Archive of Our Own

They’re about two hours north of Bend when it starts.

Louis leans forward in his seat behind Harry on the bike with enough force that his helmet knocks into Harry’s own. Harry’s head jolts then recovers, not unlike the countless times he’s been hit in the visor by a bug. His hands tighten around the bike’s handlebars reflexively, bracing for whatever’s coming next from the loose cannon behind him.

“I’m bored,” Louis yells, just loud enough for Harry to make it out under his helmet’s carbon-fibre shell, and over the roar of the engine and the wind.

“Couple more hours,” Harry yells back, turning slightly toward Louis, then jerking away when their helmets clash for a second time.

“Don’t care,” Louis shouts, somehow angling his head so his mouth is in the crook of Harry’s neck. His words disperse in the wind, but his breath hovers close, swirling up under Harry’s helmet like a warm current in a cold ocean.

Harry just concentrates on keeping the bike, his beloved 1974 Norton Commando, flying down Oregon's Route Something-Or-Another as the forgotten strip of asphalt slices through the Willamette Valley farmlands. He’s doing a pretty good job of it, too—of ignoring Louis, despite the increasing restlessness in his twitching fingers and squeezing thighs—until Louis bites down, that is, sinking his teeth into the gap between Harry’s helmet and the collar of his leather jacket.

“Jesus, Lou! What the fuck?!” Harry barks, but he manages - miraculously - not to flinch, or worse, to shove his shoulder back into Louis hard enough to knock him off the bike at sixty miles per hour.

Louis doesn’t reply, just unlatches and drags his tongue over the spot where his teeth had been.

The wind hits the patch of saliva and Harry shivers involuntarily.

Louis can feel that, of course, and in response, he tightens his entire body around Harry like a belt that’s been ratcheted down a notch.

Fortunately for Harry’s dignity, the noise he makes is swallowed by the wind.

He knows he’s supposed to be in charge here - he’s the one driving the damn bike, after all, but the thrill of the engine between his thighs is a distant second to that of Louis wrapped around him.

(Second, but not nonexistent. Sometimes, he thinks about… he wonders, if he were a woman, what the rumble of the bike would feel like on his pussy…)

Get it the fuck together, Styles. Harry tears his thoughts away from the blood surging to his dick, scolding himself for the thousandth time since his soon-to-be costar showed up at his door wearing hi-top Chucks with holes in them and a beat-up canvas backpack over his shoulder, more adolescent runaway than award-winning movie star.

The leisurely road trip that had started that day two weeks earlier, winding along the slow and scenic coastal highways from LA to Seattle, was Louis’ idea.

It was meant to be a bonding exercise - traveling to the film’s shooting location together as an opportunity to get to know their characters, the script, and one another.

And, yeah, they’ve bonded alright.

They’ve bonded in a dozen roadside motels from LA to Oregon, in the guest room of Louis’ buddy’s place in the Castro, and even once on a beach somewhere south of Mendocino.

It’s not the constant sex Harry has a problem with.

It’s the feelings.

Feelings like how - the more Harry watches Louis work (scribbling notes all over his script - furious blue ballpoint chicken scratch only he can understand), watches Louis laugh (eyes squinting into slits and nose scrunching up until his mouth drops open), and watches Louis get high (hands dancing through the air while his mouth runs a mile a minute), the more Harry finds himself thinking that he’s never been this captivated by the simple facts of someone’s existence before.

Not to mention how, when Louis looks over and catches him staring, a look washes over his face that Harry is afraid to translate, but thinks maybe he doesn’t have to. He thinks maybe Louis has never felt this in sync with another person before, either.

But the unspokenness of it all is gnawing at Harry’s gut, a churning paranoia that he’s misreading things, or what’s happening between them isn't real—that it’s just an exercise in method acting.

Still, it’s altogether too easy to ignore those doubts when Louis is always right there doing things like sliding his hand up under Harry’s unzipped leather jacket and worn t-shirt.

Cold fingertips spread across his stomach as Louis holds on, his pinkie and ring finger dipping beneath the waistband of Harry’s jeans. Louis isn’t doing anything more than that, just lightly scratching his hand through the hair beneath Harry’s belly button.

That’s enough, though.

That and his breath against Harry’s neck, hotter than the air they’re speeding through… Those little things are more than enough for Harry’s pulse, which hasn’t exactly calmed down, to kick back up a notch, and for his cock to jerk like it’s trying to reach Louis’ fingers on its own accord.

Louis can either read Harry’s mind or his body because he suggests, “Why don’t we find a spot to pull over, yeah, babe?” in a tone Harry shouldn’t be able to hear over the wind.

Then, before Harry can even process the words, much less scan the roadside for a suitable parking spot, the hand on his stomach flicks the button of his fly undone, then gives his cock a brief squeeze over his jeans before withdrawing completely.

Louis leans back, bouncing up and down in his seat once, and that’s probably the biggest tell Harry is going to get that he’s affected, too.

Meanwhile, Harry is officially very hard.

+++

They haven’t seen another car in maybe thirty minutes, but he still aims for an upcoming patch of low, scrubby pines flanking the asphalt up ahead, their best bet at camouflage on the otherwise open, flat road.

The last thing they need is a Good Samaritan pulling over to check on them only to discover Academy Award nominee Louis Tomlinson with his hand wrapped around another man’s cock. Another man who happens to be that guy from that band, the one with the magazine covers and Grammys to prove it.

For all Harry’s prudence and paranoia, the thought of Louis being so easy for him that he’d risk getting caught causes yet another rush of blood to the cock in question, followed by a wet, hot pulse of precome. With the jostle of each breath that follows, Harry feels the moisture spreading into the cotton of his briefs, the damp fabric clinging to the erection that’s beginning to throb distractingly.

He makes the executive decision to pull onto the shoulder; they’re close enough to the trees.

They both fumble with the kickstand so the bike doesn’t take them down into the dirt; Harry tries to kill the engine, but Louis gruffly tells him no, and Harry finds himself remembering that time he’d fucked a girl on a washing machine and been jealous of her…

So, with the Norton rumbling beneath them, and Louis wrapped around him from behind with his chin hooked over Harry’s shoulder, they both watch as Louis’ hand finishes unzipping Harry’s fly.

Tattooed fingers slide into Harry’s jeans this time, cupping his cock and balls over his Calvin Klein briefs with just enough force to roll Harry’s hips under, shifting him back as snugly as he can fit in the cradle of Louis’ thighs. Harry lets out a moan that Louis can hear this time, the subtle shift in position hitting Harry like a seismic wave, enough force to knock the wind out of him, to threaten to make him come far too soon.

“Spit, babe,” Louis commands, removing the warm weight of his hand and bringing it up to Harry’s mouth.

Harry complies, licking his palm messily, and Louis returns to the vee of his open jeans to pull him out of his underwear with far more reverence than the situation warrants, neatly tucking the waistband under his balls.

It’s tight, the sort of too tight that would ordinarily hurt, especially in the wake of Harry already feeling too tight all over—his cock, his balls, his shoulders and thighs straining inside leather and denim clothes that have no give. The elastic band might have been the final straw, were it not for the crisp September air soothing his hot skin and Louis muttering in his ear, his voice laced with awe.

“Fuck,” Louis breathes, barely audible over the engine. “Oh, fuck.” His voice is reedy, pitchy, desperate, for two words only before he gets himself under control. “Look how fucking wet you are, baby. Don’t even need me.”

Shame floods Harry. The good kind. The kind that feels like honey, sticky and warm and golden. The kind that accompanies wanting Louis to call him beautiful, to tell him what perfect handfuls his tits are, how tight and wet his pussy is.

Louis won’t do that because Louis doesn’t know, but his tone is almost enough, and it’s matched by the delicateness of his fingertips as he smears the wetness up over Harry’s cock with a featherlight touch.

His other hand is splayed across Harry’s stomach, holding him in place with an iron grip like he’s capable of going anywhere but ascending to the cloudless sky right now. Harry’s hands are digging into his denim-covered thighs to keep them off himself. Louis hadn’t asked, but he hadn’t needed to.

“Oh my fucking god,” Louis mutters again, as they watch Harry’s cock shiver and blurt, spilling out more precome that pools and beads in his exposed pubes.

It’s too much, the sight of Louis’ hand tracing his bare cock in the midday sun, on display to the endless plains surrounding them. It makes Harry feel like an exposed nerve. It makes him feel like the time he ignored a cavity until it wore right through to the pulp and the pain of air hitting it had been so searing, a thousand times worse than his worst tattoo, that all he could do between doses of painkillers was close his eyes and hang on.

He closes his eyes now, too, against the burn of the sun and Louis’ gaze, and that’s when he feels rather than sees the callused pads of Louis’ guitar-playing fingers paint his neck with his own wetness. A moment later they’re replaced by Louis’ mouth lapping and sucking it off.

Louis must’ve lost his helmet at some point because Harry can feel the softness of his hair and the drag of his stubble, and it’s only after he’s had that thought that he realizes Louis’s removed his as well. His left hand is carding through Harry’s hair, pulling gently on it to expose Harry’s neck to his mouth.

The hand doesn’t stay in one place long, though, moving to cradle Harry’s jaw and wrap around his neck, then bicep, then hip as Louis fidgets relentlessly in his seat behind Harry. Harry thinks he might actually be shaking.

And the things that he’s saying. Fuck.

“How… how is it always like this?” Louis babbles as his lips grazes Harry’s jawline and his right hand leaves Harry’s shoulder to wrap around the erection that’s twitching in his lap like a caught fish on a dock - finally, finally putting it out of its misery. “I can’t fucking take it. Most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. All of you. Want this cock all goddamn day. Your hands too, and those fucking tits, and that tight hole. Fuck me, wish I were buried in it now. Would you want that, baby? Me fucking into you like this? You just taking my cock on the side of the road? Wouldn’t even need to work for it because the bike’s doing it for you…”

That’s too much, too.

Harry tries to switch off his ears like he has his eyes, tries to last for Louis, but his words have reminded Harry of the bike reverberating beneath him, of all the other things he can feel. All the things he can’t shut out…

Things like the hard line of Louis cock pressed against his ass, the vibrations on his hole that’s clenching around nothing, the pull of his balls drawing up, of Louis cupping his left pec, thumbing the nipple while his right hand flies over Harry’s dick.

He’s still kissing Harry’s neck between words, chewing on it and on the shell of his ear, the vice-like grip of his muscular thighs caging Harry in, all of him holding Harry together while he’s on the brink of falling apart.

But it’s the feeling of the cold breeze on his burning hot cock that causes Harry to shiver and open his eyes to look down at the vignette of his pink cock in Louis’ tan hand against the black and silver bike, and that does it - a single stroke later and he’s watching himself come.

Louis moves quickly enough to catch most of it in his cupped palm before it ruins Harry’s leather jacket and the leather saddle, but the loss of the warm circle of his hand causes Harry to whine through the series of suddenly unsatisfying aftershocks.

He thinks he can feel Louis giggling into the side of his neck, the sadistic prick.

But then he’s bringing his hand up to Harry’s mouth again, offering the contents to him. And Harry had no choice but to slowly unclench his balled fists, uncurling his aching fingers just enough to wrap them around Louis’ wrist, to hold his hand in place and diligently clean it off.

(Maybe this is what bandanas are really for, Harry wonders.)

He still has Louis’ fingers in his mouth when he feels Louis’ forehead knock against the back of his neck, his nose nuzzling through the sweaty hair plastered there.

The erection that’s pressed against Harry’s back hasn’t flagged.

“You’re going to kill me, Styles,” Louis mutters. “You’re going to fucking kill me.”