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Harry’s nipple tightens under Louis’ palm, finally. It’s the only indication that Harry – or at least his body – is aware of the attention Louis’s been focusing on his chest since the moment he woke up pressed to Harry's back, his cock nestled snugly against Harry's crack and his right hand gripping the warm flesh of Harry's pec. Harry hasn’t so much as squirmed. His breath hasn’t so much as stuttered.
Thus far, despite minutes of gentle but targeted fondling, Harry has been unresponsive. He hasn’t backed into Louis’ hardening dick, nor acknowledged in any other way that he feels it pressed insistently into his arse. He hasn’t shifted under Louis' arm to bring his back flush with Louis’ chest, nor otherwise reacted to Louis' persistent groping. The grazes and subtle pinches Louis has been lavishing on Harry's nipples have all gone unnoticed.
As least as far as Harry’s let Louis know.
But Harry’s disinterest in – or possibly his unconscious ignorance of – Louis’ intentions, doesn’t deter Louis in the slightest.
While it isn’t exactly their daily routine, it’s certainly not irregular.
Sometimes Harry responds rather immediately to Louis’ wake up call, huffing a hot breath onto Louis’ forearm and pressing his arse backwards to alert Louis to his receptiveness – his active interest – before twisting around to face Louis, capturing his lips with a pouty kiss and humming into his mouth before he even opens his eyes, swinging a leg over Louis’ hip so he can pull them together more easily. So he can press their morning wood into each other, wasting no time before they're rutting together, their stale breath mingling in the scarce space between them, the rapidly building humidity driving them both to more frantic movements of their hips and their arms and their lips and their teeth until one of them finally can’t take it anymore and flips the other on his back, determined to either sink into him or ride him before the other can say a word.
Sometimes it goes like that.
And Louis fucking loves it.
But sometimes it goes like this. With Louis testing Harry’s attention, gauging his interest, only to be met with stillness. Quiet. A total lack of response, save the smallest physical reaction of Harry’s nipple going taut without his permission. Possibly without even his awareness.
And it gets Louis so fucking hard. Makes him redouble his efforts, focus even more attention on Harry’s pecs. On his nipples specifically. Those gorgeous, dark, sensitive buds. Always aching for more.
And Louis is always willing to give it to them. Especially on mornings like this one.
Not because he thinks Harry's simply asleep, and knows the physiological response will eventually wake him up, get his brain and the rest of his body as interested as his nipples already are. But because he doesn't actually know whether Harry's really asleep or just trying to signal to Louis that he's not interested without outright rejecting him. And that always gets Louis excited.
Because he's going to fuck Harry either way.
It's the not knowing whether Harry wants it that gets Louis off. The possibility that he really doesn’t, but won’t stop Louis. That he'll let Louis take what he wants anyway. Maybe even feels like he has to. Just the slightest possibility that Harry does want it right now is all Louis needs. The possibility that Harry's just playing asleep because that’s one of his favorite fantasies, being fucked by someone who wants him so badly he can’t even wait till he’s awake to have him. Harry absolutely loves that, the idea of being wanted so desperately. And Louis has been happy to oblige since the first time Harry had shyly confessed it, years ago now. It had taken quite a lot of those times before Louis had realized that a big part of why he’d been so game is that it allows him to pretend that Harry’s actually asleep. That he’s not able to decide that he wants it. That there’s the slight chance he doesn’t, in fact.
Louis just wants the possibility of consent.
He had tried fucking Harry once after Harry had whispered that he didn’t want to, in a way that Louis knew wasn't part of some fantasy. He'd just pretended he hadn’t heard Harry and had gone ahead with it anyway, pressing into Harry’s still opened hole from the night before even as Harry’s entire body went rigid. It had made Louis feel like shit, in the end. Despite how physically fucking incredible Harry had felt, what with how hard he’d clenched around the intrusion. Despite the fact that Louis had still come, kissing Harry’s neck through it.
And they’d never discussed it. But Louis didn’t like it, he’d decided. He needs to at least be able to think Harry's just playing along, enjoying it quietly but thoroughly, while also being able to wonder if he's just going along, hoping it'll be over quickly this time.
This morning, Harry’s being perfect. Whether he knows it or not. So still. So quiet.
Muscles relaxed, but not pliant. Breathing steady, but not uninterrupted.
He could be sleeping. He could be hoping – for Louis to take control or to leave him be.
Louis doesn’t know. He can’t know. Not unless he asks. Risks waking Harry up. Risks being told no.
Harry's tight when Louis pushes in. Always so tight on mornings like this. It’s not as though Louis can exactly take his time opening Harry up in this situation. Even when Harry’s still a little loose from the night before, his body resists the intrusion. Whether it’s Harry consciously protesting or just his body’s natural, instinctual response to a surprise, Louis isn’t bothered.
But he isn’t entirely selfish. He uses more lube than usual. He pushes in slowly, centimetre by agonizing centimetre – so hard to go slowly when the suction of Harry’s body is so fucking overwhelming, but he has to. It’s all part of it. Pretending it’s possible to fuck someone without them noticing, just as long as you go slowly enough. As long as you take it easy.
The angle is awkward on their sides like this. Perfect for spooning – lucky Harry’s always loved being the little spoon – but significantly less ideal once Harry’s sweet warm arse is impaled on Louis’ cock.
Louis can’t get deep enough in this position. Can’t aim precisely enough.
No good for either of them if Louis’s just going to get frustrated chasing his orgasm. So when Louis's nearly fully worked himself inside of Harry, he rolls Harry to his stomach – slowly too, always so slowly when they're doing this. Still, the momentum makes it that much easier for Louis to force his last few inches into Harry, the cushioning of his pert little cheeks now that his legs aren't bent like an extra reward.
And he knows this position is better for Harry too, whether he started out wanting this or not. Whether he wants it now or not. It’ll feel better for him like this. It’s easier for Louis to hit his spot, to give him some pleasure as well. Easier for Louis to build up to his release, too. Which means they'll be done quicker. So Harry can either stop having to play asleep and actually enjoy coming himself, or, well, it’ll just be over faster.
Plus, when Harry's stomach is pressed into the mattress, Louis doesn’t have to know whether Harry ever gets hard at all.
He can just focus on the feeling of grinding into Harry as he lays prone, his flesh warm, outside and in. He can zero in on the delicious, wet friction of Harry's hole as he plunges in and pulls out again and again and again, getting impossibly deeper each time, occasionally pulling himself out to nearly the head before burying himself again.
Louis keeps his movements smooth, doesn’t go too fast or get too rough. Mostly because it allows him to keep up the pretense of this all being a secret, even from Harry himself. But partially because it doesn’t distract him as much as pounding into Harry would, much as he loves to do that. Keeping things slow and determined feels sensual. Romantic, even. And it allows Louis to listen carefully for the slightest whimper spilling from Harry’s lips, for any change at all in Harry’s breaths beyond the gentle huffs that Louis punches out of him with every thrust. It keeps Louis' mind alert enough to notice the gentle shifting of Harry’s muscles beneath him, the nearly imperceptible changes in pressure as Harry’s hole opens and tightens around him. To focus on the question of whether it’s an intentional or unconscious movement by Harry.
That question pushes Louis over the edge, a pulse of heat rocking through his body as his load empties into Harry’s slick heat. His restraint nearly spent, Louis pushes down on Harry’s shoulders with an almost reckless pressure, gripping him tightly and paying no attention to whether it elicits a sound from Harry as his own guttural moan escapes Louis’ throat and crashes like a wave into Harry’s ear, rustling his curls.
Still, Harry doesn’t move. Doesn’t utter a word. Louis’ perfect boy.
Louis lays there as his ragged breathing evens out, blanketed over Harry, his cock softening inside him, his cum starting to leak out. Harry must feel it – that familiar, moist, tickle – Louis thinks with a smile, the veil of the sleeping fantasy officially lifted.
When Louis decides to pull out, finally getting uncomfortable himself, he’s careful again. He presses his palms into the mattress on either side of Harry, rather than into Harry’s back, and lifts himself off Harry’s slack, dampened body.
As he slides off the bed and walks towards the door, Louis turns back towards Harry with a soft smile, feeling so fond for his baby. He’s hoping for a smile in return, a sleepy one or a smirk, either.
Instead, he catches Harry finally shifting, turning his head to face the opposite wall. Louis misses seeing his eyes. Doesn’t catch his expression. He’d been too slow to look.
Just as well.
Just in case.
There’s a spot on the pillow case on this side of Harry’s now-turned head. Could be wetness, a tear drop or a bit of drool. Could simply be a trick of the light, the pillow case folded just so, catching the speckled light through the blinds as the sun fights to gain entrance.
Louis can't be sure.
Or, he could be. But he isn’t. Because he doesn’t ask. Doesn’t check.
Just like he doesn’t check to see whether Harry came.
Instead, he exits the room, quietly as he can, leaving Harry to fall back asleep. Or to lay awake processing what just happened. Or revelling in it. Maybe a bit of both.
Louis doesn’t know. He won’t.
That’s not his business, really.
And besides, Harry’s coffee won’t make itself.