised like a peach, all he’d want is to scrub himself clean and find his mum, curl up into her side and breathe in her calming floral scent while she pet through his hair, made him her little baby again for a few hours.

This time, though, he’s mostly sore and tired. Only in a vaguely clingy state. Because, he went to Harry at the very last minute—literally called to him from his bed at four in the morning, shucking off his t-shirt and sleep shorts as he repeated his name frantically over and over, a mantra of HarryHarryHarry until Harry stumbled into his doorway barely awake, dressed only in bedhead and a dressing gown—and pathetically asked to borrow some blankets and any spare pillows, which Harry kindly and quickly delivered.

Louis still has these borrowed objects in his room, having yet to have cleared out his ‘nest’—because it’s not really a nest, not a proper one so carefully and meticulously constructed like that omegas will create for their own heats or pregnancies; for birthing depending on the person—which is really just his unmade bed complete with extra blankets, favorite articles of old clothing gone soft with wear, his soiled rut sheets, and throw pillows from Harry’s bed covered in mismatching pillow cases for protection, because it’s so comforting, still, to pick up Harry’s summertime scent clinging to these things in his own room.

Really, he’s not ready to deconstruct his rut space. Yet. Although he needs to, because he can’t keep all of Harry’s things hostage and smelling overly musky, smoky-sweet with his arousal and sweat and other bodily fluids.

There’s one particular item he really doesn’t want to return, and that’s Harry’s favorite blanket. Extra emphasis on the ‘favorite’.

It’s made of micro-fleece or bamboo fiber or something like that, something hypoallergenic and soft meant for babies. The section of which it had been discovered was the baby section in a Marks and Spencer, after all; Louis had even been the one to purchase it for him, and on complete whim.

He’d bought it years ago now, just because it was so Harry. So distinctly Harry that it had him running back inside the shop to buy it for him, while his mum and littlest siblings, only months old back then, patiently waited outside for him. And his lovely mother, bless her soul, had commented that darling, it’s very sweet, but we’ve got more than enough blankets for the babies, when he’d returned to her, huffing and puffing and with the thing tucked aas us under his arm rather than bagged or gift wrapped.

No, no, Mum, s’for, s’for Harry! I mean, look at it—perfect, isn’t it?

She’d laughed and called herself silly for being presumptuous. Oh, that’s so sweet of you, Boo! He’ll just love it, m’sure of it.

Impossibly soft and a pure snowfall white, both sides are printed with pastel blue clouds and baby pink love hearts, yellow stars and little pastel rainbows. Harry has always treated it so carefully despite using it so often, one might think it was recently purchased instead of being something gifted when Harry was still living in the uni halls and working towards a law degree.

Still, Louis doesn’t misunderstand the gesture of having it lent to him. He has it now because Harry cares that much about his comfort. Nothing more or less. And honestly?

Louis feels more guilty for having asked to borrow things in the first place than he does holding onto them longer than he should. Harry likely believes his scent would be comforting, able to grant Louis some peace to help him get through his rut feeling safe and surrounded by home rather than with the intention Louis definitely had when he'd asked; when he was slipping quickly into a headspace driven by the basal instinct and need determined by his inner alpha.

Meant to be an innocent reminder of comfort nosed into for calming frayed nerves, not held to Louis’ nose while he fought a persistent toothache in the roots of his molars and fucked slick into his fist, spilling over his belly and hips and fingers instead of a warm, eager body—that was preferably, in his mind's eye, Harry's.

At least things seem normal when he comes out of it. Harry even tells him, with a laugh, it was good they found a place where noise canceling insulation was preinstalled flat-to-flat, because the most he heard when he was home were some nondescript groans and grunts he couldn’t quite make a shape out of. Louis is more than grateful of that; knows he's a talker in and out of rut who can't help the litany of unfiltered filth he spills to spur himself on.

They even had a proper cuddle on the sofa that first day out. Harry was the one who offered, and Louis simply couldn't say no. For a few hours he lay over atop Harry, his nose buried deep in his neck, replacing his oxygen intake with golden stone fruit dipped in clover honey and spiked with cinnamon, clove. Winter spices. All the while, Harry actually purred under him and pet down his back, his sides, nosed into his mating strip in turn. Once Louis had been sated enough to let him be, albeit reluctantly, Harry was a giggly, loopy mess who persistently wanted to return to the favor.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Louis had asked, unsure amusement in his tone even as he bared his neck for scenting, made room for Harry to sit in his lap. “I don’t, like, I don’t smell too much, do I?”

Clamoring onto him, pleased as punch, all Harry said was, “You smell good,” before clinging to him like an overgrown Koala for over an hour.

But it’s—it’s good, now. So very normal. Going as planned.

Like: they’re trying to finish mixing this one album, are halfway writing another, and because he’d rather be there when they rent the recording space out to other artists just to keep an eye on things, Louis spends most of his working days in the studio. His primary title is one of owner and CEO, sure, but he's been a dabbler since day one in songwriting, mixing, some lightweight artist management. Likes to keep himself busy, be the boss, better others' experiences after having his own soiled early on on. 'Studio' quickly became a more casual term for the mini empire he's been happily running with a carefully hand-picked crew for five years now.

(Harry calls him a wunderkind, loves to brag about him at work. Has name-dropped the label, studio, Louis himself multiple times when it comes to pieces he gets to write on the music scene. Louis ties his hardest to think of it simply as Harry being a good friend offering good PR more than he does Harry being legitimately proud of him, because it'll go right to his head, to his heart.)

But once the one album is released and the other has moved into the active recording stage and some of his touring artists are back at home base, he can cool it with the early mornings and late nights spent locked away on the recording floor, and loosen up a little bit.

Plus, Niall has been less annoying about the whole Harry Situation since Louis returned to work post-rut, even if he’s been making weird faces and ducking quickly out of the room every time Louis gets too close to him since then, but he’s not about to ask what’s wrong this time.

Really, it’s been all of their longtime uni friends—Niall, who works with-slash-under Louis at the studio; Zayn, who’s since started hanging around the studio more to do custom murals in the upstairs offices; and Liam, with his thumb in too many pies to keep track of these days, but who ducks in and out of the studio he has his own set up there—who’ve been acting weird around him lately.

Well. It at least starts with them, and quickly extends to Oli, Louis’ childhood best friend who mans the front desk and acts as his assistant of sorts, then more of their sound techs and engineers, songwriters, PR consultants—really anyone he sees on a daily basis.

No one will tell him why, but Louis figures his scent just might be off from his passing rut. It at least makes sense that would be the case.

But things with Harry, who holds some sort of high-tier chameleon title at the pop culture mogul, empire, whatever he works as a writer-editor-overseer at—Louis has spent the last few years since he landed the job consistently, vaguely confused as to what Harry’s specific department is and what role he plays in the company’s hierarchy, but at this point it’s clear not even Harry knows anymore—seem to be fine as well. Harry maintains the freedom to work wherever he likes as long as he keeps up on his emails and pops into the London office for their big biweekly meetings, carries on keeping his life meticulously balanced in any and all facets, as far as Louis is aware.

Honestly, he seems—content. Happy, and genuinely so. The last two years especially. Louis can’t help admiring him for all he’s changed and accomplished for the sake of his own happiness. Still remembers Harry curled protectively into his side as he had a sobbing breakdown over the phone to his poor confused mum about desperately wanting to change his major and leave his internship, quit his awful stocking job at Tesco, like it was yesterday, not eight years ago.

But regardless of how busy or non-busy they are, it’s all routine. As it was.

Their days off are spent just the same: lazing at home or out running errands, window shopping, strolling the city and nearby parks when the weather allows it. Almost always end-capping with a joint to share in the evening after brekkie for dinner or a guilty pleasure takeaway, often times also curled up together in a nest of pillows on the floor or spooned-up on the sofa, the telly playing whatever as they eventually drift off.

And Louis is making plans to take Harry to Italy again, this summer. They’ve gone the past two years and had the best time working their way North to South, bouncing around the major cities and coastlines to indulge in sunbathing and shopping, sightseeing and stuffing themselves stupid on a litany of rich cultural cuisines, all before autumn starts to settle in and they jet off back home to dreary England with the Italian sunshine still baked into their skin.

He’s thinking late July again this year, three weeks down in the Mediterranean. More routine in a way, but a good kind. The kind to look forward to.

But being so focused on getting back to Real Life post-rut as swell as reveling in the lack of fallout having spent his alone, both at home and with Harry there the whole time, Louis doesn’t quite notice it when things start to, well, change.

The first change is one he wouldn’t so much call a disrupt in normalcy as much as a simple progression of events, and comes in Harry’s clinginess.

Of course Harry’s always been a clingy little thing, a golden retriever or great dane that sees himself a lap dog, not just towards Louis, but his penchant for casual scenting—which previously only formally occurred between them to ease stress, calm nerves—has joined forces with his profound love for cuddling, and both have had a serious uptick.

Now, when Louis returns home, he barely gets to take off his shoes and drop his bag, maybe shed his jacket depending on the weather, before he’s pulled into a clinging hug where Harry immediately buries into his neck and refuses to let him go. This has since lead Louis to hoisting him up, supporting him under his thighs, and carrying him around their flat until he’s sated, which can take anywhere between five to twenty minutes.

If his arms get too tired, Harry is set on the counter or on his lap on the sofa, an armchair, until he naturally pulls away and goes back to whatever he was doing before, albeit a bit dopier and loose-limbed than before. And if Harry’s in the middle of fixing them dinner or meal-prepping his lunches for the week when Louis returns to him? Well, he insists Louis just join him in the kitchen instead, and spoon him from behind whenever he’s stationary for more than a minute at a time.

His reasoning in this is: “Like having you around, that’s all.”

Louis—he’s not complaining one bit. Figures it’s just the leftover pheromones, or even Harry getting close to his own heat. Whatever the reason, it’s not a development he dislikes, nor is growing tired of. In realizing how much Harry is directly on him though, it quickly starts to make sense why everyone he sees at the studio is suddenly keeping some kind of wide berth—right? Because he smells so strongly of someone else, even if it is only Harry and the reasoning is entirely innocent, such a swift change must take some getting used to for them. Especially if he hasn't said anything about it.

But as one week post-rut slowly nears two, a second change is realized, and that is: things in the flat go missing.

Louis has since deconstructed his rut space and given Harry the sheets, blankets, pillowcases for a good wash and aired out the bare pillows on the balcony for extra measure, but—of the things given that are his, they haven’t come back.

At first he cards through his room to see if Harry kindly put his clean washing away for him, but he can find nothing where either Harry would put it, or he himself would put it. Next he searches the glorified hall closet they call a laundry room, peering in and under and around the units, as well as in the empty laundry baskets, but still, he finds nothing. The hall closet that hosts their towels and spare bedding also holds no answers for him, and he quickly goes from casually confused to genuinely concerned.

He returns to the flat early one afternoon with the sole intention of finding everything he's missing, but after a few hours double checking every available place but Harry’s bedroom—as he’s not about to go snooping and invade Harry’s privacy—he comes up fruitless once more. So when Harry texts him telling him that he’ll be back soon, having supposedly gone out to brunch with his sister, Louis immediately parks it on their sofa, ready to ask him where his things are. In turn, he feels very much like someone waiting for their cheating spouse to return home, to finally confront them on the subject of their dalliances, but he quickly kicks that feeling away.

See, Louis doesn’t want to fight or be confrontational, nothing like that, but he does want answers, and he does want his things back, wherever they may be. If only just for peace of mind that everything is where it's supposed to be incase he needs it. Can’t even imagine what Harry did with it all, unless he’s just forgotten it all in his bedroom because his own washing was mixed in, and giving everything back has just continually slipped his mind.

He’s not left waiting long, though, as Harry returns home within ten minutes of his text. At the sound of the front door unlocking and creaking open, Louis rises to meet him in the front hallway, standing straight and strong and determined, knowing if he lets things linger, nothing will be done and it'll be his own fault. He opens his mouth, ready to jump right into it, but when he sees Harry standing there on the front mat, he looks—well. Louis just swallows his words.

While he half-expected to find Harry in his go-to casual look: torn-up baggy jeans, a printed tee of some kind and Vans, perhaps some vintage Adidas he's recently taken to, instead Harry’s in his black Vans and these flocked cotton, pale pink sweatpants, a cartoon bunny rabbit on his hip and the cinched bottoms tucked into the tops of white crew socks. His tee is tight and thin over his torso, tucked into his bottoms and covered with baby animals illustrated in a vintage styling. Tortoise shell sunnies sit low on his nose and his fringe is, once again, pinned back by a claw clip, but today he’s clean shaven, no scruff to be found. Loses five, six years like that, baby-faced and new.

“Hey,” he eventually manages to choke out.

Funny how Harry in sweatpants and a fitted tee can knock him on his arse just as quick as he can in an open blouse and fitted flare trousers, tiny shorts and a crop top. A gown that travels to his ankles or cuts high on his thighs. Just like the skinnies, Chelsea boots, plain tees that slowly became lace and mesh, heavily patterned and half open, did.

Funny how it’s just—anything Harry. Louis is such a fucking sucker, isn't he? So fucking whipped for this man. Absolutely doomed.

Harry smiles. “Hiii,” in turn, as he removes his sunnies, sets them with his keys on the little table next to the front door. His tote goes over one of the coat hooks and the zip hoodie that he’s got draped over one arm, seemingly matching his sweatpants, joins it. His shoes go off and onto the provided rack, and, “Wow,” blinking in surprise, “you’re back quite early.”

“Yeah, ehm, not a lot f’me to do today.” Shrugs, scratches the back of his neck. "Not a bad thing, is it? You've not got plans here, do you?"

Shaking his head, "Nah, 'm just waiting for Stace to give my piece a seal of approval so we can move it to publication."

And Harry—moves right past him. Doesn't even brush up against him as he makes his way to the kitchen.

“Hey, H?”

And Harry’s detour to the kitchen is cut short.

“Yeah?”

“D’you know where all the washing is? From my rut, I mean. I can’t find it anywhere.”

Harry is sidestepping back to him when he immediately pauses, mouths a clear oh. Hands go to right his hips and he’s looking down at the floor, their socked feet. Louis can see he’s blanched. That his green eyes are wide, and that he must have his bottom lip tucked under his teeth. Like he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t.

“Ehm, Haz?”

“Hm?” He peers up and blinks, once, then seems to shake himself. Clearing his throat, “Oh, sorry, yeah! Yeah, it’s in m’room, been living out of the baskets since I did the washing.” Then, rubbing the back of his neck, “None of your stuff’s folded, though,” confessed apologetically.

Louis frowns. He doesn’t have to do that; it’s not his job to. It’s one thing to take on chores because he prefers doing them, or because he doesn’t like how or how often Louis does them, but to take it on like his responsibility alone—that’s not fair.

“Well, it’s not like that’s your job, babes,” and he reaches out to rub Harry’s arms, feeling the ridges of goose pimples sprinkling up over his inked skin. “How about you just bring it all out and I’ll fold it up now, get it out of your way? One less thing to worry about.”

Only Harry blanches again.

Somewhat strained, he asks, “Can I, uhm, can I do it in the morning? I just—like I said, I’ve been living out of the baskets and it’s all a bit disorganized.”

Louis quirks a brow. “Y’think that’s going to bother me?”

As if he hasn’t had to detangle Harry’s lace knickers from his own underwear before. Or they haven’t waited until the last minute to do a mass load of laundry and left everything sorted around their flat for days after.

Harry shows him a pleading look. “Please? Lemme sort it a bit first, then I’ll bring it out. It’s all a big mess right now.”

If it means that much to him—

“Okay,” Louis drags the word out, his brow quirked to show his uncertainty; not worth the argument, though. “If you insist.”

It seems to placate Harry enough, as the conversation ends there and Harry leaves to the kitchen to do—something. Hearing him dig through the refrigerator and cupboards tells Louis its building a list for grocery shopping.

Out of the ordinary for their new normal is the immediate lack of Koala Harry, but that returns that evening after dinner—a summer salad that Louis helped Harry prepare, which can be clearly seen by the shoddy slicing job done to the lettuce and greens within. They’re cleaning up what little leftover mess there is—such proper adults, they are—and Harry crowds up behind him while he’s drying a cutting board. Noses right into the back of his neck, holds him around the middle.

“Comfy back there?” Louis asks, not pausing his drying.

He’s concentrating very hard on not dropping the cutting board. Or allowing himself to tense as Harry’s pointed nose traces so gently up the back of his neck, then back down to the top of his shirt collar. But it’s a losing game when Harry chuffs and moves to the crook of neck and shoulder, resting there.

“Very,” Harry replies, gritty and low. Contented. “Y’smell good.”

And maybe they’re talking about this now, because they definitely haven’t been talking about it since the post-rut scenting meant to sooth became the norm for their casual, albeit not entirely common, scenting, that now had Harry buried in his neck at least once a day.

Says, “Been smelling really good lately, apparently.”

Harry sighs a thoughtful note and readjusts his hold around Louis’ waist as he moves to set the dried cutting board on the countertop rack. It’d be easier—or at least, more comfortable—to do this sitting down, and maybe without the distraction of body heat, spiced peaches and fresh laundry thick in his nose.

“You always smell good,” following it with a little snort, like it’s so obvious; how could Louis not know? “Always have.”

And Harry told him before, a long time ago, but he’s curious to ask again: “What do I smell like to you?”

There’s another thoughtful hum, this time closer to his ear. Harry noses in behind it and stays there, tickling with his breath as he replies, somewhat dreamily, “Sweet, but not too sweet; not like confectionaries, but like how, uhm, wood? Can be sweet? If that makes sense. And sort of smokey, but not from your cigs. It’s… hard to describe. You just… it's just you. Clean. A little sweet, a little smokey.” He feels Harry shrug behind him. “That doesn’t help much, does it?”

Louis can’t help giving a little chuckle. “Not entirely, no, but I do like ‘clean’.”

“Good! Really I’d say you’re… well balanced,” with a nod. Maybe another sniff. “And even when you’re all sweaty, like when you come back from footie, or been to the gym and come back right after—it’s not bad. It’s a bit thicker, like muskier, but it’s still very much you.” A pause, a drop in tone. “Oh, that’s a bit weird to say, isn’t it…” and Harry wilts slightly.

Louis tries not to take it to heart, that Harry thinks he smells so nice. That even when he’s covered in mud and grass, drenched through his clothes with sweat and worked off any antiperspirant, he doesn't go rancid or the wrong kind of earthy—onions, salt. That Harry might still plaster to him and breathe deep, content.

“No! Not at all, darling,” said a little too quickly, a little too strained, control yourself. “It’s… it’s a lovely compliment. High form. I dunno if everyone’ll agree with you that me being all sweaty is 'good', but it’s... it's really nice hearing you like me smell so much.”

He feels Harry straighten back up behind him, and then his chin lands on his shoulder. So much more present now that he can see his face if he turns his head ever so slightly. 

Of course Harry asks him in turn: “What about me? What do I smell like to you?”

And Louis could lie to him. Could give him something vague and noncommittal, using easy adjectives like ‘nice’ and ‘good’ that wouldn’t answer the question, or give himself away. But that wouldn’t be fair in response to the honesty he’s just received now, would it?

No—he can’t lie to Harry. Not about this, when he barely needs a whiff to scent him out anymore, micro-dosing every chance he gets. Not when Harry clings to him and he steals inhales along his neck. Not when he closes his eyes and pictures ripe yellow peaches clutched between tangerine-painted fingers that drip sunny rivulets down golden skin; honey smeared sticky on berry lips that would kiss him hot and sharp, fired cinnamon.

There is no option but honesty, and Louis digs his own grave.

“Ehm, peaches, mostly. But not that fake shite, y’know, ‘peach-scented’ or whatever, I mean, like, real peaches. When you put your nose up to the notch and sniff it, make sure it’s ripe—just like that, only a lot stronger.”

Harry’s hold goes tighter around him. “Peaches?”

“And, uhm, cinnamon. Or spices, at least. The wintery sorts.” Louis’ hands, having rested at his sides since putting away the board, clench at the damp towel he’s hung over the sink. “I don’t know if honey has a smell, like a strong one, but that, too, maybe. At least I think it’s honey. It’s definitely sweet, sugary—but like you said ‘bout me, and not in a candy sort of way—and warm, so. Honey.” He laughs a little but doesn’t know why. Just lets it slip out to say, “It’s like summertime. You’re like summertime. And I know it makes no bloody sense but, you… you are. And I really like it."

Harry says nothing. Is so quiet behind him. He’s still resting his chin on his shoulder and holding him around his middle, yes, but his breaths come so quietly, Louis has to lean back slightly to make sure Harry is actually still there with him, and he doesn’t know what to say to get Harry to speak; can’t make a joke of it lest he bruise his own ego, hurt his own feelings, or even Harry’s.

All that honesty and he’s run out of steam. Bared his mushy center and closed right back up again.

So—they stand silent together at their kitchen sink, and Louis watches the sky outside their window as a dreamy periwinkle overtakes the wispy mint and burning coral cast by the setting sun, the lavender clouds pulled across the gradient like candy floss.

What feels like an hour but likely only a minute passes, and Harry goes heavy against him. Holds on like he’ll be swept out to sea lest he loosen his grip. Louis frees one hand from his towel lifeline and cups his damp hand over Harry’s at his waist. He thumbs over his knuckles and the rings he knows by shape alone—his initials, H and S, a little pearl, the nesting bird.

It causes Harry to turn into his neck and whisper, “I think that sounds really lovely.”

To Louis’ ears his voice is raw, as if the words were scraped out of his chest, harvesting honeycomb from the carved hollow of a tree. There’s a wet end to it, love-ly, but it must be due to his closeness, the depth of his whispering instead of an actual wetness caused by something like, tears in his eyes, or emotion slipping through the cracks.

But Louis doesn’t turn to find out. He only swipes his thumb up and down Harry’s knuckles and says, “Thank you.”

♡

He doesn’t get much sleep.

After their conversation in the kitchen, Harry went for a shower, then straight to bed. Something about the swift lack of contact felt off, made him feel guilty, and Louis felt too restless to stay home in the lingering silence. Took an off-chance invitation to join some friends for a night out as divine intervention, and left without telling Harry where he was going or when he’d be home.

He didn’t even know the name of the club his friends were at—was inside within a moment of arriving via ride share, and ushered in by Luke to join him and the rest of their crowd in the back booth they‘d claimed. Let what had to be a few hours pass in a blur of strobe lights, liquor, and pounding EDM.

He drank vodka straight from an offered bottle and chased down the burn with a Stella. Dancing in the booth as more people trailed out to the dance floor quickly became a bore and Louis dove into the sea of moving bodies, trailing after Oli and Calvin and the girls—betas, he’d surmised—they’d brought along. He stayed there, sweating through his clothes and stealing burning nips off a passed-around bottle of something bright-colored and chemically fruity, until all the hyper-concentrated scents and booming bass became a headache. He’d pushed through the crowd with the shouted excuse of a smoke to sit on the grimy curb just a few paces away from the entrance until Oli joined not long after, lit another ciggie up for him without needing to ask.

When a car pulled up not five minutes later and Oli hauled him to stand, told him to, “Go home, Lou,” with a sympathetic pat to the shoulder, Louis obeyed without protest.

There were no lights left on in the flat when he returned. He’d only been gone maybe two hours, but night fell quickly in his absence. He stumbled his way back in and immediately found Harry’s door closed. Wanted to knock and do—something, but couldn’t bring himself to. Not when he could smell sugared peaches sharpened with a bright pang of citrus, knowing full well not to interrupt when Harry was expelling sour notes.

But now, the next morning, Louis finds his clothes folded nicely in a basket outside of his bedroom door. So groggy, he nearly trips over it, but catches himself at the last minute, rubbing at his tired eyes and bemoaning a headache from drinking and tossing and turning restless most of the night.

Sizzling and singsong humming quickly trails down the hallway from the kitchen, and the smell of frying bacon is too tempting to resist his growling stomach and apprehension at seeing Harry already.

He doesn’t think he’d upset Harry the night before, but he also doesn’t know what happened between them at all. Harry said nothing more after his comment, that sounds lovely; he’d only loosened his grip around Louis’ waist, trailed one hand over Louis’ as he pulled away, and left without another word. Only had the shower head rumbling to life as an indicator of where he’d gone, and his light was already off when Louis had left for his impromptu club visit.

Louis is just—he’s confused. Perhaps a little tender at bearing his heart so unabashedly. Also—he told Harry he didn’t need to fold his laundry for him, and now he’s getting tetchy because he’s tired, his head hurts, and feels a little hysterical from being so out of control of his emotions. He feels like a frustrated, hormonal teenager more than he does a fucking thirty year old adult and he doesn't like it.

He’s about to go and remind Harry he didn’t need to fold his laundry up, only because it might make him feel better to be a bit snippy—although he doesn’t want to risk actually upsetting Harry now, if he’s not upset already—but as he crosses the threshold into the kitchen, all big open window and dark countertops, he finds that Harry’s gone and fixed him breakfast, if the plate and cuppa all ready set at the counter is actually for him.

Quietly coming closer, he finds that dressing the plate are three rashers, two fried eggs, buttered sourdough, a side of his favorite beans. There’s steaming coffee in the porcelain mug—a white rose motif and his ‘28 Programme’ logo stamped beside it on black lacquer. So—it is for him. And Harry isn’t upset. Or he’s leading Louis into a false sense of security, because he’s cunning like that.

All he can stupidly think to say is, “Oh,” then, with his throat dry and scratchy, “thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” Harry says from the stove, his tone light and easy. “Figured you’d need something good and solid in you after last night.” He peers over his shoulder then, one brow crooked knowingly. “I heard you leave.” A beat, tilt of his head. “And come back.”

Louis immediately grimaces. “I didn’t wake you, did I?”

“Nah,” shaking his head, “really, I was just laying there in bed in the dark.” Louis cautiously nears the countertop and just as goes to take his brekkie, Harry adds, “I’m sorry I just left like that, last night.”

“Oh, it’s, it’s not a problem. I mean…”

In a rush, “I really... I didn’t know what else to say to you,” bisecting Louis’ disconnected train of thought. “I, I got a little overwhelmed, to be honest.” Louis turns to see Harry, who’s been whisking what looks like eggs in a glass mixing bowl, pause his stirring. Bites down on his plump bottom lip. “It took me a bit off guard.”

Another pang of guilt strikes.

“Christ, ‘m really sorry, H, I didn’t mean to make you feel weird, or uncomfortable. Anything like that.”

“Weird?” Harry turns to shoot him a curious look, gives an incredulous little laugh. “You didn’t… I don’t feel weird about it, Lou. Or uncomfortable. I just—it was very honest of you, and I wasn’t expecting it.”

Oh. “So… you’re not cross with me, or anything.” It’s not as much a question as it is a self-reassurance.

Harry shakes his head and bumps his hip playfully. “No, nothing like that. I really meant what I said last night—that it was lovely. A really lovely thing to say.”

“Oh, that’s,” clearing his throat, trying not to turn pink, “good. ‘m glad. Was just, ehm, just being honest with you.”

Harry grins at him, mutters something about Louis being cheeky with an amused shake of his head before returning to wish. Louis feels the relief wash through his body in a wave, head to toes, and tries to not let it get the better of him.

♡

He quickly learns that the washing Harry so kindly folded and delivered back to him smells strangely more like Harry than it does their washing powder. It’s not so many wearables as it is sheets, but they still smell as though Harry’s rolled around in them. Smell more like crisp peach and spice than clean linens.

It’s not that it bothers him—really it does the opposite, because Louis strips his bed and puts the cleaned sheets back on to revel in Harry’s summery perfume, a dog taking to a patch of grass—but to his recollection, this sort of thing hasn’t happened before, and it immediately causes an increase in weird looks at the studio, spreading from the usual suspects to the less scent-adept betas and random guests that don’t even know Louis well enough to really know his scent, and that starts to bother him.

Especially when, as he’s mindlessly checking his emails in his office one morning, Niall pops in without a knock or call of his name and, once crossing the threshold, immediately pauses. Acts as though he’s just been punched in the face. He even stumbles backwards against the door so it loudly clicks shut, and stands there stunned. Louis only stops his email-checking to stand in concern.

“Jesus, Nialler, y’alright—”

“Oh, fuck me,” Niall scrunches his nose and turns away, shaking his head, uncle uncle! as Louis draws closer to him. “Stay back, man, you fucking—oh, you reek!”

Louis suspiciously sniffs his armpit, but only detects his antiperspirant. “Excuse me?”

“Like, like Harry—you reek of Harry! Way more than y’usually do, too, like—what’d you do, mate? Finally roll around in his dirty clothes before y’left this morning?” He waves his hand in front of his face, eyes fluttering with the movement.

All Louis can manage is a scoff and a confused, “What?”

To which Niall deadpans a, “Louis,” with his head tilted downwards, his gaze accusatory. Louis blinks at him cluelessly, rightfully, and Niall sighs. He pushes himself off the door and crosses the few paces between them in swift strides until they’re toe-to-toe, where he pinches Louis’ jersey collar between his fingers and drags the sleek fabric straight up to his nose. “Take a good, long whiff there, Tommo.”

And Louis does, albeit apprehensively, and all he can suss out here is his own fading aftershave, their faint washing powder, a touch of Harry’s natural sweetness.

So: “Man, are y’close to rut or something? S’not that bad, like, at all.”

“Oh, you’re off it,” shaking his head, “Louis, ‘m telling you this as a friend, as good ol’ Nialler—you actually reek, man. I mean, we all usually smell Harry all over you, especially since y’came back from your rut, but right now? You’re practically drenched in ‘im. I mean,” and Niall leans in close, like a secret, but he’s quite serious when he asks, “he’s not in heat or something right now, is he?”

Louis pushes him away a little, insisting that, “No, he’s not in heat. I think I’d know if the person I live with was throwing it off that bad.” Niall looks at him disbelievingly and he scoffs again, crosses his arms defensively over his chest. Actually, slipping scent blockers into Niall’s morning coffee or sticking plugs up his nose is becoming a more and more promising feat. Maybe he can convince Zayn or Liam to hold him down while he does it, because Niall can get quite scrappy. “Y’know, I’ve about had it with you—all of you, actually, for making such a big deal out of things.”

Niall blinks. “Beg your pardon?”

Funny.

With a sideways glare, “Ever since I had my last rut, everyone here’s been acting fucking weird around me. It’s bad enough you’re already such a nosy twat, trying to get me and Harry together even when ‘ve told you a hundred times to leave it alone,” and when Niall fish-mouths to protest, Louis’ jaw ticks. Niall promptly snaps his mouth shut. “But now everyone else is," frustrated, to the ceiling, "I know I smell like Harry! I know we’ve got this,” with finger quotes, “‘unconventional relationship’ to some people and that because ‘m supposedly so obvious about my feelings for ‘im I should just go for it already, but,” and he sounds exhausted, a little hysterical, but he is, he really is, “‘m not going to put 'im in that position! I’m fine with how things are between us, and ‘m tired of that not being good enough for everyone else!”

He throws his hands up into the air, ready for another bout of frustration, and another thing..., but there’s swiftly nothing left in him besides tiredness, exhaustion at running in circles, and god, he. He needs to sit down.

He crashes down on the little leather futon he’s got set up against the eastern wall of the office space and immediately covers his face with his hands. He doesn’t know what else there is for him to do or say to get everyone to just let things be; to stop concerning themselves with his life and his relationship with Harry. Maybe it’s because of their shared circle, it’s Niall who sees the two of them the most and has a different understanding of things because of that, but it doesn’t make it right for him or anyone else to keep on meddling.

The only thing worse than doing something on his own to ruin things with Harry? Would be someone else’s unwanted intervention. And at this rate, that’s going to be the cause of his downfall.

So what if Harry wants to cuddle up and scent him on the daily? So what if his washing went missing for a days and came back smelling more like spiced summer than it did washing powder? It’s no one else’s fucking business to pry into.

Eventually, Louis hears Niall sigh, and feels the cushion next to him sink. Under the light cover of Niall’s cologne, so close to his own natural scent it only acts as a slight bolster, he can easily detect calming pheromones being sent his way. Niall’s version is gently citrusy with a tingle of something reminiscent of eucalyptus. It doesn’t get him to melt, to concede, but it does make him feel slightly less prickly, and that he doesn’t want to actually punch Niall for sitting so close to him right now.

Another minute passes and Niall decides to ask: “Can I tell you something, without you biting m’head of?”

Which, it could easily be a dig, if not for the lack of snark or bite in his tone and the fact that he speaks too quietly, like raising his voice above a certain level will break Louis apart, shattering him across the floor like fallen glass or porcelain. Like he’s actually asking for genuine permission here.

Louis keeps his face hidden in his hands. “Mm.”

“When I’m with Harry and it’s just the two of us… he smells completely different to how he smells when ‘m around the both of you. And it’s the same with you, just a little less… intense, I guess.”

Louis moves his hands just enough to peer at Niall with one eye. “What d’you mean?”

“Well…” Thinking, Niall sinks back into the cushion, cups his hands in his lap. He tilts his head back and looks up at the ceiling. “When it’s just us two, he smells a lot lighter. Yeah, he’s always been a bit,” and Niall limps one wrist for a moment, “fruity,” which begrudgingly pulls a little chuckle out of Louis; he can’t not agree, “but it’s really light. Sort of peach-y, but mostly kind of... green. Sometimes it's creamy, or buttery, almost like milk, but that peach is always there. And it’s kind of the same with you: lighter, only clean instead of, well.”

Niall turns his head as if to ask if he can continue, and Louis grants it with a jut of his chin before resting on his clasped hands, elbows balanced on his knees.

“But when’m around both of you at the same time?” His eyes grow wide and he blows out a gust of air, acting as if he’s been blown by a strong wind. “You get all, like, spicy and smokey. And Harry?” Niall kneads at his lip as if whatever he’s about to say, Louis isn’t going to like hearing it, so he has to think it over a few times before it leaves his mouth. A beat later, “It gets so strong, and gets so much sweeter, it’s like y’could get drunk off ‘im. He gets that spice all of a sudden, too, only not like yours; yours is sort of peppery, and his is all… warm. Cinnamon-y.”

Louis’ heart starts to pound away in his chest. He knows exactly what Niall is talking about—cinnamon spice and molten honey drowning in rich, ripe peach—but it’s, he thinks it's the only way he's ever really scented Harry.

Niall laughs a little, shakes his head. “I didn’t think I’d ever be telling y’something like this, so I dunno if’m making a lot of sense, but trust me, Tommo,” and Niall looks him right in the eyes, that familiar blue shimmering in his honesty, “it’s always been like that, and ’ve never had either a’you like that ‘round anyone else." As pointedly as he can make it, "Ever.”

But Louis isn’t given time to respond to that info dump, because Niall swiftly pats his shoulder with a small smile before standing up, climbing over his legs and leaving his office behind a shut door. Whatever his initial business there seems wholly forgotten.

So here, Louis is left to ruminate.

Truthfully, he doesn’t know what to think of it because he hasn’t solidly known what to think in general regards to Harry these last few weeks. Not since Harry so freely offered up his things during his rut, or so greedily started to scent him after. And definitely not since the other night, even with the air cleared between them and Harry making it crystal that he’s not at all upset by what Louis said to him.

(You asked me first, Harry had pointed out, the evening after. Was laid on top of him, had slid down his body so his cheek rest on Louis’ chest, turned towards ‘The Princess Bride’. I wouldn’t have answered if I didn’t want to—or asked you the same thing if I didn’t want to know. It's not a big deal so stop, and he'd playfully pinched Louis' nose to get his attention, stop freaking out about it, you weirdo.)

Part of him wants to be hopeful that Harry is interested in his scent—and maybe him—in a way that isn’t strictly comforting and platonic, while the other part wants to stay rational that while their relationship may be progressing, it’s staying along on the same path; that they’ve only come to trust each other that much more, and that's the only meaning there is.

He just keeps tugging himself in different directions. Each sway of his mind is dictated by nothing and everything at once. He’s a pendulum swinging through Harry-shaped obstacles, never knowing when he’s about to knock one over.

Resolutely, and rather quickly, Louis decides he’s going to just... slip it in his pocket for later. Stop thinking so goddamn much about this, since it only seems to get him in trouble these days.

He even leaves the studio early, deciding he just—he needs a breather. Needs to settle down a bit, recalibrate. Wants to spend time with Harry without the pressure of possible consequences having him second-guessing his every move; not constantly searching for subtext or looking over his shoulder wandering what it all may mean.

Thinks, too, he’d rather like to surprise Harry with takeaway from their favorite Thai restaurant down the street, maybe bring him seafood gang om or that green papaya salad he likes so much, and treat them both to a Thai iced tea or iced coffee, a mango sticky rice to share for dessert.

Barely past eleven and outside it’s getting stuffy like a thunderstorm, strange given the sky is a clear blue and mostly cloudless, but Louis pays it no mind. There’s enough of a breeze it might be nice to air out the flat until the heat starts to make the air thick and warm. He places an order on his drive back to their building, parks, and decides to walk down to the restaurant to pick everything up.

He’s quickly in a strangely chipper mood considering he proper shouted at Niall a half hour ago, and given the fact that Niall told him what he did, but—water off a duck’s back. It doesn’t have to mean anything. That’s something for Future Louis to fret over because Present Louis has his hands full with takeaway bags and a loaded drink carrier.

Once returning to their building, shooting up in the lift, he ponders things he hasn’t given much thought to in awhile, like where they’ll stop at in Italy on their inevitable summer hols, or if maybe they’ll decide to go to Greece, Spain, perhaps pop over to the other side of the world instead, this year. Louis’ quite partial to Latin America, definitely missing the beaches in Mexico once it starts to grow warm again; Harry’s even got ‘Brazil!’ tattooed on his left upper thigh.

When the lift stops only three floors up—and they’re not even in a proper big building—he also considers them moving sometime soon. They’ve been here for a few years already and could easily afford a better place now. Maybe somewhere without neighbors directly across the hall and with a proper space for growing plants that isn’t a tiny, overcrowded concrete balcony. Another bedroom would be nice, too, because Harry could make his own office instead of bouncing around cafés and their front room, the dining table, and Louis could have a little mixing set up; could add in a fold-out for guests to spend the night, as well.

Having put himself in a good mood—and it feels right, like he's meant to be like this instead of stressed and stroppy—he’s got some pep in his step as he reaches the front door of the flat. When he puts his key in, though, he finds the door is already unlocked, meaning Harry’s either left it open for him, or he forget to lock up this morning when he left. Either way, it’s not a problem. Means he didn’t have to set the bags and drink carrier down on the floor lest he make a mess trying to multitasking fiddling with the lock, if anything.

He pops in the flat ready to call out to Harry, tell him he’s surprised him with lunch, I call dibs on the coffee but I don't mind it if you have a bit, when he’s hit with an especially strong and spiced wave of Harry, followed by what he can only describe to be a proper moan.

Louis freezes, his hands still full, as a higher, more whimpery note finds his ears. The sinful sound easily awakens his peacefully slumbering alpha, the ears of his inner animal immediately pricked in interest, and he has to—stay focused. Get a grip on himself. Needs to set everything down and find Harry, see if he’s actually okay, meaning: check to see if he's randomly gone into heat, or is just having a very loud and fervent wank with his door open.

Shoes stay on in case he has to leave, or get—something, but the drink holder goes to sit on the tabletop with his keys besides the front door, and the bags sitting full with their lunch go to the floor underneath it. Louis comes out of the short front hall into their lounge, where he immediately and rather unexpectedly—

finds Harry having a very involved wank on their sofa.

And the sight takes him so off-guard that, instead of pushing sound out, he sucks air in.

Because there, spread out on their lovely cream sofa, is the long stretch of Harry’s body, lithe and inked and covered only by a rucked up t-shirt and white crew socks. He’s facing away from Louis, his head towards the windows at the other end of the room and turned downwards, hiding himself there while his pert arse and toned legs are on full display.

Underneath him is his blanket, his favorite blanket, the one Louis gifted him all those years ago that he’d borrowed during his last rut—which he really hasn’t seen since, despite Harry always using it to cover them while snuggled up on the sofa, or when he manages to sleep in and Louis finds him grouchy and half-awake, hiding under it like he’s an old-timey ghost with a flair for eccentrics. He can’t tell if Harry’s grinding down on it or is only laying over it while he gets off, but the flex in his muscular thighs and the way his arse cheeks dimple as he undulates his hips up and down tells him his initial suspicion is likely to be correct.

Louis knows he should do something like, well, leave, or perhaps risk pretending that he’s just come home by making an obvious show of ‘unlocking’ the front door and coming inside, loudly announcing his presence and taking his time looking for Harry so Harry can hide or clean up or whatever he needs to do, but instead Louis—he just watches.

He watches, hypnotized, as Harry’s hips make desperate little thrusts, and he releases a range of melodic notes from deep, throaty groans to these pitchy, desperate whimpers. His left arm is pinned close with fingers twisted in his baby blanket while the right is bent and pinned underneath him, moving jerkily. Before long though, Harry grunts in seeming frustrated and starts trying to turn over, tangled in the fabric so he kicks part of it away, and Louis freezes instead of moving or even hiding, lest he be caught.

When Harry’s face, with his cheeks flushed strawberry and his pink mouth parted sinfully around heaving breaths, fuck, becomes visible, his eyes are thankfully pinched shut.

And Louis can’t stop giving himself a nice squeeze through his cotton shorts. Grinding a bit into his palm through the airy fabric. His cock is more than interested at the forbidden sight, tempted like Eve to the apple, wanting so badly to have a taste; he doesn’t even have to touch directly to know his knot is already swelling. Knows alone by the tugging pressure, the heat spreading out from his belly and climbing like vines up his chest and neck, down his arms and legs.

Because of the angle of his legs, now bent and hiding his exposed tummy, Louis still can’t quite see what Harry’s doing, but he can see his right arm is still fervently working, and that the left has tugged the blanket up for him to bury his face into it, freed said arm to join the right disappearing behind the demure cover of his legs.

Louis’ not sure what he’s doing here. Not sure if he just wants a peek of Harry’s omega prick, maybe half of his own length and hard as it’ll get at half-mast, leaking down his hand; to see if Harry will part his legs to reveal his cunt, either stretched around his fingers or a toy or left all alone, bared wet and messy; or if he only wants to see what Harry looks and sounds like in throes of orgasm. But whatever his intention, he knows he shouldn’t act upon it.

He just can’t help himself, as pathetic as the excuse is. Especially not when Harry’s legs quake, finally give way and put everything on display for him.

Naturally they’ve seen each other in just their pants, seen each other naked throughout the years—especially when Harry had a bit of a reputation for stripping down in their uni days, claiming he was more comfortable with his bits out than fully dressed—and Louis is more than aware of Harry’s propensity of switching between snug boxer briefs much like his own, and a variety of knickers ranging from simple bikini cotton pieces with plain elastic bands to delicately silky thongs made only of lace flowers, strung together by the thinnest ribbons, even if he’s pointedly averted his eyes at the first glimpse of satin or lace each time, trying to fight temptation.

But Louis has never seen him like this. Has never seen the impressive length—for an omega, at least—of his stiffened cock, all pretty and red and spilling sticky dew drops where the head just peeks out of his closed fist, or the lips of his cunt flushed bubblegum around two crooked fingers.

And he’s definitely never, ever beared witness to Harry biting his lip while his nose stays buried in his soft baby blanket, just as he whimpers out a broken albeit clear, “Fuck, Lou…”

For a moment, he thinks he imagined it. That Harry’s pheromones thick and sweet in his nose combined with the carnal display in front of him are playing tricks on him. But then Harry does it again, fuck, fuck, Louis, as he starts curling his fingers inside himself with fervor, likely to cause a cramp in his wrist if he continues for long. Then it’s fuck me, baby, mm, as a third finger slips inside of him, and please, Lou, need it when he lifts the hand just wrapped around his cock up to his mouth and presses two of his messy, sticky fingers passed berry lips until his knuckles are bumping up against his cupid’s bow, and withdraws them, strung with saliva, back to home base, t-touch me, touch m’cock.

Louis’ cock pulses in his fist. If he peered down now, he wouldn’t shock to find a dark spot already marring the tented black cotton. He’s working with an obvious bulge now, not something a careful hand or tugged-down shirt could hide gracefully. The need is unavoidable as he watches Harry pant and curse into his blanket, finger himself messily as he strips over his fat little cock, and Louis can’t do anything but finally slip his hand down the front of his shorts, into the slit of his briefs, and take hold.

But then he goes along and ruins it for himself, breathing out a relieved, “Fuck,” of his own as flesh meets raw flesh, and Harry’s eyes shoot open wide.

Maybe in another life, a few moments of tense eye contact following the joint discovery would have them bursting out laughing or even rushing forward to meet in a ravenous tangle of limbs and toothy kisses, but that appears to not be the case here.

No, Harry’s eyes flash open and he immediately stops touching himself, even if he doesn’t rush to cover his modesty. He just lies there stone still and staring at Louis as the aroused flush stamped on his cheeks, splotchy across what’s exposed of his belly—under what Louis now realizes is one of his Iron Maiden t-shirts—grows redder, darkening to a mortified, burning scarlet. ‘A’ to mark the sinner.

Louis’ fist stays closed around his cock just as Harry’s fingers stay tucked inside, and squeezing around his length. Both of them remain unbreathing and unblinking. Louis’ first instinct is to rip his hands off of himself and leave without another word, perhaps even hoping, in his terror, that a speeding car may strike him down in the busy street outside their building so he never has to face repercussion for his actions today, but he’s stopped to act on his impulse by Harry’s eyes focusing on the bulge in his shorts, and the way it makes him swallow audibly.

Harry’s legs curl up to shield himself next, but he’s not truly covering himself. He only crosses his legs at the ankle to block Louis’ direct view of his pussy, his cock, but he doesn’t move his hands away.

In the shiest cadence, “Y-You can stay, if you want to,” Harry murmurs. Louis can't miss the clear hopeful lilt to want, or the worry that coats his voice when he hurriedly tacks on, “or, uhm, we can forget this ever happened and never speak of it again.”

Putting the cards in Louis’ hand, which is what he’s been trying to avoid since that fateful morning nearly ten years ago.

But Louis, at the same time, he's a mere mortal man who’s just witnessed the subject of his every desire bared so beautifully in a moment of carnal pleasure, and he's being offered what he's so long desired on a silver platter. And given the vow that he would not act before Harry did, and now Harry has acted first—he’s using loophole logic in this case, sue him—there’s only one thing he can do given the two choices he’s just been offered.

So, with his eyes carefully on Harry, he edges close to the sofa, and slowly slips over the arm, crowding right in.

All Harry can say in response to that is, “Oh,” more a breath than a word, and it sounds—

relieved. Sighed it out and melted into a boneless heap.

They’re not touching, not with how Harry’s moved to cover himself, but Harry’s curled toes, a shimmery custard color under his white socks, are close to grazing Louis’ calf, his body heat palpable at this range, so Louis holds his breath and says a little prayer that things won’t go sideways, won’t have this ripped away from him just as he’s been allowed it, and gently takes Harry’s ankle, dance again. Slowly moves it outwards, away from Harry’s body.

With an inward sigh of relief, Harry takes the incentive and spreads his legs the rest of the way. His legs stay bent at the knee with Louis taking up a cushion for himself, making room like that, but one foot rests just to the outside of Louis’ thigh, and the other comes to rest on the floor, leaving himself further open than he was previously. He shifts upwards, too, so he can recline against the opposite arm and maybe see better. The blanket slips underneath him in the process, causing more of it to bunch under his bottom half. With more of it within reach now, Louis—he has to know.

Leaning down to bring it close to his nose, he closes his eyes and takes a deep whiff from the blanket. Harry’s breath hitches overhead but he ignores it as, surely, under the honey-coating of Harry’s scent woven through the fibers, are faded traces of his rut. 

This piece was never even washed.

“Louis…”

When he glances back up, keying on Harry’s flushed face, he finds glassy green eyes and a lip tucked demurely, shyly between his teeth. Pairing that with the rose in his cheeks would paint him cherubic if not for the fact that he’s got his shirt rucked up under his armpits and his bare bottom half hardly tucked away; like if Louis looked down right now, he wouldn’t get an eyeful Harry’s prick, or his pussy.

Like he wasn’t caught touching himself, rubbing against a blanket that was once saturated with evidence of Louis’ rut and begging for a supposedly non-present Louis to touch him and to fuck him.

“You had it in your room, all of it: the sheets, m’clothes, this blanket,” Louis states, meaning to sound far more even-keeled than the awed he actually does. "Didn't even wash the blanket, did you?"

Harry squirms and nods weakly, as if he knows there’s no point fighting it.

Onwards Louis presses, asking, “Was it for this?” still, without teasing or accusation, because he’s so eager, so greedy to know why. He dares putting a hand on Harry’s sweaty inner thigh and the muscle immediately jumps under his touch. “For touching yourself?”

Another nod and Harry’s opened legs actually quiver.

“Why, Harry?”

“I couldn’t help it,” he confesses meekly, pathetically. No fight to be found. Really, he may as well be pouting now. “You just.. you smelled so, so good.”

His voice is cracking, pubescent, climbing higher than normal when he puts whiny stress on a word. Louis had actually expected some denial, more of a fight out of him, but delights that Harry crumbles so easily, perhaps even wantingly under his careful prodding.

With his hand inching closer inwards, “Was it because of my rut? Or,” and his breath falters as his thumbs glides up the crease of Harry’s groin, but he keeps watching his face, needing those shimmering eyes on him to make him believe this is actually happening, “something else?”

Harry nods, swallowing hard, but takes a moment to give verbal clarification, drawing one hand—the one previously working around his cock—up to his mouth, pinching his lip puffy between his thumb and pointer finger, and rubbing at it. Soothing himself.

But Louis wants an answer, and as darling as Harry looks—charismatic, theatrical, larger-than-life Harry; always the star of the show, favorite hostess and favored shoulder to cry on, emergency contact for everything hangovers to moving house—worrying at his lip and ducking his gaze, he takes Harry’s wrist gently and withdraws his hand from his mouth.

Harry looks dazed by the gesture, a little faraway in his eyes as the green there catches gold and sapphire from sunlight trailing in through the windows, but he’s at least looking at Louis again.

Louis doesn’t—he’s not sure what he’s allowed to do, or more importantly, what Harry likes. He seems so scent drunk, so overwhelmed over having been caught and having his offer taken up; it’s not as though he’s dropped, god forbid, but the demure mousiness he’s currently displaying isn’t something Louis is used to seeing on him.

So, gently, Louis coaxes, “Tell me, darling,” and he thumbs over Harry’s bottom lip, presses down against it until Harry hums questioningly, “c’mon, what is it?”

There’s a little more clarity in Harry’s eyes then, and his flashes flutter as if pulling himself out of a daze. Like he’s coming back to himself, peeking out at the sun.

He shrugs all coy and the tips of his ears flare up. “S’just… it’s you,” he murmurs, “but your rut was, like, the final straw? I dunno, s'just been making me feel fucking crazy.” Louis drops his wrist in surprise, and Harry immediately draws his hand back to his mouth, now nibbling at the side of his thumb, which is painted pistachio. “S’why I can’t stop, like, wanting to scent you all the time. Be on you, I guess.” His cheeks dimple slightly then, seems he’s biting back a smile. “It’s kind of embarrassing, isn't it…”

“Harry,” Louis starts, sighing in amused, purely fucking delighted exasperation, “please, love, I borrowed things that smelled like you. For my rut. I wasn’t exactly using them for innocent reasons. And it’s not like ‘ve exactly been pushing you away when you’re all over me, either.”

Harry shrugs one shoulder this time. He shifts slightly under Louis’ hand—which has drifted up to squeeze the puppy fat forever lingering at his hips—so his fingertips barely brush over his pussy, right where Harry’s own hand isn’t covering himself.

And he’s… confident now, teasing even—right back to the Harry Louis knows how to better handle; figures being joined in arousal has soothed his nerves a bit—when: “Alright, yeah, but you’re not the one who’s leaking all over the place just from a little touch or look now, are you?”

Which makes Louis actually choke on his saliva.

“I’m—what?”

This little vixen, Harry withdraws his fingers from his pussy and brings the soaked digits up to his mouth. He stays watching Louis as he sucks sparkling slick off one, two, all three of them, dragging his teeth over the knuckles, making a proper show of it. Louis can’t help picturing his cock in place of Harry’s fingers then, or how his ruby lips would stretch beautifully around his girth; maybe they can make that happen another time.

Harry doesn’t repeat himself. Instead, “How long were you watching me?”

His scent is so thick in the air, Louis can taste it sweet and ripe on his tongue without even opening his mouth. Chokes out an, “Ehm, long enough…”

As if Harry doesn’t know; like he didn’t see Louis standing before him with his hand stuck down his shorts, unable to help himself. So naughty. But Harry still delights in the answer with a pleased rumble, one that reverberates from deep in his chest.

“Like what you saw, then?”

Louis nods with a gruff laugh this time and dares to slip his hand under Harry’s Maiden tee—his tee—reaching until he feels a subtle raise of skin, plush and kneadable and over solid muscle. He traces the width of it with the cup of his hand, teasing.

“Like what I see,” he corrects, just before he properly kneads into Harry’s tit.

And oh, he’d quite like to duck his head under the taut fabric, or, even better, strip Harry of it to completely to get a good eyeful of his bare chest in a totally new light. Louis is more than aware that Harry’s grown visibly bustier over the years; not all male or masculine-presenting omegas put weight on top outside of pregnancy, or even want to, but Harry’s seemed to strive to achieve that. Has built up his pectoral strength with a fitness regime that’s padded him up nicely; gifted him an ample bosom to admire.

But as much as he’d like to indulge in his every passing desire right now, Louis will have to forcibly pace himself. He revels at the sensation of supple flesh warm and slightly damp with sweat in his palm, offering a touch nothing like the teasing pokes or purple-nurples given while playing dirty in group footie or water pistol fights, when they were younger.

No, this is an admirable touch, a wanting one. Harry’s lashes, wispy butterfly wings, flutter shut as Louis works, giving gentle kneads and squeezes. He does his best to catalog the specific softness of Harry’s skin here, as well as the soft smattering of golden-brown hair sprinkled across and between his tits; the way his nipples are forever turned to attention, puffed up and pebbling quickly despite the way he barely grazes them.

But then he drags right over Harry’s nipple with his thumb and it pinches right up, a shy rosebud, and this time, Harry chirps. Louis’ sweet little songbird. He immediately holds Louis’ hand steady over his chest, showing him he likes it, never mind his damp fingers. His gaze is focused, reads stay—what else can Louis do?

His eyes then travel back to Louis’ crotch, where the tenting in his shorts is barely hidden by the way he’s dipped forward. Licking his lips, “Me too.”

And if lines weren’t already far passed crossed, this would definitely tip them over the edge. Louis is so hard he feels himself leaking pre, his knot already popped and actually throbbing with want, and Harry, well—he’s putting it out so bad that it feels there’s no oxygen left in the room. If not for Harry’s blanket, it’d be a fair assumption that the cream cushion would be stained dark underneath them.

Louis licks his lips, hungry for a proper taste when he’s only just had a sample. He folds one foot up under himself and leans further over Harry, so close now that if Harry slipped down a tiny bit further, Louis could rub their cocks together without much effort. Maybe even nudge forward and urge Harry’s hand out of the way, rub himself clothed over Harry bare.

Patience, he has to remind himself. He doesn’t want Harry spooking, now.

Instead, he runs his other hand up Harry’s—stolen—tee to give the left side some affection. Harry clamps his mouth shut to stifle a moan as Louis pinches both nipples at once, but that won’t do at all, will it?

“None of that,” he tuts, “not when you had no problem being so noisy a few minutes ago.”

With a heavy exhale, Harry finally frees his cock and uses both hands to tug the shirt up, just over his tits, offering a welcome sight and better range of movement—for them both. Now Harry pushes up into Louis’ hands with an arched back and lets out a relieved sigh when his nipples are pinched once more.

Louis is magnetized by the view of his deft fingers pulling, plucking. The pert buds are brick-red and rapidly growing pinker under attention. He wants to nip at them, suckle them into his mouth to see what other heavenly sounds Harry would try and deprive him of hearing.

“I can be noisier,” Harry notes around a sigh.

“Than that, or now?”

Harry shrugs one shoulder, pouts his bottom lip out in a show of feign nonchalance. It shouldn’t be as endearing as it is, and Louis knows with anyone else he’d likely just get frustrated, but witnessing what may be a potential propensity to be a bit of a tease, or perhaps even a brat, gets Louis’ blood going from a simmer to a proper boil.

He has to change stance again to draw even closer, and Harry groans in loss at having one of his tits exposed and uncared for for Louis to better anchor himself with one arm planted on a seat cushion, but it's worth it for that groan to break into a weak whimper when he daringly lays a kiss just off and to the inside of his bared, blushing nipple.

“Tell me, Harry,” he encourages, blowing gently over the hardened bud, “than that, or right now?” Harry’s hips jump and Louis feels his poor underworked cock bump against his lower belly. It may have left a smear of pre against his navy footie jersey, although he wouldn’t be cross for it. He feels wild for how contained he’s acting—all things considered—and would be more than happy to suck any traces of Harry’s release out of the silky fabric, but happily settles for moving his occupied hand to cup the side of Harry’s left breast, squeezing it slightly, and leaning in to properly kiss over that nipple. “C’mon, lovely—”

It’s enough to break him, as Harry sounds almost miserable when he immediately replies, “Both, both,” and grips Louis’ thigh, the side of the sofa. “Fucking touch me already,” he nearly begs; his eyes are so pleading, peridot and glittery and only amplified by the strawberry flush painted over his skin, “please, Louis…”

Which is all Louis wanted for him to do. It’s permission enough for him to let go, and finally, truly, indulge.

And he’s so eager to ask, “Where, tell me where,” wanting to have Harry choke it out between hungry drags of their mouths.

Harry must have a sixth sense for it, or simply desires the same thing, because just like that he’s grabbing Louis’ shoulder and the back of his neck, encouraging him even closer, asking with words and actions to, “Kiss me—”

The please goes unsaid, but Louis can feel the desperation the instant Harry’s pinked mouth finds his. Can feel the ‘thank you’, too, in the relieved hum Harry purrs out.

He has to hold himself up a bit lest he end up sitting uncomfortably and needing to move before he’d like to or having his weight thrown off and landing against Harry a bit too hard, but the hand he can spare for touching immediately finds Harry’s sharp jaw and crooks it for a better angle. There’s more of a sandpaper grit on his chin and above his upper lip than there is anywhere else he can feel, but he likes it. Likes Harry so, so much.

They’ve kissed like this once before.

It was their early twenties, some New Year’s Party. Harry had done so many shots of tequila off friends—Louis included—that he smelled of all the limes he’d sucked dry that night, and Louis’ head was swimmy with all those vodka Redbulls he’d downed. Seeing as they were both so drunk and it was so long ago, it’s funny that he can remember it now; as if muscle memory has drawn it back to the surface.

But they were hiding in someone’s, Harry’s bedroom, the lights off and curtains drawn. Louis had gone to lie down and Harry was a giggly drunk searching for him, wanting to wake him up for the midnight countdown, and instead ended up curling up beside him in bed.

“‘ve got no one to kiss,” Harry had bemoaned, tucking himself in Louis’ armpit. Muffled, “Again.”

Of course Louis offered to change that, only he’d made it seem like he was doing Harry a favor, not like he actually wanted to. And when the clock struck twelve and everyone downstairs cheered and blew horns, pulled crackers, Harry leaned over him and kissed him so gently, sighed into it just the same. Even held Louis by the shoulder as Louis cupped his jaw.

The biggest difference between now and then, besides the lack of alcohol and clothing here, is that Harry doesn’t pull away from Louis’ mouth cackling and whisper-shouting that his mouth is ‘soooo wet’, and Louis doesn’t pretend that it doesn’t hurt that Harry laughs after they kiss—not to mention that Harry also doesn’t get sick on the floor a few minutes later, Louis doesn’t sit with him in the bathroom to make sure he doesn’t choke on his own sick, and they both don’t wake up hungover and achy on cold tile, sharing Harry’s duvet.

No, when Harry pulls back this time, he blinks slowly, dazedly, and his breathing is heavy. Looks at Louis like he can’t just believe he did that, but then drags Louis back in seconds later with that much more fervor. Moans when Louis escalates things with nibbles on his bottom lip, and ruts his hips up for some kind of relief.

Harry tastes like—peppermint gum and green tea. His lips are pillowy and bitten plump, his tongue tricky as it swipes along the seam of Louis’ mouth and retreats just as he chases it. If Harry’s scent wasn’t intoxicating enough, then his mouth would surely take its place.

It’s not long before Harry’s leg has also folded around Louis’ hip, his heel even digging into his lower back to encourage him on. Louis is helpless but to grab Harry’s thigh and dig his fingers in whenever Harry whimpers, whines, gives a particularly sharp nip. And Louis’ never been much for aggressive hair-pulling but Harry’s fingers tugging at the ends near the base of his neck? He’d eagerly allow Harry to lead him around just like that.

Kissing is nice, and kissing Harry is beyond nice, but his cock actually starts to ache and his knot becomes a nagging, insistent pulse before long, and he figures Harry’s in no better state after having his afternoon wank interrupted—especially when Harry’s been actively messing Louis’ shorts with both his cock and his cunt, since they started sharing kisses. It’s hard to interrupt himself and even harder to interrupt Harry, especially when he tries to stop twice and Harry whines like it physically hurts him to stop, but third time’s the charm and Harry’s achy whimper ceases the instant Louis presses his thumb back down on his wet, swollen bottom lip.

“Where else?” asks Louis.

Harry, punch drunk off pheromones and his own arousal, looks a little cross-eyed and confused for a moment. His brow does a kittenish scrunch, but it quickly relaxes when Louis goes from grasping his thigh to holding his arse and, seeming to realize what he means:

“Oh, oh,” and he chuckles, combs through Louis’ hair—which is likely just a mess of cowlicks in the back all up the back now, “maybe, uhm,” there’s no easy way for him to motion quite where he wants Louis with them laid out like this, so Harry encourages him back—shoving a little, move back, c’mon Lou—until he’s up, off, and seated back on one folded leg, “maybe here…” circling a dainty finger around his right (top) nipple, and then the left.

Louis can’t help himself. Confirming, “Here?” getting back in close, only this time maneuvering to lay down on his front as much as he comfortably can with an erection and less than ideal working space.

He lays one kiss in the crease between Harry’s tits, then another. Harry’s watching him through heavy eyes, his chest heaving and twisting some of the blanket between his painted fingers. As lovely as that sight is, a masterpiece of desire that deserves to be immortalized in paint, the richest of hues, and hung high in every gallery, he should get a move on, shouldn’t he? Especially when teasing Harry also proves to be an act of self denial.

Following the path Harry’s fingers lay, Louis starts with a kiss over his right nipple, and marks a path to the left. Harry’s skin is mostly salty with sweat, but there’s also an undertone of sweet cream that grows particularly noticeable on the meat of his tits, on his nipples. Makes them taste as buttery as they are soft, deserving of pecks and pinches.

It’s Harry who interrupts this time; Louis only spends what feels like a moment laving attention across his chest before Harry stops him with a quiet, “Lou, mm, hold on,” as he’s nipping the ruddy flesh of the left areola.

Louis pulls off with a quiet pop, and rests his chin on Harry’s butterfly. “Mhm?”

“Here, too,” Harry taps a finger to the side of his chin, onto a wing.

He looks so innocent making his request, peering down with such hope as though he might be denied, but Louis has a good feeling he knows where this is actually going. It makes him recall, then, that Harry’s said he’s guilty of having a jealous streak, although Louis can’t help but feel, even as he’s got Harry laid out under him, genuine loathing for anyone else who Harry once deemed worthy of his intimacy.

Lucky for Harry though, it makes him that much more driven to please.

He kisses nipples three and four first, the top two wings, then the bottom two. Raised brows have Harry’s hand skirting down to his tummy, pointing now to just under his navel. Louis’ feels a fresh flicker of eagerness as he holds Harry’s hips and drags his teeth from butterfly to belly button.

Nearly shaking now, Harry indicates to the laurels next, but these require a different technique: instead of simply kissing along each leaf or dragging his teeth over the vines, Louis nips and sucks over the stretch of Harry’s hip, outside to inside over thin skin and bone. He’s dangerously close to making direct contact with Harry’s cock in the process, but is careful to keep clear as he switches sides.

He’s somewhat relieved, though, when he deems himself through with giving attention to Harry’s hips, because he gets to ask, “Anywhere else?”

Harry gets to rubbing his own nipple, thumbing over it as if trying to draw it out further, and hums long, intent on making a proper show of his ‘consideration’, although it’s abundantly clear what his intention is. Clear that he knows Louis is onto him.

Instead of gesturing, Harry scooches down until the only part of him propped up is his neck, and moves his right leg up to rest it up over the back of the sofa. His other leg, currently dangling off the side of the sofa, then comes up to pin against his chest, using his free hand to grasp the underside of his thigh and keep himself in position.

And here, Louis finally allows himself a proper look. Given how much of Harry has been on display and so close this whole time, he thinks it’s rather commendable of him to have minded himself so well. Of course, he’s not going to do that now, not with Harry fully spread and held open for him.

Louis doesn’t go flat onto his belly this time though; he needs room to work, aside from the fact that laying atop his erection at its current state will be far less than comfortable. He steps off the sofa and kneels onto the plush rug below—would something so soft leave rug burns behind? They’ll have to find out—poorly biting down an amused grin when Harry flashes him a worried look at his change in position.

Soothing Harry’s thigh with a wee rub, “Let’s turn youse around a bit there, angel.”

Harry huffs a little laugh, likely at himself, before doing just that. He only shifts to the side, propped up by the corner between the back cushion and sofa arm instead of the sofa arm alone, but this way there’s more room for the both of them, and he doesn’t have to hold his leg up so high.

Here, with Harry in prime position and all his desire for further teasing out the window, Louis finally draws close.

In the moments Louis’ imagined joining together with Harry in intimacy—and there have been, admittedly, many of these moments—he’s pictured things going a little differently than this. He’s not prone to wearing rose-colored glasses, never having thought Harry would burst into the studio one day and profess his undying love before insisting Louis take him bent over the soundboard or his nice big desk upstairs; or coming home one evening to find candles and rose petals trailing from the front door to his bedroom and Harry spread in the center of his bed, wordlessly ready for the taking; not even a situation in which Harry coyly states his heat is coming soon and that he wants Louis to join him because he’s so in love—it’s simply not in his nature.

He didn’t imagine a situation like this, either, where he would return home from a confrontational sort of conversation with the biggest threat to his and Harry’s relationship as he so knew it—AKA Niall and his persistent need to play matchmaker—with lunch to share and a solid resignation to simply let the dice roll, only to turn an accidentally voyeuristic—and maybe exhibitionist, too, because Harry was lying in the middle of the front room touching himself—masturbation spectacle into a proper romp for two…

But here and now, Louis thinks that he wouldn’t have things go any other way. Even if there’s been no talk of feelings or confessions had and even if this means that Harry may only desire him in a physical sense. Any part of himself that Harry is willing to share, Louis will take it with thanks to give.

He rubs his hands up and down the milky insides of Harry’s thighs a few times, smoothing down sparse hairs and feeling the strain of muscle, restless in his desire. Settled between spread legs, he feels reminiscent of kneeling at an altar, praying to a higher power. Taking parts in sacraments and rituals—let us give thanks before breaking bread.

Harry’s little cock is flush with arousal and wet where the tip peeks past slight foreskin. It’s a nice workable length, too—one that would fill Louis’ mouth perfectly. While it can’t quite grow hard enough to lay flat against his stomach, much like Louis’ would if he yanked his bottoms down right now, it does stand up away from his body, taut where a section of the base rises from between two plush petals, parting them only slightly.

Below, his pussy is bare, all buttery soft. A singular freckle marks the left outside lip, and a rosy blush is just visible where he’s (mostly) closed off, spreading up and outwards from a molten core—a shell hinting but still hiding her pearl.

Unsure of where to start, so much terrain to cover, Louis decides it best to explore. Starts with tentatively sliding his hands down until his thumbs are pressed to the crease of Harry's groin—so funny, how once he’s allowed to touch properly, all that lonely wishful thinking does nothing to make him act swiftly—and presses in just enough to make the flesh dimple. Revels in the feel of plush skin, all fever-hot and tacky.

Louis opens him up, spreading that rosy blush. Holds his breath in the process. Between cream folds, he finds petals that are gently rippled and barely concealing a winking core, one that keeps on leaking pulses of sparkling nectar down his thighs, his arse cheeks, perineum, disappearing into the soiled blanket below.

Harry visibly tenses at being spread so wide, but he doesn’t cover himself or push Louis away. Louis isn’t even watching his face, but he can feel the heat in his gaze as its cast down his quivering form. When Louis grows even more daring and brushes up over the inside of him, incidentally flattening down the fluttery pink he swathes over, Harry properly keens. It only stokes the fire in Louis’ belly, and keeps him going with newfound confidence.

Enough confidence to breathe out, “Christ, look at you,” and peer up at Harry’s dewy, rouged face with a crinkle-eyed grin. One hand slips up to his chest to squeeze, “These perky little tits,” and back down, two fingers parting around a, “nice stiff cock,” that drools at the attention. Then those parted fingers join together just under his cock, where the fair skin disappears between plump folds to turn silky and baby pink, smeared with wet: “Prettiest pussy.”

Harry needs the reassurance there’s honesty in his dirty talk, or he just likes to hear Louis sweet-talk him, because he asks, “Really?” in a breathy, almost shy way, but Louis is more than happy to convince him.

Nodding, he removes his fingers from Harry’s center just to stroke over the seam of him. “Prettiest I ever saw,” he assures, his tone candied with genuine awe. And it is—so very pretty, just like all the rest of Harry, which is why he tacks on, “But all of you’s so pretty already, I dunno why I’d think this part’d be any different…”

He strokes over Harry a few times before daring another glance upwards, wanting to make sure he’s doing the right thing. Harry is scrunch-nosed and trying to hide a dimpled grin behind one politely cupped hand, the other resting over the center of his heaving chest. So lovely, he is. Littlest darling and cunning seductress.

Now that he’s given his affirmations, receiving confirmation in turn he’s doing things correctly, too, Louis indulges himself in leaning in, bracketed wholly by Harry’s strong legs now. Just as on the neck, there’s a set of scenting glands here, only these flank the pubic bone; because Harry’s arousal is so thick in the room already, he couldn’t quite smell the difference before, but now—god, if Louis could roll in it…

Here, there’s a hot and musky overtone that darkens his usual bright, juicy scent. Louis noses up to the source of it and inhales deep. Perhaps he’ll have to scent here some time, too. Of course, if Harry will allow it.

Later, though, since there are far more pressing matters at hand—like getting his mouth on Harry properly. Harry’s thighs closing slightly around him with a huffy, “Louis,” is a good reminder of that.

“‘m getting to it, don’t rush me now,” he teases, pinching Harry’s thigh so he squeaks and loosens up.

Louis tugs his own shorts down first, allotting himself some relief as he brings them down with his underwear and sits arse out, with his dick and balls cradled slightly from only working his bottoms down mid-thigh. It’s enough relief for now.

He gets in nice and close again, one hand pinning a strong thigh away and the other holding one up, and he finally, finally, gives himself a taste. It’s only a kitten lick to start, just a dip of his tongue past silky folds, but Harry gasps as if he buried his whole face in on the first go.

“Oh my god,” his head turning, tummy tensing and jumping, “fuck—“

No time for decorum, Louis eats like a man starved.

It’s still just slick on his tongue, yes, and Harry definitely isn’t the first omega—or person—he’s gone down on, but a singular taste is all it takes for Louis to decide he won't be able to get enough of Harry’s leaky faucet, or how it spills tang and sugar, the ripest juice, across his chin, and floods out into his mouth. He can only show his enjoyment through vibrating moans and fervor in his eating, in drinking down all Harry has to give him. His nails carve into taut skin and his nose is pressed into the sensitive patch between the base of Harry’s cock and his opening proper. His tongue narrows and points, buries deep as it’ll go, then curling and reaching to coax out even more tangy mess.

Neither of them are quiet about it: while Louis slurps and sucks, Harry keeps on grunting and whimpering and thrashing about. It’s music to Louis’ ears and fuel to his ego, balm to his nerves, that he can cause suck a ruckus with his mouth alone. He’s always liked to think he’s been good at giving head, eating pussy, but he’s never received such an ecstatic response before. Rather, every previous encounter he’s had situated similarly to this disappears from his mind, his memory bank cleared to be filled only with Harry.

He has to pull away after a minute, though, because he’s got his face buried in so deep he can hardly breathe. It’s not helpful that Harry truly is spilling all over him, has him a messy eater with slick clear across his chin and lips, up to his cheeks and the the rounded tip of his nose. Simply has too much to taste, to swallow, in one sitting.

Harry makes a broken sound when he has to pull away, swallowing thickly, and Louis peers up in time to catch Harry craning his neck, having a proper pout, scowl and all.

“You’re absolutely soaking me,” Louis says, more than a bit breathless, “‘fraid I can’t swallow it all, lovely.”

Harry just huffs and reaches forward, pleased when Louis comes closer on his own. “Can’t help it,” he murmurs, "y'just make me so wet," as he thumbs over Louis’ nose and part of his cheek, gathering his wet on his finger and offering to Louis, who happily laps it up. “Shit…”

Louis then gives his own dry index finger a thorough suck, and slips it steadily inside Harry’s cunt. Knows he was just fingering himself, but doesn't want to hammer right in, too aware of all those sensitive nerves at the entrance. Once buried to the knuckle, though, he curls carefully, rubs upwards, and delights in seeing Harry’s eyes flutter right closed.

Around his finger, Harry is molten, sleek. Got a real snug grip. When Louis pulls out slightly, just enough for Harry to feel it when he sinks back in, there’s a tangible contraction and more slick spills steady around him, making an obscenely wet noise when he repeats the motion again, again, and keeps at it, building a good rhythm he can work while multitasking.

“Would y’look at that,” he whispers, grinning as warm wet pools easily into his palm, “you’re incredible.” Harry starts trying to work down onto his finger, lovely folded body undulating against his hand, and Louis laughs, joyful. “God, y’can’t help yourself, can you?” He kindly slips his middle finger in, and works the same rhythm with two fingers now—furling and rubbing inside, dragging upwards on the pull out. “Got such a greedy cunt, H; s’so tight, keeps sucking me in…”

“Lou,” Harry pants, still moving against his fingers, “baby, mm, please…”

Baby—Louis’ heart lurches along with his poor untouched cock. What a twisted reaction, and yet he revels in it.

Resting his cheek against Harry’s thigh, playing innocent, “What, angel?” Harry reaches out, floundering a bit, and finds his hair, combing through it, until he starts to push downwards a little. Hinting. “Oh?” and Louis follows his lead, still feigning innocence. His nose nudges against Harry’s cock and he has to pause, give the shaft a little kiss that makes it lean sideways. Just as his cunt, Harry’s leaks steadily here, albeit in little drips rather than a steadily flowing river. “Want me mouth again?”

“Wanna cum,” Harry clarifies gruffly. Then, so hopefully and politely, “Please?” as he brushes Louis’ sweaty fringe away.

Louis doesn’t deign him a verbal response, figures he can give is answer in separating slippery folds with his tongue, sucking up some of the mess around his fingers, before tilting upwards to finally take Harry’s cock into his mouth. Secretly hopes it’s enough.

Harry actually kicks out, colliding with Louis’ shoulder, making them both grunt. He can’t even apologize, though—not when he keeps his foot there, toes curling against the jersey’s silky fabric, damp with sweat, as Louis goes to hum throatily around his cock.

Just as he suspected, it fills his mouth wonderfully, enough so that a long blowie would ache his jaw a bit, but with the tip only just nudging the back of his throat as he presses his nose to Harry’s belly, the trim hair there. As he gives little bobs, keeps his fingers petting, he can taste the pre is different than Harry’s slick—it’s thinner, there’s less of it, but it’s more tart, even slightly bitter, whereas Harry’s slick is more reminiscent in taste of his aroused scent, almost fruity in its tang and slight sweetness.

He knows that when Harry cums, too, what seed his body manages will turn this release a bit pearly, while his cunt will stay spilling clear, but it’s, it’s a lovely contrast. He’s had his fair share of experiences swallowing that that was, well, maybe a bit saltier or bitter than he pleases—although he’s been guilty of that as well; has had tastes of what he’s spilled into his own hand, or has licked it from another’s mouth, fingers, belly—but Harry?

In him, he would happily drown.

Getting his mouth around his cock proves to be quickly doing Harry in, his release having been delayed for god only knows how long already, and Harry rocks a little more consistently down against his fingers and up into his mouth. The frequency of his pleasured notes grow, too, only choppier and ranging more deftly in tone, losing shape. More vocalized breaths and cut-off moans, gravelly grunts than earlier sounded like wannabe pleadings and thanks.

The sound of his fingers in Harry’s pussy, too—he’s working out a flood. In-out, another wave. He’s stayed stroking along and against his spot this whole time, knowing the feel different than the rest of the tight, warm passage he’s been eagerly allowed to explore and purposely focusing on it, in turn only encouraging more slick out of Harry than there already was.

And he wonders, as he starts to pull off of Harry’s cock, dragging his tongue up along the underside as he lifts, if there’ll be a proper fireworks show once he pushes Harry over the edge.

Out loud, ignoring Harry’s choked-up groan at his cock being left wet and unattended to: “Can y’squirt, angel?”

Harry is—he’s a mess, a masterpiece. A mess of sweaty curls and pinched brows, rouged lips and flushed skin. Nipples pinched into raw peaks; leaky spout and dripping pipe. He has to swallow a few times before he can speak.

“Sometimes,” his voice sandpaper, “mostly just when’m in heat, though…”

Louis nods, kisses next to Harry’s cock. “Think y’could now?”

Shrugging, pinching his bottom lip again, his other hand now wrapped up in the bottom hem of his shirt, “I-I can try.”

“S’alright if you can’t,” this time kissing Harry’s thigh, reassuring him. “I just want you t’feel good, darling.”

Harry drops his pinching fingers to smirk. “Y’already make me feel good,” shaking his head, duh, “really good, Lou.”

If Louis weren’t so preoccupied, he’d be leaning up to kiss Harry now; he just doesn’t quite have the skillset to kiss him while eating him out at the same time, but he’s sure if there’s a way, he can learn.

But as he’s ducking back down to finish the job, Harry takes him by surprise. Says, “I think… I’d like to cum while you fuck me, actually,” then, putting it all back in his hands, “of course, only if you want to do that, I mean…”

As if his cock hasn’t been dying for a taste.

And Louis’ so excited to hear it, “Fuck, yeah, yeah,” down on his arse to—and his fucking shoes are still on, fucking idiot—kick his trainers off and shuck his shorts, his briefs off into a messy pile on the rug.

Harry giggles at his fervor as he rushes back up to the cushion, smoothing out the ruined blanket—for posterity; they’re definitely going to have to get the cushions steam-cleaned at this point—to peel his socks off, not caring where they land or whether or not he’s still got his top on because Harry actually wants him to fuck him. That is, until Harry’s sitting up with a grunt and tugging on his shoulders, the v-collar, making it clear he wants it off, off, and they’re pulling in different parts in such a hurry it gets stuck around Louis’ head.

Of course that elicits laughter—and it’s so nice to laugh, isn’t it? To laugh with your best friend that you love with the entirety of your soul just as you’re about to fuck him for the first time—from the both of them, and Louis helps Harry finish doing the job himself by raising his arms up.

Once his vision is free from rippled blue, there’s Harry just inches away from him, looking a stark contrast to himself just moments before. No longer is he laid out basking in his pleasure, pinching his eyes shut and thrashing and whining, making it seem as though it’s never enough and too much at the same time. No, now he just looks—happy.

He’s still a gorgeous wreck of sweat and sex flush, an angel lying in a self-made bed of sin, but he’s also grinning so hard his cheeks are dimpled, and his shoulders are shaking with leftover laughter. He makes a vain attempt at pushing his hair out of his face, his fingers free of rings save the silver ‘peace’ band on one middle finger, and the dancing Dead bears on the other—both gifts from Louis—which glint in the sneaking sunlight.

Louis has to, so he does—dip forward and kiss him. Even though he must taste only of Harry’s own slick and pre, which has also dried to a tacky film all over his face. His eyes fall shut as Harry meets him in fervor regardless of this. Cups his sticky cheek, licks eagerly into his used mouth, and purrs deep in contentment. Louis presses a palm to the center of his chest to feel the thunderous rumble, and releases his own low, gritty note of content in return.

His mouth goes lazy, though, when he feels a warm, slicked palm suddenly circle around his cock. He hasn’t touched himself at all in too long, barely even grazing himself with the side of his hand while undressing. His breath hitches and his eyes flutter back open at a squeeze to his knot, at the same time Harry pulls away from their kiss.

Thankfully he lingers close with his breath coming in heavy puffs that ghost over Louis’ chin, and Louis finds dark pupils swallowing up that beloved jade green, focused intently on his own. Harry cracks a grin, pleased, when slipping down to Louis’ balls and cupping them in his palm, rolling them expertly.

His touch only leaves to, shit, rub over his slippery cunt and gather more slick, but it’s quickly back and jerking Louis with more fervor, now. Harry stays watching his face as he works base to tip, tightening his grip over his knot and bringing his foreskin over the tip before milking a drop in a hearty squeeze.

“Like that?” he slyly asks. Louis only humps his hips forward with a grunt. “Mm, thought so,” pecking the corner of his mouth.

Louis rasps a chuckle. “Careful there, ‘ve been hard up for awhile,” but humping into Harry’s fist.

“Oh? Think you can hold out for me?”

Louis thumbs into the sensitive strip alongside Harry’s neck, causing his grip to tighten momentarily. “Mm, I think I can manage.”

Harry pecks the side of his mouth again, scrunches his nose in a smile. He pulls away then, laying back down so he’s reclined by the sofa arm, parting his legs the same as before. It’s only now that his gaze, notably appreciative, travels down Louis’ own inked chest, taut stomach, down between his legs, and hones in.

“Oh,” Harry’s eyes promptly bulge, “fuck me, wish I’d gotten a better look at that earlier.”

Louis actually snorts in response—what a time to assess the situation. “C’mon now, you’ve seen it before,” he chides playfully, giving himself a few terse tugs. Pretending like he’s not at all flattered. “Don’t tell me you’re chickening out now, Styles.”

Harry chuffs and gives himself a little jerk, then spreading his fingers around the base, making it wag a touch. “Well, yeah, but I’ve not seen it like that before now,” pointedly looking down to Louis’ erection, “it’s not quite the same as you walking around in just your pants, or seeing it flopping around soft.” Flopping—Louis scoffs. “But no, m’not chickening out on you,” with a glean to his eye, and faux-whispering, “you’ve got no idea what’ve got hidden in my bedside drawers…”

Well—now he’s got a point to prove, doesn't he? Naughty little tease. Louis knees on closer into Harry’s space, promptly pinning one thigh down so his knee is pressed nearly to his shoulder. Harry oof’s but smirks like he’s gotten what he wanted. Even moves to hold the other leg himself in a mirrored pose. Open and willing.

Louis then rubs himself over Harry’s cock, the friction dry with his spit now evaporated over the shaft and the pre rubbed down his own not enough for a good slide, and they both hiss. Though, with a little skirt over Harry’s cunt, that’s easily fixed. He works fresh slick over his palm, the length of both of them, before holding them together in a loose fist.

Frots down against Harry joined in his cupped palm and marvels at the contrast between them—the bulging knot close to his own base that’s absent on Harry; his balls heavy between his thighs where Harry instead flowers open; how he’s completely stiff, standing straight up while Harry is somewhere between his own half-mast and fully on, hard but lacking that rigid snap.

And the dab of slick shared can only sustain them for so long, as intended, but before he can slide home, Louis smartly, although belatedly asks, “Ehm, y’don’t have a condom, do you?”

He’ll happily run off to his room, or Harry’s to fetch a foil—or two, or three—as he knows there's some hidden somewhere in this house, although he doesn’t think he’s ever seen any hidden in the wayside table located behind him and the perpendicular armchair, or between any of the cushions, in the ottoman located in front of the other armchair on Harry’s end.

But Harry only blinks up at him owlishly. “No, I don’t,” he confesses after a moment, “but, uhm, if you’d want to go without…”

Admittedly, Louis wasn’t quite expecting that response.

“Oh, ehm,” feeling a bit silly for some reason, “are you sure that’s a good idea?”

Not that he’s about to get into things, because he knows Harry knows; doesn’t need to recite to him the dangers of STIs, an unplanned pregnancy—the latter of which, with Harry, he really doesn’t want to get into, for reasons he won’t allow himself to even parse at this moment.

Harry shrugs, looks to the wayside. “You’ve picked up m’pills before,” which he has, and on numerous occasions: popping to the chemist’s to grab some popular over-the-counter low dose brand he’s got a note for in his phone. Having read the box a few times, one he knows that keeps Harry’s heats regular and slightly less frequent, as well as, as quoted by Harry, his ‘oven unoccupied’; Louis tips his head in acknowledgment, but is still wary. “And I know after, oh, what’s his name,” Louis really doesn’t think he imagines the clear crease in Harry’s brow when he darkly mutters, “Robbie,” but the crease disappears just as quickly as it had seemingly appeared, “that you went to the clinic, got checked out…?”

“Yeah, ehm, clean bill.”

(Harry doesn’t need to know, not now, that the two of them got tested regularly and weren’t seeing other people during their arrangement; used condoms more often than not, because Robbie hated the clean-up; not to mention Louis’ alpha was strangely content with not giving his seed to the omega—not that it makes much a difference, anyway.)

“Okay,” dragging it out. “Good, that’s, yeah, good. ‘Cause when ‘ve thought about, uhm, this,” a newfound flush finding him in the admittance, which is, it’s darling, so intriguing, just how many shades of pink and red he can turn; add to that the confirmation that Louis has been a recurring feature in Harry’s wet dreams, “I’ve thought about… been knotted. By you.” He slips just under his cock to that sensitive patch between his base and cunt proper, rubbing little circles there like he's got a proper clit, too—a move in pleasure Louis hasn’t witnessed often before. A shaky breath, “And filled up, bare.”

Louis doesn’t feel the move is a manipulation tactic as much as he does Harry unabashedly reflecting on fantasy. Vocalizing his desires by putting an offer on the table. And as much as he doesn’t want to entertain the thought that this thing between them right now could be a one-off, it could very much be just that, so if Harry’s asking, offering, and they’ve already confirmed there are measures in place for safety’s sake…

(Not that Harry couldn’t get pregnant with Louis bare inside of him, knotting having or having not taken place; while his fertility may skyrocket in heat, he’s plenty fertile outside of it, and Louis’ much the same in regards to being in rut or not.)

“Okay, yeah,” nodding, Louis decides. Harry’s gaze returns to him and his eyes are wide, hopeful. Confirming, “‘ll knot you, darling; give it t’you just how you want it, yeah?”

A, “Please,” leaves Harry’s lips breathy and excited rather than bashful or demure, this time. “Please gimme your knot, Lou,” a rumble in his throat as both hands sneak around his spread thighs, inching inwards to part plump, plush lips, “want it so bad…”

Well. What else can he do?

Louis steals one more chaste kiss from his mouth before taking himself in hand, holding himself steady at the base as he lines up right to Harry’s cunt, a flushed and soaking Nirvana. Harry politely keeps himself held open for Louis to slide over him—not teasing, but to get nice and lubed up first.

Once deemed coated well enough, Louis watches Harry’s face instead of his readied cunt. Holds him behind his knee, feeling over taut muscle as he presses on, in. Harry watches him, too, so awed and so open, already lighting up just as the tip breaches him. Louis works in slow but steady, his breath held as he slips further into the fevered clutch of Harry’s body. Their skin sliding together slowly elicits another wet sucking sound, but it stops with Louis just before he gets his knot inside.

It’s not often at all he knots up this early; at most there’s only a slight bulge before much happens, but that still waits to expand to its fullest point just before he cums, whether or not he’s wrapped in his own hand, a sleeve, a warm body. Doesn't even knot up every time he's turned on, either. Must be a show of his desire, or Harry’s—he’s got something magic in his scent, locked deep in his pussy.

Harry doesn’t complain that he keeps his knot outside, the bulb only brushing up against him. There’s a promise he’ll have it later, so he reaches to give it a feel, smear slick around it. Trail his fingers over where their bodies have finally met.

Louis releases a sigh of relief. If it was joy around his fingers and bliss around his tongue, Harry’s pussy is pure euphoria around his cock. A silky heaven, pulsing fever heat. He hasn’t even moved properly yet and he may already be addicted.

Retracting his hand away from their joining point, he shakily plants it on the sofa arm beside Harry’s head, bowing now over him. Harry peers up under dark lashes, chest back to heaving, and his fingers easily slot into the dips between Louis’ ribs. Fat bottom lip goes pinned under white teeth and Louis has to—break it, pulling out with a wet sucking noise before fucking his way back in, sharp.

“Oh,” Harry gasps, elated.

“Yeah?” and Louis repeats the move, only this time he aims a tinge higher so he’s dragging with purpose along the northern wall. Trying to catch Harry’s spot and have him tense up in pleasure. “That feel good?” needing the reassurance in layers, still—that he’s doing something right in concern of Harry’s pleasure first, and for his own esteem second.

Harry goes to answer him when another thrust has him keening instead, blunt nails quickly hooking into skin and bone. Louis stays in the same spot rocking in and out, steadily building up his speed until he’s built a rhythm that seems to keep consistent stimulation in all the right places. Eagle eye on Harry’s blissful expression.

Again he tries, “Feel good, baby?” and this time, Harry gives him what he wants.

“Uh-huh,” comes his answer, a little high and desperate, “oh, that’s, mm,” choking off as Louis goes in sharp, deep, his knot barely breaching. Just a little taste for later, before he changes to only slipping out halfway, purposefully stroking that responsive little notch with added pressure that makes Harry accuse, overjoyed, “Oh, you bastard—”

Louis laughs, breathless and blissful. Drowning in ecstasy born in his heart now radiating out through his whole body. Harry quickly clings to him the way he does when he koalas onto him for scenting, reaching for his shoulders and neck for better purchase when sweat makes him scrape uselessly at Louis’ ribs. Wraps his legs around his hips so his heels digging into lower back and bum, too. Spurring him along while holding on for dear life.

Fingers crossed, they’re doing this in a bed next time, or even on the floor, because they’re wearing this poor sofa down—isn’t it cute? It’s vintage! I found it online on some, uhm, upcycled homeware site I was researching for work. The upholstery is new and the joints have been tightened up a bit but the framework is original, from the seventies—making it creak and groan with persistent exertion. Meant for relaxation, not afternoon romps.

Neither of them are quiet, either, so it’s only adding to their noisemaking. Mixing in with it. Louis grunts and pants and swears under his breath, struggling to keep his eyes open to catalog every twitching muscle and expression change Harry showcases, while Harry expands on his earlier litany of filth by breaking apart his whimpers and groans with little yeah, yeah’s that rise and fall in pitch, crescendoing into sighs and chokes.

Which, naturally, gets Louis talking again.

“Y’like that, huh? Like that cock in your pussy?”

It seems to take him off course at first, almost disbelieving in the way he blinks dazedly, but then it registers and he—well, intends to nod, but more so jerks about.

“Mhm, love it—”

“Love it, eh?” Met with a moan, confirming uh-huh. “Love being, being stuffed full, don’t you, lovely?"

He’s still gripping Harry’s thigh in one hand, but he lets it go to reach down between them and spread his cunt open, watch himself disappear between slippery rose petals. Admire how much Harry’s body still has much to give, like there’s an entire ocean left inside him to coax out. Each slap of their bodies signals in a wet pap pap, and more spillage.

The litany of erotic sounds he pulls from Harry’s throat, ripe fruits plucked for harvest, they’re more than welcome and appreciated, but Louis still wants an answer from him. He dips down nice and close, nipping now along his prickly jaw, his bared throat.

“C’mon, darling, let me hear it,” sweetly but roughly from his exerted multitasking.

Harry’s breathing so hard, trying to swallow and catch his breath at the same time, so Louis slows to a languid yet deep roll of his hips, barely pulling out at all. How he’ll fuck Harry once he decides to get his knot inside. Admirable of him that he's fattened up already, even more that he didn't shoot off the second he sunk home. Maybe because he’s putting his all stretching this moment out long as he can, he’s unlocked a new level of stamina previously unknown.

Again, now in a sing-song, “Ha-rry,” before he attaches to his earlobe and tugs.

“C-Can’t,” Harry whimpers instead, clawing up his back now. His touch lingers in red stripes Louis will carry for days afterwards. Explains, “I-I’m too close,” so whiny, somewhere between exertion and genuine disappointment, “need it, y-your knot…”

“Are you sure?” Louis teases with a pout, barely moving now. “Already?”

Harry properly growls. Louis turns to see his forehead fold, clearly frustrated at the near halt in stimulation. He gives a little aborted hump downwards that does nothing to break Louis’ resolve.

Tired and wanting, he begs, “C’mon, fuck me with your knot,” circling his hips for his pleasure and turning his head, even as they’re so close together now they must see each other in double vision, “fill me up, w-want your…” sighing in relief, pleased that Louis starts moving again.

“Want me what?”

“Want your cum,” and he brings a shaky hand to press far under his navel, knocking his red, swollen cock to the side, “want it in here…”

Insatiable, he is. What a complex, complicated creature. Louis is nearly dizzy from the swirl of high emotion—impossible arousal, profound love, genuine awe—that’s all Harry’s doing. Not his fault his heart is as weak as his dick is hard.

“Inside, yeah? Good’n deep?” so excitedly, tail wagging. Confirming, Harry nods with newfound fervor. “Alright, darling, gonna give you it…” kissing his sweaty, hot cheek before sitting upright.

Harry preens at the promise, laid out ruined under him, holding him by the neck. Thumbing behind his ear fondly. His tongue pokes out too, a candied pink. Starving for it, like he’ll be given it in his mouth instead of his cunt.

Another time. Louis has yet to try knotting someone’s mouth, and Harry possesses a truly determined spirit.

Now, Louis doesn’t guide himself in, but he does want to see how he’ll fit his knot inside Harry’s tight pussy, especially since he’s long since been at full mast. He hasn’t tried to work inside like this before, at least not in another person, and he doesn’t want to hurt him during or after. So, just in case it’s uncomfortable for him, he switches his steadied hand so the right can jack Harry off with a bit more coordination.

The initial grip around his cock and Harry takes in a whistling breath, ooh. “Ah, don’t—not too much, babe, mmph. You’ll make me cum before y’get that nice, fat knot in me,” he warns, even as the smile tugging at the sides of his ruby lips suggests he’d be absolutely fine with that.

Louis still chuckles, “Don’t want that now, do we?”

“Nope,” popping the 'p', a drunk giggle before covering Louis’ hand over his cock. He loosens Louis’ fist with shaky fingers so it becomes more a teasing hold than proper grasp. Affirming with, “Mm, yeah, like that,” and showing him a pace akin to the slow, dragging thrusts he was giving moments, “mhm, just a little bit,” before he ceases his chaperoning. Is seemingly satisfied with Louis’ technique when Louis tries on his own once, twice.

“Ready then, little dove?”

These pet names just drop thoughtlessly off his tongue. Harry preens and nods eagerly.

It takes a little perseverance, but Louis somehow works his knot inside. Harry breathes steadily through the stretch, seemingly eased by the loose fist around his cock, or just wanting it that much he hardly feels a thing. For a second Louis is a bit let down there’s no comical pop! as he feels his hips press flush to Harry’s arse, sliding all the way home, hallelujah, but when he gives an experimental thrust and pushes a high, airy little laugh out of Harry, getting him to seize up beautifully—

“Oh, Jesus,” nearly balking at the pressure where he’s since grown the most sensitive, “fucking shit, you’re so tight.”

He bites his tongue as a distraction, trying desperately to not finish then and there. Whimpers, too, maybe. It proves difficult when he can only thrust so much, unable to escape the hot clutch of Harry’s darling cunt at the size he's at, but Harry—

He doesn’t seem to mind too much.

“That’s…” huffs a breath, his head falling back heavily to bare his working throat, jumping Adam’s apple, “oh you’re like right, right on my spot, holy shit,” and when Louis tries to pull out a little further, maybe get just part of his knot out for some extra friction, not overwhelming him so suddenly, he only ends up tugging against Harry, who decides rather quickly, “yeah, not gonna last,” getting choked up, his brows knitting as more rocking commences. “You’ve, you’ve got to hurry, m’not kidding, Lou—“

Limited in his action, Louis has no choice but to grind down into Harry. He works in circles, the inch he has to work with not quite enough to do what he wishes. Which is—truly fuck Harry into the sofa. And because he’s moving right against him, he quickly gets slick all over his hips, matting down his pubic hair and further, feels it dripping down his balls and thighs.

But Harry is, he’s an absolute mess beneath him. Making a real ruckus, so unabashedly noisy as he scrabbles for purchase, gets to further scratching up Louis’ shoulders and back. Louis gets maybe three loose tugs on his cock before Harry’s whimpering, shaking his head, too much, too much!, and Louis pulls his away as if he’s burnt it.

He changes tactics, then, because Harry’s desperate noisemaking is a fresh splash of gasoline thrown over the fire of arousal burning deep inside him, and all too soon he feels that familiar swooping and clenching deep in his gut, before he can think to try and stave it off longer.

“Fuck, ‘m close,” he warns, his grinding growing into frantic circles of his hips. Scratch that: “‘M really close—”

Harry nods frantically, thankful for his breaking point. “Yesyesyes,” he praises, hooked into Louis’ shoulder blades and digging hard into his lower back, spurring him on, “give it t’me, babe, fill me up—”

And Louis, he’d keep on going forever if he could; would wring Harry into a puddle, dry him out completely, if he even hinted that was something he desired. Alas, he’s only human, puny mortal, and their foreplay ran an extended act, leaving them both with a short fuse for the main production. They’re both a wreck, all drenched in sweat and slick and drunk on shared pleasure. The air around them is thick with cloying peaches and hot spice and peppery musk, so chokingly saccharine it signals nothing but arousal. The blanket underfoot—it’ll reek of their copulation through washes upon washes.

Part of Louis is thankful, though. He can’t remember sex ever being this good, having him so eager to chug along and actually able to do so. Has never felt so in-tune to another person’s pleasure, so easily keyed into their body and responses. This is what he’s been missing, or only having in small doses: true chemistry. But, because he wants, perhaps needs Harry to finish first, he copies Harry’s move from earlier: parting fingers around the base of his cock and working his thumb down under it, disappearing into his folds. Blindly he swipes over the thin stretch of pinked skin there, his rhythm clumsy and hoping it does something to work Harry over faster.

Just like that, Harry cums.

It happens so suddenly, it seems to take them both by surprise. All Louis knows is he gets a few frantic swipes in, buried to the hilt inside and quickly losing all his remaining coordination, and the punched out ah ah’s freely working themselves out of Harry’s open mouth start rising in pitch, cracking in mock-panic. Squeezes down around him almost painfully, then makes this choking sort of a sound that breaks seconds later with a loud, shaky exhale.

It’s a riptide, overcoming him without warning, but Harry is a masterpiece in his ecstasy. His brows pinch and his eyes, nearly all black, flutter closed. His whole body quivers with how hard his muscles tense up. He clings desperately to Louis as he rides through it, his cock spurting but a few weak pulses of pearly white over his belly and his cunt spasming, clamping, wanting to gush out around the plug of Louis’ knot but only managing to slip out a mere watery trickle.

What a lucky fucker Louis is, to witness such a sight. To elicit such a reaction. Luckier, still, that he has it freshly tattooed behind his eyelids as things come to a boiling point for him, too.

He has time to warn, though, choking out a, “Cumming, fuck, m’—” barely getting his proclamation out as his hips fuck frantically forward, tugging against Harry’s cunt and making him whimper. His gut flips over, balls seizing, and, “Fuck, fuck, fuck!” with his knot pulsing, finally feeding Harry his promise. Cumming in him just as he so begged, politely requested.

He quivers and quakes against Harry's body as he cums, and he cums long. Barely manages to keep from collapsing while Harry is recovering himself. All the while Harry’s cunt, greedy thing, milks his knot, pulling as much from him as he can, having him serve his base purpose. Those rhythmic contractions have him sensitive as soon as he’s able to catch his breath maybe a minute later, but they’re stuck together for the time being. Will have to work through it together.

It’s likely Louis won’t cum as much or for half as long as he would at any point in his rut, but having popped so early, he’s not positive how long they’ll be tied for, or if a few extra waves of release will find him as Harry’s body naturally stimulates his knot, only freeing him to soften and shrink until he’s officially been run dry.

Head in the clouds, loopy with orgasm, Louis settles down atop him. Careful to try and keep his weight balanced, yes, but atop him nonetheless. Their skin immediately sticks together, all tacky with sweat and cum and slick—evidence of their valiant efforts. He goes straight for Harry’s neck to bury into and finds the peach and spice surprisingly starting to mellow, going backseat to newfound honey and cream.

Harry is—coasting along. He’s not dropped and he’s not drifted off, but he’s not totally grounded either. Almost as if he’s tuning out, daydreaming, his eyes are lazy and unfocused, and his grip is present, albeit slack. Louis noses deeper into his neck and lets his eyes fall closed for a moment, definitely exhausted.

Nosing quickly becomes lazy kisses, and that seems to wake Harry up a little. Reground him. He snuffles happily and turns into Louis’ damp hair, feels over his skin and the raised stripes he’s etched across his back with a feathery touch. His legs unfurl but still bracket his hips, their posture only relaxing lest he lock up completely like that.

Louis just—he revels in the peace, the quiet. In Harry. He considers the aftermath of things as reality settles a slow blanket over him and waits for the panic to come, because he should be panicking, just a little—like he just, he caught Harry having a wank and ended up fucking his brains out and knotting him—but there’s… nothing. The anxiety is either not meant to find him, or it’s been kindly delayed by some higher power, to allow him to bask peacefully in this moment. Share some momentary bliss before things come crashing down around him.

And when, if that happens, he might blame Niall for it. Just because he can.

For now though, he’ll listen to Harry’s slow, heavy breathing, and rumble happily at the wandering touches skirting over his cooling skin. If his eyes flutter shut for a few minutes, Harry doesn’t seem to mind enough to wake him.

♡

“Lou, Louis,” a kiss his temple, hands on his hips, “Louis, babe, wake up…”

Louis stirs slowly awake bleary-eyed and bodily exhausted. The room is a blur around him. His back’s sore, his neck twinges. So out of it it takes him a moment to realize it’s Harry whispering his name, and Harry still laid out underneath him

Louis gives a sleepy grunt in response and shifts slightly, finds his knot isn’t yet shrunken down enough to comfortably separate them. He’d be happy to go back to sleep and wait until it’s over, but Harry is tenderly petting down his sides, kissing his face everywhere he can reach, and he doesn’t want to miss out on that.

Hunkering down in Harry’s neck, finding more subtle peaches and cream, “Time’sit?”

“Mm, dunno,” tracing the wing of each shoulder blade in circular motions, “m’phone’s on the table… and it’d appear we’re idiots who don’t have a proper clock in their lounge.”

“Thought we did?” he ponders, yawning, stroking Harry’s neck with the tip of his nose. “Oh wait,” remembering then, blearily, “no, you’re right—the one we had in the old lounge’s in the kitchen now… the old kitchen one broke when we moved,” yawning again, “so we swapped them since that gallery clock looks better in the kitchen here than it does out here…”

Harry hums thoughtfully, then, “Oh, you’re right! Pfft, fuck was I thinking,” tracing the shell of Louis’ ear now, “I think you fucked me so good you melted my brain a bit.” Louis releases a contented grumble, ego sleepy yet stroked, and nips over Harry’s jugular playfully. Harry chuckles and pinches his hip in turn. “Actually," patting his back, "I woke you up because, as cute as you are when you're asleep, you radiate a crazy amount of body heat when you’re knocked out, and I’m kind of cooking here.”

Louis kisses the area he just nipped in apology. “Well, I can’t quite get off you yet.”

“I think if we’re careful, we can flip over…”

Which they do, thankfully, with some careful maneuvering—mostly core strength on Louis’ end. Manage to flip over and shift to the opposite end of the sofa. Get Louis sitting reclined against a throw pillow with Harry perched, still knotted, in his lap. Here, he holds Harry around his waist, easily returning the favor in affection by scratching lightly down his back, kneading into his chubby hips. It’s Harry’s turn for rest now, his arms draped over his shoulders, purring contentedly with the thumbs at his hips, the teasing scratches down his freckled back.

Gives Louis a lapful of happy, sated omega.

And he’s not asleep, Louis can tell; Harry can fall asleep most anywhere—a skill of his Louis has always envied, when he in turn needs the right amount of darkness, temperature, and blanket to drift off—but he also sleeps like the dead, where his breathing gets quiet and slow and he goes stone-stiff. Now, he’s too fidget-y. Too noisy in his contented chirps and chuffs to be anything other than awake, albeit peacefully at rest.

Harry keeps on milking him even though there’s nothing left for him to give, but eventually Harry’s body tires of that, too, and they’re finally able to separate. It’s a shaky, careful process that returns them to their original position. Louis pulls out of slowly, both of them hissing at the release. While Louis feels raw and oversensitive to touch, particularly so around his tip and shrunk knot, Harry is a right and proper mess through and through—all swollen and worked open, his pussy flushed red and smeared a creamy mess.

Louis’ stomach swoops as his cum starts to dribble out, the slowest pour, considering maybe trying to help by licking up some of the mess he’s made, but his dick actually hurts at the prospect of trying to get hard again, of any arousal finding him, so that option is off the table.

Harry seems to fair no better though, wincing as he tries to feed some of the thick spillage back inside. His cock has returned to full softness, small and limp and doing next to nothing to help hide the wreckage decked below. When he brushes past it, he makes a hurt sort of sound, and Louis can’t help to rub over his thigh, trying to soothe him.

“Jesus, are you alright?”

Harry just laughs dryly. “After getting the dicking of my life? Never been better, actually,” no hint of sarcasm; pure honesty. He brings his messy fingers, spiderwebbed pearly and sticky with a combination of his own slick and Louis’ spunk, up to eye level, and pulls them apart slightly. Peering up to Louis, his brows raised in curiosity, he suckles the mess away. Louis watches, transfixed, as Harry then smacks his lips, twitches his nose. Decides, “Hm. Not bad,” before giving his thumb another lick. “Maybe next time you can clean me up?”

Next time—Louis can’t help the relieved grin from spreading across his face.

“I—yeah, absolutely.”

Scenting commences as Harry proves to be happy little koala even after being knotted for however long, but Louis can’t complain; he revels in the soft notes he finds radiating from Harry’s skin. Milk and honey, peaches and cream, something almost herbal to it. It’s a balm, a blanket. Registers only as contented.

Tummies growl shortly thereafter, though—no surprise they've worked up an appetite—and Harry sags in dramatized relief when Louis briefly excuses himself to the front hall and returns, grinning, with their takeaway. Brings their phones, too, surprising to find that it’s been nearly an hour since he first walked in through the door.

Their feast is spread across the coffee table for sharing and they do, indeed, pick off each other’s plates, share sips of the sweetened milk tea and smooth coffee, no ownership claimed. Bodies remain bare, worked out and in need of a good wash as limbs naturally tangle together, and Harry's half sitting on Louis' lap again before half of his green papaya salad is gone. 

Once bellies are adequately filled, Louis haphazardly cleans up, putting their leftovers in the refrigerator with the shared, half-drunk cups. He returns to find Harry with a sleepy grin and his arms lifted wordlessly, no need to clarify. Somehow he’s got some strength left and manages to scoop Harry up, carry him down the hall for a good washing.

And Louis finds himself continuing to bask in a dreamy state of bliss, now standing under the warm shower spray with Harry. Another instance of never having imagined something like this becoming a reality. He might pinch himself when Harry leans in to kiss him against the tiled shower wall, and again when Harry pouts and says he wants to wash his hair, get out of the water, s’my turn, but every request made after that he just—he takes it in stride.

He’s got a sudsy loofa in hand, counting the stars of moles and freckles spread across strong shoulders as he washes Harry’s back, when he lets slip that, “You’re beautiful.”

Harry leans back against him, smearing lemon and rosemary-scented suds between them. In an almost disbelieving murmur, he asks, “Mean that?”

And how could he not? Maybe he speaks in layers with Harry, carefully omitting what he deems it best he doesn’t know, but he never outright lies. He’s such a shit liar, there'd be no point. Harry has long since learned all his tells.

“‘Course I do,” and Louis kisses the back of his neck, drags the loofa around and down his chest, over his belly, “you ever look in the mirror?” Nibbles along the shell of his ear, “You’re absolutely gorgeous. Feel like I just can’t, can’t get enough of youse.”

“Stoooop,” Harry whines, gripping backwards to hold his hips and settle his arse, all soapy and round, right against his groin. “Knock it off, you’re making me all, all flustered…”

Straight from the heart, “Like that’ll make you any less darling.”

Louis sucks along the side of his neck and Harry chirps in content. Rocks his hips back as the loofa travels up over his puffed nipples and back down, over his fluttering butterfly and clenching tummy, barely grazing over his soft cock before it dips into the valley of his strong thighs, washing away a sticky messy that keeps trickling from him.

“You make me a mess,” he sighs, tired, his head tipped back to present an eager mouth that Louis steals swiftly in a kiss. Pulls away with a breath to continue, “An absolute mess. Y’don’t even have to do a thing and I, I’m,” turning around now, and the loofa drops uselessly to the floor, pooling bubbles around their feet, “an absolute fucking wreck,” laughing, exasperated. Then, as he cups Louis' cheek, brushes their noses together: “Feel like I can barely function around you...” in a near whisper.

It's achingly honest. Harry speaks in a low tone, just for him. Barely heard over the spray echoing around the room. It aches Louis' heart, feels as though each word hooks in and tugs. And breaking through the citrusy clean of Harry’s soap is a fresh, albeit small, wave of spice and juicy peach, too. Louis feels more than a little helpless, a little overwhelmed, at more shows of wanting.

Says, dumbly, “Could’ve fooled me,” in place of saying something too honest, too stupid, to which Harry just shakes his head, lets loose that honking laugh, and dips in to kiss him again.

This time, there’s a hint of teeth and a happy rumble that, too, echoes through the bathroom when Louis returns the nip. Warm hands paw over his arse, kneading in and squeezing, and maybe, maybe he could go again after all.

Ironic, isn’t it, that they’re supposed to be getting clean and all Louis wants to do in that moment is dirty Harry up again? He's such a pushover for Harry's wants, already. And the vision of Harry's used, swollen cunt open and leaking pearly white is so fresh in his mind, could be so easily to replicate...

He’s decided, yes. Bare skin and warm water quickly birth newfound fervor. He pins Harry up against the shower wall and takes hungrily from his mouth, squeezing his waist and thumbing over his nipples at once. Feeling over where he’s still left slippery with soap. Harry promptly ruts them together, cocks bumping still sensitive as the drag of wet skin makes them both take heavy breaths, unsure as to whether grow closer to pull apart. Nerves still too overstimulated for direct contact.

“Dunno if I can fuck you again right now,” admits Louis, even as he tries to rub off against Harry’s hip, get some blood pumping again, ignoring best he can the uncomfortably raw sensation. Doesn’t want to disappoint him, thinking if he does Harry will swiftly change his mind, and chalk this all up to a moment of weakness. Call it an accident, and Louis won’t—he can’t handle that. “Fuck, I really want to…”

Harry only peppers his cheek with—surprising affection. “S’alright, honey,” unbothered, “I don’t think I can get hard again right now, either. Or get all that wet again.” He effectively squeezes Louis’ bum once more, inching his fingers closer to his crack this time. Louis gives a shiver at the mere intention. “I’ve got, uhm, a different idea, if you want to…?” inching closer and pressing in dry.

There's no time to linger.

“Yeah, fuck, c’mon—”

So Louis leans chest-down against the cool tile and watches over his shoulder as Harry steadies him with one hand on his hip, then reaches down between his own legs and hooks up, in. Breathes heavy as he does it, gathering any remaining slick he has yet to offer. Withdrawing his fingers, showing them off, they’re thoroughly drenched. It's pearly, still, to neither of their surprise. He's meant to deliver as far in as he can, get as close to the target as possible. Even if they properly try to clean him out, there'll be some lingering evidence yet.

Louis takes a deep breath at the initial parting of his arse cheeks, and the feeling of two wet fingers swiping deftly over his hole. Stroking over it, petting, just pushing against the puckered skin, testing his resistance. Slicking him up well. Warm water trickles down over them still, leftovers, even with the shower head turned downwards and water set to ‘cool’, their joined bodies away from the spray.

It’s been—a minute, since he’s done this.

Without slick and naturally flexible muscles to aid him, prep here takes time and patience. Has to be in the mood, too, to want to deal with all steps necessary. He can recall, albeit hazily, a moment in his last rut where he lubed his fingers with his own spunk and dipped two fingertips into his hole, worked them in over the span of two orgasms until they were curled tight together against his prostate. Came without a hand on himself as a third climax rolled over him.

But Harry is careful. Tender, even. Works him open slowly with more of his own wet to get one, then two slim fingers inside. Nips at his shoulders and kisses behind his ear, too, and tells him how tight and warm he feels, almost excited as he says it.

His fingers crook and curl expertly, practice paying off. The pleasure his touch elicits comes in sparks that settle deep in Louis’ gut, melting down his core. Each careful stroke laid into his spot has him moving back against Harry’s hand, eagerly chasing the feeling, and Harry doesn’t leave him wanting or waiting.

Tells him, so awed, “You’re amazing,” and, “taking it so well, aren’t you?” with butterfly kisses to spare, everywhere he can reach without pulling his fingers away. Even rubs down Louis’ chest, his belly, quickly cradling his balls and thumbing up the seam of them, then back to rub over his perineum. “Would y’let me fuck you, baby?” and here comes the desperation in his tone, and peaches making Louis’ mouth water all over again.

Never mind their arousal coming to a buzz rather than a symphony. Louis nods fervently, craving it so badly just as Harry plants the idea in his head that he feels a fresh swoop of dizziness. Harry delights his response in a pleased hum and continues to work.

And it’s not long before it’s over. Not surprising. Harry’s dirty talk is more excitable, more plaintively awed than Louis’ own penchant for filthy teasing and sugary compliments, but it plucks at all the right strings anyway. He doesn’t even get all the way hard for Harry to finish him off—just cums with a shudder, a groan, his cheek pressed hard against cold tile, all while Harry strokes his spot and praises his efforts. His cock gives the weakest kick and Harry catches what drops he has left to spill in the cup of his hand, and makes sure he’s looking back when he rubs it over his cunt, dips it back inside.

Of course, Louis has to return the favor. Always an attentive lover on his own, and an already insatiable one at Harry’s expense.

And Harry is so receptive to his touch, he caves easily when Louis flips them back around and has him up against the wall. Not minding at all his unsteady hands and swaying. No, he’s grinning, hungry when Louis promptly licks back into his mouth, and follows him even when he’s pulling away—

“Stay still, darling, ‘ll make you feel good.”

Not that Louis even has a plan; he’d love nothing more than to fuck square indentations of the tile into Harry’s chest and belly, but it’ll likely be tomorrow before he can chub up again, and he feels too jelly-legged to even think about using a smooth, wet floor to stabilize himself. They'll likely brain themselves on the faucet, or slip right out of the tub, taking the curtain and half wall with them, if they try anything adventurous right now.

He sidesteps by sinking down to reach Harry’s nipples, still reddened and swollen from earlier attention. He draws the right one into his mouth, eyes cast skywards to catch Harry’s reaction—beautiful. Just like that, he pushes into Louis’ mouth and tugs on his hair, set on keeping him close.

Louis gets to squeezing into the supple flesh, too. Thinks about how he’d milk Harry here, just as he wants to his pussy.

Lest he let things get away from him, greed stealing his fortune just as he gets his hands upon it, he takes only a moment to imagine Harry with heaving breasts, full and round and leaking cream. Would massage carefully into the weight of them while he kept his mouth occupied around puffed, dark nipples, waiting eagerly for something buttery and warm to spill out across his tongue. Ease any discomfort Harry held there at the same time he gave him pleasure in trailing the tight seam of his pussy, or skirting his fingers over his cock.

Harry gets needy fast. Pouts, “Lou,” even as Louis is giving ample attention to his other nipple.

Without a second thought, he gives the pert nub a proper nip. Elicits a sharp gasp. Tells him to, “Be patient,” before kissing the stinging bud in apology.

It gets Harry’s knees wobbling, surprisingly. Has him pigeon-toed to stay upright and Louis ponders if that means something, and if they’ll be able to incorporate into things. Knowing already Harry has a penchant for being needy, then he may truly also have one for brattiness, as earlier suspected—he’s so easily able to get his way just being himself—and Louis is curious to see if that truly is the case, or his imagination is getting the better of him.

He can wait, though. He wants his mouth on Harry, first, with a nice, long, proper nap to follow. A nap preferably had on a bed and not a stained blanket, and maybe Harry curled into or against his chest as opposed to stuck under him. There's strength to regain, if he wants to keep up with Harry's proven appetite.

Kneeling, he taps Harry’s right hip. “Can y’bring your leg up over m’shoulder, baby?”

Harry nods, stabilizes by gripping his shoulder before swinging his leg up, over. Opening up. So messy, he is. Wet already, or still, and with fresh cum smeared over blushing petals. Looks edible. Without preamble, Louis crowds in for a taste.

That has Harry crumbling down already. “Ooh,” with fingers scrambling against smooth tile to the unoccupied soap dish, and down to cup his cock, hold it away, a favor. Now Louis can nose into that little patch he’s already infatuated with, and slip his tongue right into it. “Ha! I wasn’t…” Harry releases a noise from high in his throat, his head tipping back, telling the foggy ceiling, “wasn’t kidding when I said you give great he-head.”

Too preoccupied to laugh at Harry’s reaction, Louis only pats his thigh. Helps hold him open under his propped thigh, kneading in as he works. And how he works, making a fresh mess of his face as he tries to coax all his spunk out. Taste it possibly candied by Harry’s slick instead of the familiar bitter he's come to know.

Harry’s just so nice on his tongue, though, even without nectar to sample. Must be overwhelming to have all those sensitive spots so easy to access, perhaps even treated at times like no technique is needed to work them—a lovely bundle of nerves so close to the start, built there to make any prodding, any knotting stimulate all the good hormones, make pleasure go hot and molten right away; little patch just above the cunt proper, absent of any notch for purchase but nice to rub at nonetheless; a patchwork web of nerves that connect the pleasure inside to that outside, cock to cunt and beyond.

Or maybe—Harry’s just particularly sensitive? It’s why Louis watches his reactions so carefully. He just wants to make sure. Has learned so much already, but still has so much more knowledge to obtain. Needs the firsthand experience as much as he can get it, as if he’s got an apprenticeship in studying Harry’s body. Still needs his reassurances, this early on, too.

So he pulls away with fresh slick on chin to ensure, “Alright?”

With a huff, Harry only presses his face back in.

Hopefully that means yes, then.

Poor thing’s all stretched out from earlier, he doesn’t want to overwhelm him. End up making it painful. He only gives Harry a single finger and keeps it rubbing with alternating pressure over his spot. Sucks around his breached finger, too, tracing the inside and out of the fluttery wings he works between up to his favorite spot, because paying Harry’s cock any attention right now is out of the question.

Unless—

He bumps Harry’s cupped hand out the way to find him still mostly soft, but he twitches like he’s interested. Maybe just a little bit will enough?

Sitting up straighter, he brings the tip to his mouth. Experimentally pokes his tongue out to trace around what peeks out from the foreskin, finding a tart bead of arousal. Harry trills high at that, but he doesn’t shy away. He pants loud, tangles his nimble fingers in Louis’ damp hair to keep him there, saying yes and please like that.

Louis peeps up Harry’s inked torso to find a familiar sight: a rosy flush befitting of angels and cherubs joined in sin with heaving breaths and a supple bitten lip. Curls hang limp and wet in his face, boyishly charming. The silver of his hanging cross glints off the overhead light, any sunlight that trails in through frosted glass windows.

Heaven, really. Louis has found it stretched out on a refurbished 1970’s sofa and backed up against slippery tile in a half exposed bath stall. It smells like spiced, honeyed peaches and tastes like green summertime.

He feels it when Harry’s close, this time. All that sensitivity has him tensing in offbeat pulses, squeezing down around a gently petting finger. He’s not as leaky as before, but he’s still soaked Louis’ hand and messed his face.

And this time, Harry gets to warn, “‘m cumming, ‘m cumming,” in a hurry, all frantic, just before his little cock twitches in Louis’ mouth to give him a dribble. Jitters inside before locking up to give a nice little gush around his fingers this time, though—not explosive, not what Louis would like to work Harry up to, but extra spillage that comes with a clenched tummy and choked breath nonetheless. His body tenses longer than he expels, and when he does start coming down, it's with a relieved, “Oh my god,” before he's looking Louis in the eye to say, awed, “that was, was so good, fuck…”

Slipping his finger out, standing back up with a wobble, Louis feeds him his mess by trading the bitter drops between their mouths, drooling into Harry’s mouth to give him as much as he can. When he swallows, Louis sucks his finger clean and allots Harry a taste of that, too.

Charmed, “You’re just filthy, aren’t you?”

Harry grins, sticks his tongue out. Insatiable creature.

♡

Louis receives his post-coital nap hardly dried from the shower he and Harry share—the actual shower, not just the exploratory round two had between washes—at nearly two in the afternoon. Together they crash land in Louis’ bed simply because he’s closer to the bathroom, and fall asleep with wet hair atop the comforter. Legs are tangled and arms hang limp over waists when they awake in a later daze, the sun having just started to sink low in the sky.

Spent their afternoon shagging, eating and sleeping, they did. What a wonderful life.

Harry leaves Louis naked with a kiss to the forehead and returns minutes later with the remainders of their lunch and two steaming cuppas—decaf green for himself, decaf Yorkshire for Louis. They enjoy cold leftovers in the quiet, unabashedly naked without blankets and pillows for cover, too exhausted to their marrow to dress properly. Shame—it's nonexistent. They're far passed it.

Empty takeaway containers are lugged to the bin post-supper and teeth are brushed lazily, leaning into each other's sides and playing with bedhead, laying foamy, minty kisses on shoulders. The door is left open as they take shifts having their pre-bedtime wee, Louis going first to try and make them a proper bed. Crumbs are hastily dusted away for sheets to be pulled back, and he struggles to keep his eyes open once tucked into his blankets, for Harry to return.

For a moment he fears that won't happen, because the bathroom light flicks off and Harry disappears down the hallway. Alert he stays, holding his breath, but Harry doesn't leave him hanging. Couldn't, it seems. He returns still undressed but radiating warmth and comfort, back to swathing Louis in peaches and cream as he crawls between the cool sheets parted for him, and snuggles in close, rested partly on his belly. His cheek comes to Louis' chest and a long leg furls over his hip, spooning him on the side. Louis promptly wraps an arm around his shoulders and turns into his damp hair to breathe in peppermint shampoo. Just because he can.

“I put the washing in the machine,” Harry explains around a yawn, then, “but, mm, ‘ll take care of it in the morning. Might have to, uhm, see about getting the cushions cleaned, too...”

Louis hums his sleepy agreement, his eyelids already too heavy to keep open. “Later,” he decides.

He only manages a dry, long peck to Harry’s warm forehead before turning out like a light.

Unbeknownst to him in his peaceful, slumbering state—this, is how it starts.

♡ to be continued ♡