Archive of Our Own

“Fuck, baby girl, feel so good in me, so hard,” Louis groans, one palm on his own abdomen and the other clawing on Harry’s chest, squeezing his pecs. They’re so perfect, smooth and firm, birds framing them beautifully. He can feel his erratic heartbeat. Harry’s own grip is straining in the sheet, the veins in the back of his hands visible where he is clenching them. His body is strung taut, keeping still even when Louis starts bouncing up and down, embarrassing moans falling from his mouth. He bites the inside of his lips and wills himself to stay quiet.

“Louis,” Harry whines and there’s a surge in his scent, making them both gasp. “Wanna hear you, need to hear you.”

The intention of this was to make him stay quiet and use him like a toy, to pretend he isn’t here, but Louis finds himself unable to ignore him entirely. “Shut up, baby. You’ll get what I decide to give you.”

He feels so goddamn perfect in him. Perfect, small cock hitting just the right spots without stretching him uncomfortably. It becomes more and more regular that he’s willing to take a cock after years and years of it making him feel wrong, and it always requires re-familiarization, but Harry makes it so easy to feel good, to avoid the dysphoria, especially when he’s being a good girl. When he pleads.

“Please.” He begs so prettily.

Louis falls over, his elbows connecting with the pillow, spine arching, and their noses nearly touching. Harry blinks up at him, fixated on his lips, licking his own. There’s so much desire in his eyes, Louis has to close his own, unable to stand the possibility of getting what he wants, the taste of him so close. But he won’t be able to stop, knows that much, knows that once he gets it again, he couldn’t let go. And if there’s anything Harry couldn’t handle it’s being stuck with Louis again.

“Be good,” Louis says quietly, skidding his mouth towards the vein below Harry’s ear. “Let me use you, and then you’ll get to come.”

Harry moans a confirmation, his hands coming up to Louis’ sides, painted nails digging into his hips, but he remains patient and doesn’t whine for more. He stays perfectly still while Louis keeps rotating his lower body in a controlled rhythm, taking his time to work towards his own release, biting his own lip so he won’t bite Harry’s neck. It isn’t sparks and fireworks, it’s a steady warmth that simmers in his lower back and eventually accumulates in a wave that washes up his spine. He rides it out, spasming, arms giving shaking. There's sweat trailing down his temple, and he isn’t sure whose it is. He rubs it between their cheeks and licks it from Harry’s jaw. “You can come, baby, make yourself come.”

It’s met with a grateful thank you, daddy and then he’s jostled as Harry’s grip on his hips tightens and he’s being fucked within an inch of his life. “Shit,” he gasps, torn apart into heaps of strangled breathing and trembling limbs, trying to keep his balance. It rebuilds the warmth in his gut, didn’t even let it ebb in the first place, his clit throbbing again. “You like being in me, hmm?”

“Yeah,” Harry mewls. “Love it, daddy, you’re so wet.”

“Bet you’re wet, too, aren’t you? Could probably fuck you right after.”

Their brows brush with Harry’s nodding, both of them panting loudly. “You can, please, anything, just make me take it –”

“Should just tie you up and come back whenever I want,” Louis thinks aloud and doesn’t even expect it to evoke that strong of a reaction, but Harry seizes up, shoving into him and turning his head to bite at his shoulder. The shock of it turns his vision white for a moment and he isn’t usually one for pain, but his pussy clenches, milking the come out of the cock inside him. This second orgasm is much stronger, almost wrenching a shout from his chest.

Harry’s arms wander up his back, then circle around his ribs. “Will you – would you do that?”

“What, chain you to my bed?” Louis ignores the stutter of his heart at the vision of getting to keep Harry, even if it was just to use him and make him come.

“Yeah. Maybe, uhm, maybe tomorrow?” There’s a slight trepidation in the question,

“Why tomorrow, you in a hurry or something? Flying off to fuck someone else?”

The arms around his torso tighten. “Don’t say it like that.”

Louis exhales slowly, then sits up, Harry’s cock slipping out of him, his cunt twitching at the change. “That’s how it is, though, isn’t it?” He winces as he feels a drop of come trickle down the inside of his thigh and crawls off the bed, legs wobbly. All he wants is a shower and some dumb TV show that gets his mind off what they just did.

“So, is that a no?” Harry’s voice is spent. “I could really, uh, need it tomorrow.”

He doesn’t look like he’s got any energy left in his, body sunken into the mattress and sweat drying on his skin. But his gaze is stuck on Louis’ thighs, on the sticky mess between them, and his tongues idly pokes at the corners of his mouth. They could probably go another round.

“Sounds like a lovely evening, but no thanks, love,” he says breezily and hides in the bathroom for the next hour. He busies himself by cleaning himself erratically, using several peelings, and applying as many creams and lotions he’s got stored away. His skin feels tender and rosy by the time he emerges, and he wishes he didn’t feel so frail and unprotected, unarmed against whatever Harry will surely throw at him.   

Music and buttery richness of eggs frying in a pan waft up from downstairs, luring him closer despite his anxiety. He puts his hands into the sleeves of his jumper, fabric sticking to his palms, and rounds a corner. The morning light slants through the kitchen window, warming the cool tones of the wooden counters and Harry’s saggy curls, sharpening the shadows on his naked skin. He fits right into the space, moving smoothly between the drawers of cutlery and the table in the middle of the room, already laid with plates and a basket of fruit.

Silently, Louis goes to prepare the kettle but finds it already boiling. At least he can get the tea and mugs, concentrating on adding the exact amount of milk to his and sugar to Harry’s. He can feel him at the stove right behind him, probably seasoning the eggs. He used to add too much pepper, getting frustrated at his own misjudgements and frowning until Louis would either get him a slice of bread to disperse the strong flavour or eat them himself. It doesn’t look like there’s much pepper in the pan now. He watches Harry flip some of the lighter bits and dial up the heat, his brows forming a little crease between them.

They sit at the table a mere five minutes after but now that there’s nothing to do but eat and listen to the sounds of it, the swirling pressure in Louis’ guts picks up speed. He tries to sip the tea to appease his aching stomach but only burns his tongue, blushing when he becomes uncomfortably aware of the silence he’s breaking. Maybe... maybe he should just spit it out. The truth. The truth that something has changed, and he needs for things to get back to what they once were, to him being able to make Harry happy with everything he has to offer. To him being the only one to do so.

He goes to open his mouth. He’s got a few words forming in the back of his throat. Then he takes another sip of tea and clenches his teeth through the pain. It’d be fruitless. He knows what Harry wants, what he’s comfortable with.

“I need to tell you something,” Harry suddenly says, as he rakes his fork through his eggs. His gaze is set on the plate and it doesn’t seem like it will change its focus any time soon. His lips form an elegant line, their deep red so delicate against the evenness of the scruff that he hasn’t bothered to shave in the last days.

“Alright,” Louis facilitates, even though his whole body has stiffened, and he can feel reluctance pulling at the muscles in his neck. Whenever Harry starts a conversation like this, it’s something he’s been mulling over for weeks, something he gets stuck on, spiralling into doubt and petulance until he snaps. Maybe it’s another song about jealousy and heartache or another screw in their dynamic he needs loosened or another person he’s been sleeping with. Whatever it is, Louis is wholly prepared to pretend everything is fine.

Harry’s fork clinks against the plate. There’s something sour in his scent, something like fear. It smells awful, despite, no, because of the fact that it’s him. Louis is used to detecting apprehension in him, frustration, anger – but not fear, not this hesitation to speak. So he makes sure to soften his features, extends his hand palm up on the table. It goes ignored, but that’s okay. “Tell me. Is it because I told you I wouldn’t tie you up? We can still do that, I was just – you know, it’s just a big thing and I'm not sure you –”

“My heat begins tomorrow.”

“What. No, it doesn’t.” He knows this. Their cycles are matched, have been synchronized ever since the first months of the first time they were together.

“Yeah,” Harry mumbles, still not looking up. “It does.”

Louis strokes along the wet rim of his mug with a shaking finger. That means Harry has been spending his heats with someone else until it has matched their cycle. It means his hormones are now more accustomed to someone else’s body. It means he’s probably used to them by now. Will be aching for them. “Listen, I’m okay with -…” He stops. Exhales. “But I'm not letting a random guy fuck you in my house. I'm not gonna, I don’t know, spend a weekend paying for a hotel when you’re here fucking on my bed –”

“Jesus, Louis,” Harry spits. “I’m not asking you to let someone fuck me, why would you even think that, I’m trying to - I'm asking you. To fuck me. Through my heat.”

Impossibly so, he seems more embarrassed by the truth. His cheeks are pink from the lobes of his ears to the edge of his jaw, his mouth twitchy, his lashes fluttering. The green of his eyes is hidden from view as he blinks rapidly. It’s infuriating, the way he’s so much more concerned with his own feelings than Louis’, that he can’t even look up and own it. “Is that why you’re really here? It is, isn’t it? That’s why you didn’t tell me you would come until it was too late for me to say no. To make sure you have someone to fuck you while you’re begging for it?”

Harry flinches ever so slightly. He remains silent, scraping through the scrambled eggs and scratching the exposed skin of his wrist. Because he’s still naked. Didn’t even get dressed, didn’t even put on pants before he made himself comfortable on Louis’ kitchen chair, leaving his scent everywhere for him to bathe in when he’s gone again. And then it bursts from the back of Louis’ throat. “Why didn’t you fucking say anything sooner? Why do you always force me to go along with whatever you want in the moment?”

“I was fucking worried you’d react exactly like this!”

His first instinct is to yell again. Then he actually registers the words. “What I react like? What about my fucking feelings, Harry? I’ve been running after you for years now and all you think about is whether I’ll agree to your little fucking session?”

It hits its target. Harry’s always so deflective when they voice what actually happened, when he has to acknowledge that he is relying on Louis’ feelings and using them to uphold their dynamic. “You said you want this. Me. Just now, you said you wanted to tie me to your bed, you said you –. Want me.”

Louis leans back in his chair and nods at the ceiling, scoffing at his own stupidity. And there he was, thinking Harry had come around because he missed him. He knows he’s been more daddy than Louis for Harry in the last year, but he didn’t expect for everything to boil down to this, to his dominance being the only thing that’s keeping them together. He wonders what would happen if he’d give him an ultimatum.

He sips his tea, now finally cooled enough to drink properly, and tries to figure out what exactly is causing his apprehension for spending a heat with Harry. He should be relieved he trusts him with it.

“Daddy,” Harry whispers, so lost and needy.

And Louis, Louis can’t help but fucking laugh. He laughs because of course that’s how Harry is trying to communicate his emotions, because he should have expected them to fall into the same pit of thoughts, he laughs because he kind of wants to hit Harry right now and not in the delicious way. He kind of feels shitty for it, too, though. But he can’t stop, drags the palms of his hands down his face and sends another, helpless glare at the ceiling before he fixates on Harry again. “Jesus Christ, I hate you so much sometimes.”

It gets Harry looking up. The pleading in his expression slowly morphs into irritation, the blush in his cheeks now an angry red, blotchy along his neck. “I’m trying to fucking open up here.”

“Baby,” Louis drips, sickly sweet. “You’re not opening up; you’re running away from taking responsibility.”

“Why are you so angry all the time, what did I do?”

“I don’t fucking know, Harry! Maybe getting fucked all over the globe and then getting into my space, getting on my nerves, demanding me to get you through your heat, as if that is something we still do, as if you aren’t ignoring me for eleven months of the year before getting on your knees and whining daddy, daddy, please make everything go away.”

His vision is getting blurry, but Harry, too, is pressing his knuckles against the bags under his shiny eyes, bottom lip wobbling when he speaks again. “We agreed, Louis, you said you’re okay with it. You said – you said, you want me like that. You said you will always want me.”

“Well, maybe not anymore.”

It such a big lie, it hurts on its way out. It claws at the tight channel of his throat, wrenching up all the air in his lungs. His tears spill over as soon as the bitter aftertastes of it spreads on his tongue and he feels so humiliated, so raw as he’s bawling in front of the love of his life, crying after he has had difficulty crying at much more devastating happenstances since starting T. He should be over this, should have gotten over the pain and accustomed to their new dynamic ages ago.

He almost misses it when Harry gets up, but he feels the air shift in the room, Harry’s scent brushing his nose as he walks past. His shoulders tense again, hoping for a touch but fearing it’ll split him open. It's unnecessary anyway, he merely gets a shaky sigh before the kitchen door creaks open and steps sound from the stairs. The eggs start cooling on the plates. There’s no steam rising from the tea any longer. He stares at his unused fork and wonders what would happen if he’d throw it at the window.

Before he’s gathered his energy to get up or begin to clean up the dishes, there’s a rhythmic banging from the staircase. He’s got his gaze fixed on the hallway, so he sees when Harry just waltzes past without acknowledging him, suitcase bumping against the walls. “Where are you going?” He asks, high and screechy.

There's the rustling of a coat and the zing of shoelaces as they’re pulled into a knot. “Somewhere where I don’t get on your nerves.”

“Fuck, don’t pull this again –”, but as soon as he’s up, he hears the front door fall shut.

He stands in the middle of the kitchen for quite some time.

When he finally gets over himself and stops acting like a baby, he begins to put the leftovers into the trash and stocks the dirty plates and cutlery in the dishwasher, wiping at the table top with a soggy cloth that drips murky water all over the tiles. He almost starts crying again, looking at the puddle. He needs to clean this up. He needs to fix this mess.

-*-

He’s an expert at making time fly past, so the rest of the day is nothing but a blur. The TV is on from midday until sunset, then he lays on the couch and smokes a blunt, staring at the lights in the ceiling, blowing smoke into the dark, and after a dinner of toast and Nutella, he watches a dumb baking show on his laptop, pillows piled up next to him on the empty space of the mattress. He makes himself fall asleep by getting off three times, rubbing off on the sheets where Harry’s slick has dried, his mind playing tricks on him and conjuring up another presence when he drifts into his dreams.

The next morning, he plans on staying in bed and repeating yesterday’s actions, but as soon as he wakes fully, he can’t stop thinking about Harry writhing in a bed and begging to be filled. And instead of getting wet, his body cramps up, guilt freezing his limbs. Even a hot shower doesn’t get rid of the chill, winter air seemingly creeping through the closed windows. He might as well go out if he’s already cold, so he texts a few friends and finds himself having lunch at an expensive but discreet burger place. His mood is easily picked up on and he gets probed until he’s complaining all over his chips and coke.

Most of them already know how to support him when he’s in his Harry headspace and after they go to a bowling alley, they try to convince him to go for a night out. He declines, refuses the offer to stay over at one of theirs and get hammered, and drives home feeling marginally better and clear headed. Harry should be in the first stages of his heat right now. Getting sweaty and restless, maybe even starting to leak, hole loosening. It should be bearable for now, but it won’t be for long.

Louis should be with him. He should be taking care of him.

On autopilot, he starts slicing fruit, a giant bowl of bananas and apples and strawberries, everything Harry had bought when they went to the supermarket last weekend. The juices trickle down the knife and pool on the cutting board, clinging to the tips of his fingers. He licks them clean, washes his hands, and then reaches for his phone.

His call is answered on the second ring. There’s nothing but shaky breathing on the other end.

“I made fruit,” he says, dull and timid.

He nudges a square piece of persimmon. What a weird fruit. He’d never buy it on his own. It tastes nice, though. Overwhelmingly sweet, coating his tongue in silk.

“Darling,” he whispers, frail through his dry throat. “Darling, come back to me.”

There's an agonizing quiet, no reply for several seconds that appear like minutes stretching into eternity, and he’s starting to regret his decision, regrets being the one to break, the one to yield again. He’s trying to think of what to say, anything to get him out of this situation or make him seem less desperate. “I didn’t mean it,” he says, and then takes another turn. “I didn’t mean what I said, Harry, I don’t hate you, never, I could never. And I will always... I will always want you. Whoever – whatever you’re doing.”

A soft whimper resounds through the speaker. And it makes Louis’ chest go up in flames, sizzling through his bones, licking towards his abdomen. “I’m gonna take care of you, yeah, baby? I’ll be good. I don’t want you to be alone, I never - I never want you to be alone.”

“Are you going to punish me, daddy?” Harry asks quietly and for the first time in forever, Louis isn’t sure if it’s said with want or worry.

He closes his eyes. “No, darling. I won’t. I’ll be gentle, so gentle.”

Another whimper. “But you – but you care, right?”

Any longer and he might be losing his mind completely. “Where are you? Let me pick you up.”

“’m in a hotel,” Harry murmurs, it sounds like he’s got his face mushed into a pillow.

“Are you – alone?” He holds his breath. He doesn’t know what he’d do if the answer was negative.

“Yeah.”

“Yeah?”

Harry hums brokenly. “I’m all alone, daddy. Feel so empty, feel so –. It hurts.”

“Send me the address right now,” Louis says and distinctly thinks that if he was an alpha, his voice would be reverberating. “I’ll come get you. Do you hear me? I won’t hang up until you sent it to me.”

His demand is met with surprising speed. No five seconds and his phone vibrates against his ear. “Very good. Don’t –… I’ll be quick, okay?”

“Okay,” is the answer, silky and final.

-*-

He’s driving too fast and he can barely concentrate on the traffic, but he knows what a lonely heat feels like and his heart breaks at the vision of Harry writhing on the sheets, aching to be filled, breathless with need, feeling abandoned after the words they hurled at each other. After what Louis said. After the lies he’s told. The guilt nearly paralyzes him but the anger, the anger at himself, at the situation, and, yes, at Harry, sends electricity through his limbs and allows him to reach the address within twenty minutes. Thankfully, he knows this hotel, has been here several times and the staff are efficient, quick about realizing his arrival at the back entrance and his haste are to be met with equal urgency. He’s allowed to leave his car outside, and the page accompanies him to the correct floor, but refuses to hand over the key card. At least it speaks for their ethics.

“Harry,” Louis calls out and knocks. “Let me in.”

None of his senses pick up what happens on the other side. There’s probably an effective ventilation system, the walls thick, the edge of the door neatly aligned with its frame. He lets his hand slide down towards the knob and waits for it to twist, amazed that his fingers don’t reveal the tremble that has taken over his body.

“You can go,” he says, without looking at the page who hesitates but retracts towards the lift.

Maybe Harry changed his mind. Maybe he called someone else, someone who is currently fucking all thoughts of Louis out of him. Maybe he’d rather endure the longing than be around him, maybe being around him would make the longing even worse.  

He raps his knuckles against the sleek wood again, then jiggles the doorknob. “Love, please, I either need you to tell me to fuck off, or –”

It turns. The doorknob turns under his palm, slow but surely. He holds his breath until he is met with Harry’s wide eyes, dark in the dim light and the heat that visibly soars in his body. Sweat beads at his hairline and along his brows, his mouth his invitingly slick, and the warmth radiating off him makes Louis sway with dizziness. “Fuck,” he groans, just as Harry crumbles, almost falling to his knees if it wasn’t for Louis’ hands that clasp into his damp shirt on their own accord.

“You’re here.”

“Yeah,” he says and can’t seem to stop saying it, clutching the soaked cotton and greedily inhaling the sheer need in Harry’s scent. “Yeah, baby, of course.”

Harry buries his face in Louis’ neck, the skin of it hot and wet, getting wetter as he’s sobbing quietly into his ear. “It hurts so much, Louis, it hurts.”

He has a half-formed idea to stay at the hotel and take him here, right against the wall, making him forget the pain and instead cry of pleasure, but he also wants him in his bed, spread out on his own sheets, begging for it while he’s surrounded by Louis’ scent. He gives himself a second to imagine it and to figure out how to calm their shaking limbs, then he leads them inside the room. The bedside lamp is lit, illuminating the messy bed, the clothes on the floor, the big satchel by the dresser. He pushes Harry on the mattress but doesn’t look at him before he starts gathering everything, cursing with relief as he finds a toiletry bag, thanking the habit of hoarding medication Harry acquired over the years of touring. The suppressants should numb the symptoms of the heat at least for long enough to get them to the car and back home.

“C’mon,” he says when he’s rushed to the bathroom and back, presenting Harry with the tablet and the glass of water from the sink.

Harry looks up at him, both feet planted on the carpet but his side sunken against the headrest, and his neck bend at an awkward angle. “Are you not gonna fuck me?” He asks in a low tone, almost resigned. “Are you gonna leave me?”

Louis knows it’s probably the heat, increasing his insecurity, but it nearly breaks him anyway, ribs coming apart. It was so wrong of him to let him leave yesterday, so wrong of him to stab with lies when he was hurt, so wrong of him to put his own needs above Harry’s. He should have told the truth, spoken about his misery sooner, should have shown tenderness instead of anger.

“Open up,” Louis urges, swipes the tablet across sealed lips until they part, saliva glistening on his tongue, and then raises the glass. Obediently, Harry tilts his head and swallows, staring up at him with an unsettling glaze over his eyes, too shiny and trusting while his lids are heavy, weighted with fatigue. He makes sure the water is all gone before he sets the glass on the bedside table, settling back in front of Harry’s knees, bending over to wipe the tears from his cheeks. Then he grips his neck.

They both still, aware what he has done right now. That he basically asserted ownership. “I’m not going to leave you. I’m going to take you home and then I’m going to fuck you and make you feel better, yeah?”

Harry hiccups on a breath. He dips his neck further into Louis’ palm before he slackens again, almost as if that’s all that’s holding him up. His damp curls slide along the back of Louis’ hand, muscles weakening, skin dewy. His expression is open, pleading, something like a question in the wings of his mouth, the smooth skin between his brows, the movement of his Adam’s apple.

Then there’s a surprisingly forceful grasp at the front of Louis’ jumper, and he’s tugged forwards until their lips collide, sticky and urgent. One of them moans and it’s most likely him because his blood feels like it’s singing, electricity blasting through his veins. It’s the sweetest taste he has had in a while, sweeter even than Harry’s slick or sweat, sweet as only familiarity can be, and it hits him when it spreads in his mouth: This is their first kiss in a year.

Harry is the one to disconnect them, but doesn’t go far, only slides his lips towards Louis’ ear. “Take me.”

Louis hauls him to his feet and wraps him into his fuzzy coat, hoping it’ll cover his scent enough for them to get to the car. It’s unbelievably reckless not to wait longer for the suppressants to work, but he relies on the early stages of the heat being fairly mild and the hotel being air conditioned. The lift gets them to the lobby quickly and they don’t get stares until they have to round a corner towards the back entrance, Louis cradling both the bag and Harry close to his front and glaring at anyone who as much as dares to turn their head.

It’s not like any alpha would actually jump them, not like porn and other movies make it seem, but he doesn’t want to have to explain the situation to some kind of authority. Harry does seem to regain more balance with every step and his breathing evens by the time they leave the hotel, but he’s still heated, leaning heavily into Louis’ arms. “I need to lie down,” he pants, hand on his forehead.

“It’s just over there,” Louis says and tumbles them in the right direction. It’s bloody cold out, sharp wind slicing into the back of his jumper, air damp with the promise of rain.

The page paces up and down the pavement, tapping on his phone and straightening up when he sees them. There’s an uncomfortable grimace on his face once he realizes what’s going on, glowing bright red, handing over the keys. Louis tips him generously and wonders if he should call his agent to draft up an NDA, is already thinking of the hassle – when Harry knocks him against the driver’s door and growls at the poor man. All three of them freeze.

“Jesus Christ,” Louis says and shoves Harry onto the backseat, throwing an apologetic glance over his shoulder before he gets in himself. As soon as he’s driving, he turns on the AC. The suppressants should dissipate Harry’s dizziness and mute his smell, but it’s still quickly permeating the enclosed space, making it hard to focus on anything but his palpable need. “You okay?”

Harry’s voice is scratchy. “Yeah. ‘s bearable. But – but hurry, yeah?”

“Yeah, of course.”

And then they are silent for five excruciating minutes. He is desperately trying not to cause an accident or pull into a side street to climb over the gear box and fuck Harry right in this car. He’s used to their desire matching during a heat but that’s because they used to sync up and he doesn’t understand why it’s so difficult for him to remain calm, why he’s throbbing in his pants. It can’t be his body mirroring Harry’s, it simply can’t; he has had his heat two months ago, had spent it regretting every decision he’s ever made.

Now, he examines Harry in the rear view mirror – his slumped form, his open collar revealing his neck – and gets hit with the realisation that he might have run after him again but at least it feels right to do so. “How are you, really?” He checks in again.

“It’s... it’s like always, but, like. As if it’s not actually my body? I dunno, it’s weird. I can feel the, the want, but I also can’t.” Harry suddenly laughs. “Might be soiling your leather, though.”

Louis reacts with a giggle of his own, startled by the ease between them but comforted. “Should tell you to get on all fours and keep your bum off my seats.”

The answer takes too long and he grins to himself, stopping at a red light.

Harry audibly shifts behind him. “Can I get off, daddy?”

His grin deepens. God, he loves this. Loves how they always find back to each other. “Sure, you can, baby. But be good about it. Clean up after yourself.”

He has been grateful about tinted windows several times in his life, but this might actually be one of the top moments, watching Harry open his coat with frantic fingers, dipping into his trousers. The light turns green and he has to get his eyes back on the road, but he can smell when Harry dips the first digit inside himself, can smell the surge of slick. Soon there are sounds of wet friction and frustrated groans.

“Can’t get the angle right, love?”

“Need it deeper,” Harry groans, his boots appearing in the peripheral of Louis’ vision as he slides into a horizontal position. He risks a glance into the mirror and sees him turn onto his belly, trousers now around his thighs, arse exposed, stuffed with two fingers.

His cunt pulses and he presses the heel of his hand against it, tells himself it won’t be long until he can touch and take. “You’ll be so loose when we get home,” he says just loud enough to be heard. “Fucking yourself in a fucking car like this. Ready for me to fuck you.”

There’s a thump and the leather creaks, Harry distinctly speeding up, probably squirming on the seat. “’m always ready,” he huffs.

Louis laughs again, shaking his head at the car in front of him that turns without blinking. “You say that now.”

“Mean it,” Harry bites back, might actually bite into something because it’s muffled. “You think I don’t want you all the time? Didn’t even spent my heats with anyone else since we stopped doing it.”

Louis’ heart drops. Like a pebble into a pond, causing waves of emotions. So it wasn’t someone else's hormones that changed Harry’s cycle, it was time. Time he wasted. They are near his neighbourhood, houses becoming bigger, streets getting wider, less people out and about and in risk of getting hit by the swerve of the car as he breaks into a stop.

“Fucking fuck!” Harry yells. “Warn a girl before you do that!”

He ignores him, gets out of the driver’s seat and swiftly steps around the front of the car to get in where Harry’s legs are spread on the seat.  The door clicks shut and he’s got his hands below the soft curve of Harry’s arse. It tenses under his palms, muscles firming and evidently squeezing around his own fingers, because there’s a wet moan blown into the leather. Without a warning, Louis pushes one of his own digits into Harry’s wet hole. Their knuckles connect. “I’ll get us home, but first you’re going to come on our fingers.”

The glide is devastatingly easy. He starts off slow but soon realises he can pick up the pace, spreading Harry’s cheeks with his free hand to get a good look. He should have turned on the overhead light but now all that’s illuminating the slick gathering around his knuckles, is the streetlamp in front of the car, not nearly enough. Just like there’s not enough space for him to move. One of his feet is on the floor, his other knee between Harry’s thighs and it’s an unpleasant position, but at least he’s got leverage to put strength behind his thrusts.

Harry is useless, pushed into the seat, body slack, moans getting higher. “Please, please, fuck, feels so good, love it, want you to fuck me o-on the car, for everyone to s-see –”

“You fucking slut,” Louis says in awe, knows that this can’t be all heat because the suppressants are working, Harry’s scent isn’t nearly as rich as it will get. “You want people to see that I’m the one fucking you?”

Harry’s hips rise, meeting the assault of his fingers. “Want you to see that no matter who –... you’re more.”

His mind is fraying at the corners, unravelling, only one thread clear and strong: “I’m enough?”

He stares at the side of Harry’s overshadowed face, at his closed eyes and swollen lips that quip into a soft smile. “You’re all I want, so much it’s hurting.”

“You little shit,” Louis gasps and curls his fingers. “Quoting that awful song at me.”

“Our song.”

“One of our songs,” he corrects and squeezes Harry’s right arse cheek, raking his nails towards his damp crack. His rim is pink, stretched around both their fingers because Harry has been so good and still, hasn’t pulled out even though Louis is mercilessly shoving into him. “You gonna come if I quote If I could fly at you?”

Harry moans, of course he does, moans right into his own hand before he stifles himself, then starts twitching uncontrollably. “Gonna come anyway,” he whimpers.

“Don’t forget, you’ll have to clean the seats after.”

Unsurprisingly, it’s exactly what pushes him over the edge. He thrusts his crotch against the leather and his hole back onto Louis’ fingers, seizing up and blabbering nonsense. “Wanna, thank you, thank you – fuck, daddy, stay.”

Louis gives him another second with his arse stuffed, then he pulls out and licks his fingers clean, slick and sweet as fruit on his tongue. Then he pulls up Harry’s trousers and turns him around, straddling his middle, right where his cock has leaked through the fabric. Pure want has taken over Harry’s face, his eyes burning, black in the dim light. Before he can say anything, beg for more, Louis leans over and kisses him right on the mouth, shoving his tongue between his teeth and sharing the taste on it. He nips at Harry’s bottom lip, then presses his smile against his cheek. “Na na na na.”

Heat is building up between them, their chests heaving with extortion, reminding them what they’re in the middle of, but for now they laugh into each other’s skin, bathing in the calm before the storm. They’ll have days of this.

Eventually, Louis climbs over the gear box and back behind the wheel, only driving a couple minutes before he parks in front of the garage, leaving the light on this time. He turns around in his seat, pulls one foot up onto it. Harry’s already staring at the mess on the leather, the drying slick, the gooey come, glistening pearlescent.

“Go on,” Louis says roughly. “Clean up.”

It wasn’t implied, but Harry puts his hands behind his back and bends over, the profile of his face a pale contrast against the black backrest, his tongue pink as it darts over the first streak of come. His cheeks are flushed again, maybe because the suppressants are waning but more likely because he must feel exposed and humiliated and loves it. He licks a broad swipe and then swallows, gaze flickering to Louis before he whines quietly.

Louis sneaks a hand down his own pants and grinds against the heel of his hand. “You think the neighbours can see you like this? Maybe I should invite them around, tell them to watch you.”

Harry’s mouth falls open on a groan.  

“Yeah, fuck, you’d like that. Let them all see what a fucking slut you are for me, doing everything I tell you to do.”

He knows it’s not the truth, that he’s making things up for the sake of getting them off, but in this moment, it really does feel like Harry would do anything he’d ask him of. Clean up his mess, create more, get on his knees in front of the neighbours and suck him off like he’s starving for it. They’ve gotten off in front of other people in the past, had intentionally let others hear them, bragged about each other embarrassingly often but that was when they were still together, that was when they’d easily go back to reassuring each other that they were it, they were the one.

The air conditioning hums softly, the only sound apart from their harsh breathing, and the night presses silently against the tinted windows, no other soul around to witness what they are doing. Harry lets his head roll to one side, cheek to the leather, offering his neck. “Tell me, daddy. Tell me what you need.”

What he mostly needs right now, is to stop the racing of his heart. “I told you to clean that up, didn’t I?”

It’s easier to look at Harry when he’s not looking back, when he flutters his lashes and continues to lick across the seat, gathering come and slick and leaving the shine of saliva. All of a sudden, he takes a visible, huge breath and sucks. It makes a lewd sound, so crude in the quiet. He blushes, so fucking flustered by his own obscenity and Louis laughs because it’ll make him blush harder. “Such a greedy girl.”

When it looks like Harry is done and he’s only sucking on the leather for the feel of it, Louis straightens and snips at the key in the ignition “Park the car, lock the gates and then get to the bedroom. Don’t touch yourself.” He waits until he hears a whispered agreement, then gets out.

Despite his giddiness, his legs carry him over the front garden and inside the house where he leaves the door open and kicks off his shoes, steadying himself against the wall until he’s ready to hurry to the kitchen, grabbing the bowl of fruit and taking it upstairs. He wishes he had the time to change the sheets but has to make do with shoving the duvet to the floor and brushing a few crumbs of last night’s toast aside. There should be cups beneath the bathroom sink, so he rushes in there and fills them for later. He pauses when he notices his reflection.

His pupils are blown. Way too wide for the warm light, way too wide for simple arousal. Maybe he is mirroring Harry’s heat, maybe the last week was enough to get them synced up again, maybe the surge of emotions caused his hormones to fall into action. It wouldn’t be the first time that all foundations of his life crumble when it comes to Harry. In a quick decision, he attempts to cool down and gets rid of his clothes to swipe a damp washcloth down his neck and pits. He immediately regains some balance in his senses, his hearing less focused on detecting breathing, his limbs no longer alert and ready to pounce.

It's why he doesn’t expect to step out and be greeted with the sight of Harry’s displayed body. Completely naked on the bed, it’s illuminated in all its glory, curves golden, the muscles of his torso soft and padded, cock thick, thighs strong and smooth. They part slowly, revealing the slick smeared between them.

Louis watches a particularly glistening spot beneath Harry’s balls, then strolls towards his dresser and opens the first drawer, searching for familiar shapes and textures. He doesn’t usually like when people see him secure the strap-on around his middle, always awkward to make it sexy when he’s trying to figure out which hole to put his leg into, but he doesn’t want to look away from Harry. The desire for more in his green eyes is so transparent, it’s enough to disperse the tang of worry in the air. It’s what he does, just completely owns the atmosphere of the room, has always done so. He has started to circle a finger around his own hole, wordlessly urging Louis on.

“Suppressants still on?” Louis asks softly, as he crawls onto the mattress, palms gliding up Harry’s calves.

Harry shrugs with one shoulder. “Dunno.” Then, he puts his wet finger to his own lips. “It doesn’t hurt. But I still want your cock.” His pink tongue darts out to trace his painted nail and it reminds Louis of what that tongue did just mere minutes ago. Cleaned his car of his own jizz.

All he can do is bite his way up Harry’s body, sinking his teeth into his thighs, his hips, his tits, spending a few seconds tugging at his nipples, then sucking his bottom lip into his mouth and licking around his finger. “And you’ll get it, baby. Legs around my waist.”

Harry complies but before Louis has lowered himself properly, two hands hook around his ribs and he’s flipped onto his back, finding himself pressed into the sheet. Disoriented, he fumbles for purchase but gets his wrists tugged under his own bum. “Gonna ride you, daddy, like a good girl.”

He doesn’t wait for an answer, and Louis should punish him for it, but his blissful expression as he grabs for Louis’ dick and sinks down is too distracting, too breath-taking. The oh so persistent line between his brows disappears, eyes squeezed shut, chest heaving and his small cock twitching, already drooling at the tip. “Always so – perfect, so big, made for me.”

And it was, because they got it together when Louis first bought the harness, chose a dildo that Harry liked because it would be in him, filling him up like it does now, the perfect size to hurt slightly and stretch him for what’s to come. It makes him feel smug, powerful even, to know that there’s no other cock out there that fills Harry so perfectly. He has used it himself and he knows what the individual ridges feel like, knows the curve towards the middle will rub deliciously against Harry’s spot, knows how to twist his hips upwards to hit the perfect angle. His body knows what to do, knows how to make it hard and fast. Harry might be on top, but he absolutely crumbles as soon as Louis starts thrusting up, not giving him much time to adjust.

“I’m gonna make you come before the heat hits again,” he promises with a growl. “Fuck it right back into you.”

Harry’s thighs clamp around him, laurels jumping as his abs clench, and Louis scratches from his hips over to his stomach, leaving red marks that bloom beautifully across his skin. Marks that won’t wilt for the next days. Each scrape evokes a tightening of Harry’s grip on his torso until his thumb is digging uncomfortably into one of his scars, but instead of telling him to move it, he’ll try to make him go slack from pleasure, make him float. So he moves his hands to Harry’s pecs and squeezes them harshly. “Imagine what they’d look like if –…"

“If what, daddy?” Harry gasps, falling for his fake pause.

He bites down his smile. “If you’d be pregnant, baby. If you were full with my pups.”

Harry’s eyes widen, almost comically. Then he stuffs one of his own knuckles into his mouth and bites, face contorting as if he was in pain. Which he must be, at least a little, if not from his own teeth, then from the welts all over his skin and the fingernail Louis is stabbing into his nipple. To be fair, they haven’t brought this up in a long while. “Can I come, please can I come?”

“Already?” Louis teases and looks at Harry’s cock with a raised brow.

“I am in heat,” Harry snaps and somehow manages to find an imperfection in Louis’ rhythm to straighten himself, rise and plummet. “It’s your fucking job to make me come.”

He has started to sweat again, forehead damp and a single drop sliding into his brow. Louis, too, feels sticky despite his quick wash just mere minutes ago, and, again, he wonders if this is how it always goes and whether his memory is playing tricks on him. If this is how heats with them always are. “Thought you didn’t need it as bad –”

“Said it doesn’t hurt, that doesn’t mean –,” He shuts up, must’ve found his spot because he keeps grinding in little circles, getting faster by the second. His finger wanders back between his lips, now sucking on it and Louis just can’t resist pushing two of his own alongside, pressing down on his tongue.

“It’s okay, darling, let go. And after that I’ll pump you full with my come, knock you up.”

It’s fucking painful when Harry’s teeth clamp shut and he gets revenge by tugging on a nipple, but it only seems to prolong Harry’s orgasm, come squirting from his cock, muffled moans loud and unabashed. His body slumps even further, one elbow next to Louis’ head and it’s nothing to turn them around, get him beneath him. If he wants to make sure Harry will get some sleep before the suppressants wear off, he’ll want to tire him out as fast as possible. One hand braced on the mattress, the other cradling Harry’s belly, he has him nearly folded in half. “Keep your legs around my waist, baby,” he murmurs, fascinated by the weak droop of Harry’s lashes. “Need to make sure nothing slips out, hmm? To make sure it works.”

Harry’s palm slides over his hand, pressing it down. The corners of his eyes are a little wet, reflecting the light like the spit on his lips is. “Yeah, yes, I’ll be so good, will be careful.” His knees hitch higher around Louis’ waist, squeezing tightly. It strains Louis’ spine to do so, but like this he can bend over and bite into Harry’s shoulder. A sweet taste bursts his senses and he needs more – now – so he follows it, lips tingling, licking in broad stripes. Only when Harry starts squirming, tugging him closer by the back of his head, does he realise what he’s actually doing.

“Scenting me, daddy?” Harry asks, in a quiet tone. Dreamily. “Making me yours?”

Louis suppresses his shame with a surficial bite under his ear. “Already mine, baby.”

“Yeah,” Harry gasps and it sounds much more passionate than it should, so relieved, so – triumphant. A slick sound reveals that he’s got a hand around his cock, pulling himself off between them, his come slipping out between his fingers. His eyes have fallen shut, a single tear clinging to his lashes and Louis licks at that too, dips kisses on the warm skin of his cheeks. He slows his movements, makes them smooth and deep, moving them up the sheet on every other thrust.

“You like that? Knowing you’re mine?” It sounds goddamn insecure and needy to his own ears, but Harry nods vigorously, chin tilting up.

“Gets me off so hard, thinking –,” he comes, gasping for air. Without a fucking warning, not even a twitch of his limbs. His breath brushes Louis’ lips and he instinctually seeks it out until they’re kissing again. They’re both cooing softly, whines that would calm his racing heart if there wasn’t shock and curiosity tickling in the corners of his mind. Harry admitting to being his, getting off to it, wanting it. But there was a single moment, the split of a second that he shut himself up intentionally, swallowed his sentence before his own fantasy must have hit. And Louis needs to know why, needs to know what those thoughts were.

He tries to undo the straps of his harness without disconnecting their mouths, but loses balance and crashes onto one shoulder, thankfully whacking into the mattress instead of Harry. Harry still whines, though. “Don’t – please, stay in me.”

“Sorry, sorry, gimme a –,” he manages to detangle himself, slip the cock out of the metal ring and slide it back into Harry’s hole that’s now pink and dripping with slick. “Jesus, look at you, still taking it.”

When he rakes his gaze up Harry’s body, he could swear there’s even more come splattered on his stomach than a second ago, but Harry’s also lying utterly motionless, only his chest rising and falling rapidly. He looks so... he looks so entirely debauched, scratches all over him, glistening from his own fluids, expression peaceful. It’s why it comes as a surprise that he pulls Louis close and slots one thigh between his.

“C’mon, daddy, thought you wanted to knock me up,” he whispers with closes eyes, nipping at Louis’ lip.

Louis swallows, forces his brain into a blank space, and starts rubbing himself against Harry, licking into his mouth, inhaling his overwhelming scent. He smells like the both of them, especially when his skin gets soaked with Louis’ slick, their hips brushing and the come between them easing the glide. “Fucking beautiful,” escapes him.

Harry purrs. “’d be even more beautiful all round and full, daddy, don’t you think?”

“Yeah, baby girl,” he murmurs, nuzzling into the sweaty disarray of his curls. Heat simmers in his abdomen, clit swollen and his walls contracting with every other sweet drag. “The most beautiful. Would love to give that to you.”

“You are,” Harry says, which doesn’t even make fucking sense, but it gets to him, makes him moan and shove down hard. He’s so, so close.

“Is that what it is? The thought of carrying my baby?” He hides the words in Harry’s neck, buries them under a kiss. But Harry refuses him that comfort, lays them out in the open, just like that, with the ease of a whisper.

“Carrying your baby,” he repeats softly, a hand placed gently on Louis’ back. “And – and all that comes with it.”

It takes him a moment. Then it crashes over him and so does his climax, thoughts of oh fuck and he still wants to spend his life with me and oh fucking fuck and I love him as overpowering as the explosion of bliss. It takes only another moment for him to realise that this is typical heat talk.

-*-

He awakes because Harry is crying.
It’s dark out but the bedside lamp is glowing, orange light as warm as the scent in the air, flooding his senses. Saliva pools beneath his tongue before he’s even opened his eyes properly, blinking at the writhing figure next to him and swallowing reflexively. Harry is on his stomach, humping the mattress, three fingers stuffed his hole. The hair at the back of his head is dark and stringy, curls matted to his nape.

“Harry,” Louis croaks but goes unheard. Squelching sounds speak of how gone Harry is, so wet it must be dripping down his arse and into the sheets, so loose he must be aching to be filled.

“Harry,” he says again and now Harry turns his head, mouth dropping open when he sees Louis.

“Please, need you, need anything –,” his breath stops on a gasp and the muscles in his arse quiver before he pulls his thighs under his torso, arches his spine, presents himself. “It’s not enough.”

It’s like moving through a current of water, trying to scramble up and get the strap-on, his movements slowed by the remnants of sleep, and when he finally positions himself behind Harry, his limbs are still sluggish. On the first try, the tip of his cock merely slides through Harry’s crack, matte silicone against glistening skin, pink rim fluttering.

“Don’t tease, daddy, please –,”

“I didn’t mean to, baby, sorry,” he says and spreads Harry cheeks, guiding his dick. As soon as the head pops in, Harry starts babbling into the pillow, back now bend at an angle that must surely twinge. “Easy, darling, I’m here, try to relax.”

Harry huffs on something like a frustrated giggle that quickly becomes a moan as Louis pushes further. “Don’t be mean, daddy, not now.”

“Alright, alright,” he gives in but can already tell he’s not heard. With the next grind of his hips, he makes sure to angle downwards and grins when it elicits a broken like that, arse clenching under his hands. He tightens his grip, shifts the stance of his knees, and starts thrusting properly, sleep dropping off him with every gasp he hears. His vision is still a little blurry, but it doesn’t hold him back from drinking in the curve of Harry’s spine, his rosy skin, his exposed neck that begs for attention.

Louis’ teeth ache.

He doesn’t have the time to act on it, because Harry’s shoulders tense, he turns his head and stutters on a breath and comes, just a few seconds into being fucked, no other stimulation needed, just a cock that couldn’t even stretch his hole particularly well in this state of heat. “Christ,” Louis says as he watched him collapse into the pillow. “I forgot how easy you get like this.”

Harry doesn’t protest or agree, only tilts his arse up for more. Louis, of course, gives it to him. He fucks two other orgasms out of him, the last one with a hand around his wet cock and a finger edging around his rim, and by then Harry has succumbed to a begging mess.

“Please,” Harry whimpers when Louis gets ready to slip out, and like that he’s spreading his cheeks and trying to push his cock deeper.

“Please,” Harry whimpers when Louis finally does pull out, sighing as he easily sinks three fingers into his awaiting hole.

“Please,” Harry whimpers when Louis is four fingers in and the tip of his thumb slides through the wetness.

Louis makes sure he’s ready, then he kisses the swell of his arse as indication. “Shh, daddy’s gonna knot you. It’s alright, baby.”

Harry’s rim barely stretches over Louis’ knuckles, already fucked wide open, and then he’s got his whole hand in him, walls hot and incredibly soft. Slowly, he forms a fist. He only has to twist his wrist and move what feels like a millimetre, then Harry keens high and loud, shuddering once before going completely slack. Louis caresses his thighs, smearing his own wetness into his skin and bringing it to his twitching cock, giving him somewhere to fuck into. It’s difficult, with him flat against the mattress, but it’s what he needs right now and it’ what Louis can give.

“That’s it,” he says gently and hunches over to kiss the knobs of Harry’s spine. “All plugged up with daddy.”

He doesn’t expect an answer at this point, remembers the kitten-ish sounds Harry makes when he’s been knotted, so his heart stops for a second when Harry tilts his neck. “Gonna bite me?”

Louis panics. And it must show in the stiffening of his muscles or translate into his scent because Harry cries out desperately and presents his neck even more, cheek buried in the pillow, eyes struggling to stay open. It’s dangerous for an omega in heat to feel abandoned and Louis briefly hates him for it, hates himself for getting into this situation. He has no choice but to stifle the alarm ringing in his mind, convince himself that this is a rare situation and that whatever happens, Harry will know it has been done and said in the literal heat of the moment. If there is one single opportunity for Louis to have him, this is it.

“Gonna bite you,” he affirms, leads his kisses down Harry’s back and to his arse, rim fluttering around his wrists, and sinks his teeth right into the meat of his cheek.

It doesn’t feel perfectly right, but it’s still the taste of him on his tongue and seems to appease Harry at least slightly. He doesn’t whine again until he comes down and must notice some soreness, exhaling long while Louis carefully slips his first from his hole. His throat dries immediately, a shiver going down his front and he realises his own need for the first time because Harry is gaping. “Turn around,” he says roughly, and manhandles him onto his back. Then he scoots down, spreads Harry out and licks right into him, chasing his slick.

“Hnngg,” is the only sound Harry makes, doesn’t even react more than widening the space between his legs and giving him more access. He’s completely fucked out, probably floating in the bliss of his heat and the short relief before the next wave crashes over him.

He tastes even stronger than usual, spicier, sweeter, leaking and trembling, and Louis can’t get enough, swallowing him greedily, licking up the come on his stomach and biting into the swell of his hips before going back to his hole. The greed he feels deep in his gut and heart is scaring him to no end. He was able to keep the door shut for years and now it has been burst open, desire spilling and making it impossible to get a hold of himself. With every thought of fear and guilt, his urge to make himself forget and take more grows, and with every minute that he spends worshipping Harry’s body, the guilt builds. He should stop. He needs to stop.

Instead, he presses his fingers against his clit and rubs himself mercilessly, sharp pleasure zinging down his cunt, increasing when he feels Harry coming beneath his tongue. Blood rushes through his ears. The most addictive scent, their scent, has settled around him. Not long after, and he rides out his own release, moaning into Harry’s skin.

He blanks out for a minute, overwhelmed with emotions, and he regains his senses because Harry is carding through his hair, scratching the side of his head. “’s okay,” Harry murmurs, reassuring him. “It’s okay, Louis.”

With shaking limbs, he crawls up and covers Harry with his own sweaty and exhausted body, nosing at his neck. He smells sated. Because Louis took and took and took. “I’m sorry,” he confesses into the safe space between the pillow and Harry’s curls.

“No, honey, it’s okay, it’s okay.”

The guilt swells, it should be him comforting Harry, soothing him in his heat, and instead he spiralled and is now gasping for air and desperately hoping the tears in his eyes won’t escape. They keep coming back to this, to the same pattern. Harry runs, Louis runs after him – and stumbles.

Harry draws him up by a hand in the crown of his head. His eyes are glassy. “I mean it.” He doesn’t pause. “That I want this. With you.”

Louis feels his expression breaking. “I know, baby. But I don’t think this is the same thing for us.”

“It is,” he says, kissing Louis’ chin.

“I’m greedy,” he admits, putting it in the open.

“Well, so am I.”

He giggles, slightly hysterical. “Tell me again when you’re out of heat.”

Harry’s gaze gets minimally clearer. Tension sets in his jaw, a little stubborn strain. “I’m yours, Louis,” he says. Almost inaudibly, he continues: “I’m your omega.” He is covered in sweat and slick and come, warming up again, and the helplessness of the heat is saturating his scent, but he pulls Louis down with shocking force, setting his teeth on his neck, exhaling softly, and then piercing Louis’ skin.

-*-