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And Louis has been pissed at him for what feels like years, but it’s maybe been like, 20 minutes, tops. Louis has this way of digging under his skin though in ways that Harry simultaneously loves and loathes. Harry had merely suggested that, you know, he maybe pick up his fucking clothes off the floor for once because he can’t be the only one making sure their home doesn’t turn into a pigsty, Louis. Predictably, Louis had been less than thrilled because “um, you do shit I hate, too,” which is a terrible comeback by Louis’ standards, but more than enough to bait Harry into squabbling with him. Insults had been hurled, voices had been raised and Harry had been stupidly turned on.
It’s nothing new for him, honestly, being turned on by Louis in strange situations. It’s not quite a secret that basically everything Louis does turns him on; he’s always worn his emotions on his face too easily. And he knows that, at least when it comes to him, Louis has a hard time doing the same. They’re just so stupid for each other that, even when infuriated over the tiniest things, they can still find time to be completely, idiotically besotted with the other.
Harry isn’t mad enough to overlook the tendons of Louis’ forearms working under his sun-kissed skin as he clenches his fists, sneering prettily (prettily, Christ) at him. He would probably have to be catatonic to not appreciate that. His thin lips are pulled in tight over his pointy teeth, expressive brows furrowed and all Harry wants him, always wants him. Wants him all the time in every way. He’s learned though not to let this stop him from being mad and, somewhere along the way, learned to mix the desire and the anger.
It’s really not a surprise to either of them that Harry all but pushes Louis down on the bed, shucking first his jeans and then Louis’ off with practiced ease. Louis doesn’t even help him get his pants off, lays stiff on the bedspread with his arms crossed, glowering at the ceiling despite his cock fattening up under Harrys gaze.
Working his hands under Louis’ shirt is a bit difficult with his crossed arms, and Harry grunts out a “you twat, move your arms,” to which Louis responds by resolutely NOT moving his arms. Which, yeah, Harry probably shouldn’t have expected anything less, honestly.
“Don’t make me tie you up,” he admonishes, relishing in the goosebumps he can see rise on Louis’ skin. “Oh you’d like that wouldn’t you? Want me to tie you up, bad boy?”
“Your dirty talk leaves a lot to be desired, arsehole,” Louis argues back, reaching up quickly to twist at Harrys nipple harshly, smirking at the outraged squeak Harry lets loose.
“You would know a thing or two about desiring arseholes then, wouldn’t you?” Harry queries, in a way he hopes comes off as haughty and not wrecked, rubbing at his tender nipple.
“Says the man about to bum me,” and, if his hands weren’t firmly in fists, Louis would probably be attempting to look at his nails disinterestedly.
“Just take off your damn shirt so I can fuck the bitch out of you, please?”
Louis’ eyes narrow dangerously and, for a moment, he fears he might have crossed a line. But, thankfully, Louis whips his shirt off, throwing it roughly into Harrys face before sitting up and glowering at Harrys sweater like its mere presence is offensive. Harry hastens to strip down but, as soon as he’s finished, he changes his mind, settling himself down next to Louis, folding his arms behind his head leisurely.
Immediately Louis turns to him, a question in his eyes, because usually Harry likes to fuck down into him, make him whine, turn him incoherent. “Nah, not today,” Harry answers the unasked question with a smirk, “you’re gonna work for this orgasm because you don’t work for anything else around here, do you?”
“Didn’t realize I was fucking married to my mother,” he seethes, but offers no actual complaints, straddling Harrys stomach quickly, cock bouncing obscenely red and wet in front of him. And maybe for anyone else mentioning mothers during sex would but a turn off but…it’s Louis, and Harry knows he’s still open from earlier in the shower when they had taken their time with hushed voices and slick skin.
It’s not about taking it slow right now, though.
Right now, his entire world is centered down to Louis’ small, firm hands working up and down his cock assuredly, slicking him up in a way that has Harry fighting to keep his hips still. Narrowed down to Louis all but impaling himself on his cock, taking him down in a smooth motion that punches the air out of Harry’s body in a gust. He bites down on his lip hard, nearly drawing blood when Louis starts to work his hips in small figure eights, working himself open on Harry.
“At least we know what shuts you up,” Louis crows triumphantly, but Harry knows Louis is just as affected, is just better at not showing it. He’s flushed from the apples of his cheeks down to his pretty, dusky pink nipples that have hardened despite the heat of the room, and his breathing is definitely labored, chest heaving with the effort.
Harry grips Louis’ hips tight enough to bruise, lifting him up so that he can piston his hips up and fuck into Louis’ welcoming heat. “Like you’re any better. Practically gagging for it,” he teases, smirking at Louis’ high-pitched keen.
“It seems…” Louis begins on a gasp, when he’s regained his breath, hands splayed roughly over Harrys pectorals, “that you…and I…have vastly…different…interpretations,” he pauses, holding himself still above Harry, just his rim clinging to the head of Harrys cock. He lets himself drop back down and Harry’s eyes nearly roll to the back of his head at the sensation “…of gagging. You threw me down,” he asserts, self-assured and cocky even with a dick up his ass.
It’s always sort of a race to see who can make the other crack first, who can hold onto their anger for longer. But Louis does this thing, clenching around Harry in maddening bursts, sweetening the rough drag to where it borders on the line of pleasurepain, and Harry can’t hold out anymore. “Fuck, Lou, you’re amazing,” he rushes out, raw and honest, reaching up to pull Louis’ mouth down to his. He can feel Louis smirking into the kiss, can intimately feel the happy wiggle his hips do where they’re connected. The kiss is sloppy but tender, like most things in their lives, and Harry can’t even be mad that Louis will be bragging how he beat Harry…again. Not when Louis is so warm and solid and yielding above him. Being mad is an impossibility.
Louis pulls back, rolling his hips in smooth, fluid motions that drag Harry’s cock deliciously inside of him, overtaking his senses. “Knew you would crack,” he crows, moaning breathlessly as Harry manages to find his prostate.
“Good for you,” Harry replies without any heat behind it, biting senselessly against the jut of Louis’ collarbones, his adams apple, the hinge of his jaw.
Louis’ movements have gotten frantic as he chases his orgasm, and Harry gets a hand on him, rubs at his blurting slit with his thumb, spreading wetness down Louis’ cock to ease the drag. He works his fist over him, timing them with his thrusts that has Louis attempting to fuck down on his cock and up into his fist all at the same time, unsure of which sensation he wants to chase more. It’s mind-numbingly hot, the way Louis throws his head back, throat working as he tries to breathe. He’s truly stunning and Harry has his dick inside him and he’s only human, coming before he can even process what’s happened.
When he comes back to himself, Louis is still seated atop him like a king on his throne, drawing pictures in his come that has pooled on Harrys belly. “You’re so fucking sappy when you come,” Louis informs him, drawing what appears to be a penis on the butterfly. Biting back a groan, Harry rolls his eyes because, fuck him, honestly.
“What did I say this time?”
“Told me ya loved me,” Louis tells him, smirk firmly in place, still playing in his own come.
“’S not sappy, I do love you.”
“Suppose it’s better than when you proposed to me while you came.”
“It’s definitely better than you saying yes while you came.”
“Schematics, Harold, I win.”
He has to bite back a fond smile. They’re grown men, he’s not a lovesick teenager (except that he totally is). “What do you win, fire of my life, light of my soul?”
“Kiss me proper and stop fucking nagging me, Agony Aunt.”
“You love it,” Harry responds easily, hiding his grin in Louis’ neck, kissing his way up to his mouth.
“I do,” he gets out between kisses, “and I love you too, if that wasn’t clear. And I suppose that maybe I could help around the house a bit more, possibly. Gonna take at least three more orgasms before I’m dick drunk enough to agree to that shit, though.”
Pausing after a laugh is startled out of him, Harry considers Louis with a calculated stare. “Y’know, sometimes I think you pick fights with me because you know you’ll get angry sex. I think you’re a masochist.”
Louis giggles cheekily, mumbling “you can’t prove anything,” while pushing Harry down to kiss him proper.
And if Harry gets hard while he’s still inside Louis, all the better, really.