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Louis really would’ve liked to just order the damn thing off the internet, but Harry insists that anything going inside your body ought to be thoroughly researched, which, apparently, mandates going to a sex shop. Knowing how ludicrously uncomfortable Louis is with the whole thing, Harry devises the ingenious solution of bringing Eleanor along and having her pose as Harry’s girlfriend who’s interested in trying out pegging, with Louis tagging along as a supportive best mate. It’s not Harry’s worst plan to date, but it’s somewhere in that range.
Still, part of Louis goes squirmy-hot at the idea of going to a sex shop with his boyfriend—his boyfriend, God, it’s been close to a year and he’s still giddy about it, hopes he’ll be perpetually trapped in this honeymoon period—and that part rares up with a fury when the trio shoulder in the door, little bells tinkling to announce their arrival. The person working the desk— pink hair multiple piercings highly intimidating makeup —waves hello and says to ask if they need help with anything, and Harry gives them a winning smile, dimples and all, and says that they will, thanks very much. Louis really loves him.
As they make their way over to the selection of harnesses (the most important part, according to Harry) Louis can’t help but eye the displays of rope and handcuffs and blindfolds and—Christ, is that a riding crop shaped like a cupcake? Harry might need that for his birthday, although they’ve never gone past Louis giving him a few open-handed smacks (which made Harry come like a freight train every time, but there’s that and then there’s hitting him with a riding crop and Louis shouldn’t find it as hot as he does). One step at a time, he decides. There’s still a good few months before Harry’s birthday, anyway. Louis can drop hints, unlike Harry, who’s completely hopeless at it. Leaving Louis’ laptop open on a pegging video hadn’t exactly been subtle.
It got them here, though, which Louis mostly feels good about. They’re in the right section, now, and there are a few, but not too many, harnesses to choose from. The ones with leather straps and D-rings and whatnot look sort of intimidating, but they’re probably better than the flimsy polyester things the store has for cheap. Louis’ kind of intrigued by the one that’s a set of briefs, although he’s not sure about how well it would work, and he balks a little at the price tag. There’s also something that feels odd about the idea of fucking Harry with his pants on. Not that Louis hasn’t done it before; the vibrator Harry had shyly presented a few months ago has been getting plenty of use, and Louis’ only unclothed some of the time, but. Still. Although straps will likely dig into his hips and make it obvious how much extra there is, and—
“Lou?”
Harry’s looking at him. Louis flushes when he realizes he’s probably been standing here gawping at the harnesses like a prat for at least a minute. “What,” he says, “um, what’s up?”
“Nothing,” Harry says cheerfully, and is that—okay, so he’s tossing a butt plug between his giant hands, a heavy-looking metallic one with a pink gem on the end. Louis swallows with a great deal of effort. “What do you think?,” he asks, lowering his voice and—thank God—putting the butt plug back on the shelf. “See anything you like?”
“Um.” Louis’ voice comes out all squeaky and high-pitched. “Yeah?”
*
Louis’ a little fuzzy from his half of the bottle of red wine he and Harry had shared over dinner, but not unpleasantly. Everything’s just moving a little more viscously, slow and liquid around him. Have Harry’s lips always been this pink? No, he’s biting them—he does that when he’s excited. Sometimes when he’s nervous, but mostly when he’s turned on. Louis hopes he’s turned on. That’s the idea. He’s staring at Louis all creepily intense like he does when he’s turned on, and rubbing his own thighs. All good signs.
“Happy anniversary,” Louis says, again, because he still can’t believe it’s their anniversary. The occasion ought to be dulled a bit by the fact that they’d just celebrated, not a month ago, the anniversary of their meeting, but tonight’s the anniversary of when they became boyfriends, and Harry pulled out the stops on this one. Louis was in charge of their date back in August; they’d gone to the arcade from their first date, then gotten takeaway curries and gone back to Louis’ dorm to eat whilst watching Bake Off, and after that was done they’d had sweet, slow, very good sex. It was a good date, all in all, but Louis felt very inadequate about it when the hostess led them to a tiny table in the back of a posh Italian restaurant, and said table had a gorgeous flower arrangement in the center and off to the side, and the menu didn’t have prices. Louis began panicking almost immediately, closing his eyes and telling himself sternly, calm down. Don’t fucking ruin this. He orders a salad to try and minimize the anxiety, hoping Harry won’t give him a reproachful look about it. He doesn’t, just watches him a little closely. Louis can deal with that; Harry’s probably entitled after last year’s debacle, after all.
He had kept his word after their first night at Louis’ house, and had spoken to his mum, but being left alone with her whilst Harry looked after the girls (bless him) meant he could get away with significantly downplaying the severity of what was going on, shame sitting tight in his gut as he explained that he’d just been thinking about using behaviors again, hadn’t really done anything, and she had cried and told him how proud she was that he had been honest with her, which had made him want to run to the loo to throw up right that second, and had also made a small, nasty part of him smile in satisfaction. And he had gone to the counseling centre, as he had said he would, when they got back to uni, but Harry wasn’t with him then, either, and so he found the lies rolling off his tongue slick as oil. They weren’t the worst lies he’d ever told—mostly of omission—but they allowed him to slink by, unnoticed, skipping a meal here and there, making substitutions he knew wouldn’t raise Harry’s eyebrows because Harry had only seen the smallest part of how fucked up Louis could be about food, and he had all kinds of tricks up his sleeves. Liam seemed occasionally suspicious, but he was broken up enough about Danielle, and busy enough, that Louis really didn’t have much trouble distracting him. He wasn’t throwing up anymore, so he was fine, and he had convinced everyone else of that, too.
But he couldn’t keep it up forever, and when he’d gone home for Christmas, his mum had hugged him, and then held him at arm’s length, looking up and down his body in horror, and he had known, with a cold, sinking feeling, that he had been found out. Her crying and pulling him inside and telling Lottie to look after the girls in a tone that left no room for argument and taking him up to her room and setting the bathroom scale in front of him and demanding that he step on had all felt blurry, disconnected from him like he was floating a few feet away and watching it happen, the only part that felt immediate the little curl of pleasure he felt at seeing the number blink up at him. It had vanished quickly, of course, at Jay’s sob, and he had floated even further away as she had cried and yelled and made a phone call to his doctor and driven him down to the hospital where she worked and they had sent him home saying his vitals weren’t worrying enough to put him in inpatient but that if he lost more weight or showed any sign of cardiac problems he should be brought straight back, and he had gotten in bed that night with sore, dry eyes and stared at his phone in his hands, at the texts between him and Harry, the last saying lou?? Did u have a good trip home? Miss u! Xx and he had thought, what do I even say? And so he had typed out yep, all good, miss u 2 baby xxxxx and locked it, setting it on his bedside table and staring up at the glow-in-the-dark stars he’d stuck up on his ceiling years ago, only a few left, and had tried, for several hours in vain, to fall asleep.
Less than a week later, he’d checked into hospital, and one of the only bits he remembers is his surprise when he was allowed to keep his phone, and how all throughout every kind of test being run on him, EKGs and tilt tables and enough blood being taken that he felt dizzy even sitting down, he’d been thinking, what do I tell Harry? He hadn’t mentioned in any of their conversations the strained mealtimes or the weigh-ins or his mum’s constant, hovering presence, had instead nattered on about their mutual friends and the latest episode of Gogglebox and whatever else that assured Harry everything was fine during their separation, had gone over plans for Harry’s visit over Louis’ birthday (going back to his parents’ for Christmas, of course) and Louis hadn’t said a word that would indicate things were falling apart. He had sort of meant to, but once he’d lied the first time, he found himself unable to stop. It was a familiar cycle—the first lie trapped him, unable to admit the truth lest he be caught in the untruths that came before it. And so he had resolved to have this dealt with, things smoothed over, by the time he saw Harry.
But he was supposed to be picking Harry up at the train station tomorrow, and now a nurse was fiddling about with setting him up a feeding tube. He’d been protesting, but since this wasn’t his first hospitalization (nor his first at this specific hospital), they were erring on the side of caution, what with his history of being a right pain in the arse (although the word they used was “noncompliant”; it still meant the same thing). Louis also suspected his mum had insisted, which she shouldn’t have been able to do since he was well over eighteen, but she’d worked there for more than ten years—Louis knew how much hell she could and would raise if she thought he weren’t getting the proper care, and he knew he wouldn’t be getting out of here in less than a week. So he stared at the blank text he’d opened up and typed, one letter at a time, in hospital, probably for a few days. Sorry can’t pick u up tmrw, i’ll pay for the train ticket.
In the minutes before Harry texted back, his monitor had gone wild, and the nurse had come rushing over to check on him and hovered there for a while before he’d gotten his heart under control.
??? Harry had sent. Just three question marks. The monitor had started beeping frantically again, and this time yet another nurse had come in, probably thinking he was about to go into cardiac arrest. He swallowed and said, “No, just having a tough conversation.”
His phone buzzed again. What happened, Harry had written. Are you okay?
Fine. Heart’s just acting a bit wonky. Don’t worry luv
I am worried. Are you allowed visitors?
Think so. He asked to confirm. Yes, but u don’t have to come
R u joking? Of course I’m coming. If u want me to
Louis bit his lip. I don’t want you to see me like this, he typed, and then quickly deleted it. You don’t have to, he sent again.
I want to.
The nurse with the feeding tube had coughed under her breath several times to get his attention, wheeling the little machine next to her, and he’d quickly typed and sent brb before taking a deep breath in preparation for the always-awful sensation of plastic tubing being threaded through his nose and down his throat.
He’d unlocked his phone to see just one message from Harry. I rang your mum, it said.
As if on cue, the door opened, and his mum, haggard-looking and red-eyed, came in and sat down next to his bed. Louis felt the tape holding the tube in place burn where it made contact with his skin, like a brand, and he wanted to turn so it was out of sight, but that wouldn’t do any good.
“Harry called,” Jay had said, forgoing a hello . “He was panicking that you were in hospital and he didn’t know why and you hadn’t texted him back.”
“Sorry,” Louis said, raspy and odd-sounding around the tube. He meant it both to his mum and to Harry. “What did…I mean—”
“I told him what was going on,” she interrupted him. “He seemed really surprised. And confused. He kept telling me you were doing well, and then he started crying.”
Louis’ eyes burned, and he looked down at his hands, pinching the webbing between two fingers and then picking at his nails. “I’m sorry,” he repeated. “Did he say—”
“He wants to come see you,” she said. “I told him it was alright, I’ll pick him up from the station. I know you were looking forward to seeing him for your birthday.”
“Yeah,” he said. “I mean, I was, but.” He gestured around at their surroundings. “Dunno if he’d want to see me like this.”
“Louis,” Jay said sternly. “He was begging me to let him visit.”
For some reason, Louis can’t believe that. No one would want to see him like this. “Okay.”
“And I thought it might, you know, help remind you why you need to recover.”
“I’m sorry,” he said, getting choked up again. “I’m so sorry, mum, please.”
She softened a little, but it was plain as day the toll the past week had taken on her, and she couldn’t pretend she wasn’t upset with him. He deserved that, he figured. “Don’t be sorry, just get better, love, alright?”
He nodded his head, tears threatening to spill if he tried to talk. She kissed the top of his head and told him she needed to go home and look after the girls, but that they were going to their father’s tomorrow, and so she would be able to see him on all her breaks and when she had time off. And she had, in between psychiatrists and cardiologists and nurses and interns coming into his room to poke and prod and ask questions, take his vitals, scribble things on his chart, and leave, an unsettling rhythm he tried to tune out, like the steady drip-drip-drip of nutrients down his throat at feeds.
As the minutes had ticked down towards Harry’s scheduled arrival and his phone hadn’t gotten any new messages, Louis began to panic, both that he wasn’t coming and that he was. Thirty minutes after the train had arrived, he became so distressed that, again, a nurse had come bustling in to check on him, had taken a cursory look at him and then gone to fetch a sedative. “Just a mild one,” she had said. “It’s dangerous for your heart rate to get too high.”
And then a few blurry, progressively slower minutes later, Harry was standing there in the doorway, looking awful, bags under his red-rimmed eyes and hair all over the place, greasy like he’d been running his hand through it over and over again the way he does when he’s nervous, lower lip chewed raw, wearing a t-shirt and hoodie that didn’t go together with a pair of jeans Louis had never seen, baggy and light-washed, Converse shoved on his feet with the laces undone and trailing on the floor. His whole appearance was haphazard, as though he hadn’t slept and had gotten dressed in the dark, and the knowledge that it was because of him was difficult for Louis to swallow. As were many things. Ha, ha. He had thought he couldn’t feel worse, and then Harry’s face had crumpled, and he was crying—harder than Louis had ever seen, the silent, hiccupy kind of sobs that send tremors through your whole body—right in front of him, and Louis couldn’t get up to run over to him and pull him into his arms because he was hooked up to an IV for fluids and currently mid-feed, the machine at his left pumping liquid calories into him, and because he was here because he had stood up and immediately collapsed and the next thing he knew his mum was buckling him into the car and driving him to hospital, mouth tight and wordless.
And now Harry was here, and had taken one look at him before he burst into tears, and Louis felt like the worst person who had ever existed, and he opened his mouth to apologize but instead started crying himself, and the squeak of Harry’s sneakers on the floor coming closer to him only made him squeeze his eyes shut and cry harder, not wanting to open them and see the look of devastation and disappointment and probable disgust on Harry’s face, not up close, but then there were clammy hands on his face, cupping his jaw, and a kiss on his forehead, sweaty and snotty and too hard, like Harry was trying to meld their faces together. It made Louis cry harder, and he knew how awful he himself must look, an ugly crier through and through. He’d wrapped his free arm around Harry’s shoulders and been taken aback at the weakness of his grip, how tired it made him to even hold Harry like this, and that started him crying again, and before he knew it he was scooting over so that Harry could clamber up on the right side of the bed, where he stayed, stock-still, seemingly afraid to touch Louis the wrong way, and god, had he fucked it all up this quickly? He buried his face into Harry’s neck and breathed, trying to get the rapid, off-beat flutter of his heart to calm, and he felt Harry slowly, cautiously take his hand, fitting their fingers together and squeezing so gently, like he was afraid to break him.
Neither of them said anything for a while—it could have been a minute or an hour, Louis’ tired and anxious brain finding it difficult to tell time without concrete indicators, which the hospital didn’t provide—and it took the beep of the machine indicating the feed was finished to startle them out of the kind of limbo they had found themselves in. Before they could talk, though, a nurse came in to unhook Louis from the machine, and he nearly shoved Harry away, revolted at the idea of Harry seeing this, the way the tubing always dribbled a little bit of the formula before being flushed out with water, the nurse wiping his face and checking that his tube was still in place, the tape holding it secure, then taking his vitals and inevitably making some remark about how well he was doing. He didn’t want Harry to see any of that. But here they were, and Harry was seeing it, and Louis couldn’t even hide his face in shame because the nurse needed access to it, so he squeezed his eyes shut and held Harry’s hand in a vice grip and thought, as hard as he could, please don’t be disgusted by me please don’t go please I’m sorry please don't leave me, until it was over and the only sounds in the room were the monitors and the two of them breathing, the nurse’s footsteps receding down the hallway.
Harry hadn’t left. He threw a bit of a fit when Louis’ attending told him visiting hours were over, actually, and it took Jay knocking on the door and smiling at the two of them, sad around the edges, for Harry to sigh, kiss Louis once, twice, three times—chaste, since they were in front of his mum—and carefully get off the bed and back into his shoes.
And there he was the next morning, right when visiting hours began, looking anxious like he thought Louis might have died overnight. Which, later, Louis had to concede, was sort of fair. Other people didn’t take the kind of nonchalant attitude he did towards the potentially fatal consequences of his actions, and Harry had had less time than anyone else to adjust, and Louis knew—he knew, even though Harry hadn’t said it—that Harry blamed himself for not noticing, which was unfair because Louis had worked so hard to hide it from him and everyone else.
“Hi,” he said, noting the relief and slow smile spreading across Harry’s face. “Fancy seeing you here.”
Later, when Harry was once more curled into Louis’ right side—and Louis would notice, occasionally, in flickering glimpses, the stark contrast in their sizes, before it flitted away again and Louis once more wanted to cry with how bloated and hideous he felt—Louis looked up at the ceiling and considered what to say. Simple, he decided, was best. “It’s really not your fault,” he said, his voice slightly distorted around the awkwardness of the tube. “You know that, right?”
Harry tensed against him. “I should’ve known, though,” he argued. “I thought you were getting smaller, I just…”
“Didn’t want to say anything, because I asked you not to talk about my body and you respected that boundary?”
Harry was quiet for a moment. “When you put it that way,” he said, and didn’t finish the sentence.
“I’m sorry,” Louis said softly. “I hid it from you, I lied, I didn’t want you to notice. Okay, well, maybe sometimes, but…I’ve been doing this for a long time. I’m good at it.”
Harry made an odd sound like a sob at that. “You shouldn’t be,” he said, strangled and sad.
Louis huffed a laugh that he knew sounded annoyed. “Well,” he said sharply, “Told you I was fucked up.” He paused. “Sorry,” he said.
“‘S okay.”
“I’m really upset that you’re seeing me like this,” Louis admitted. “And I’m really mad at myself for doing it again and putting my mum through it, and now you.”
“Not your fault,” Harry insisted, suddenly serious. He punctuated it by leaning up on one elbow so he could see Louis’ face, which burned under the scrutiny. “Just…why didn’t you tell me? I could’ve helped.” His voice broke at the end.
God, Louis hated that his first instinct was to roll his eyes, and then the second one was to cry. Why couldn’t he be normal and nice and appreciative of people caring about him? Why did he have to be this fucked in the head? “It wasn’t about…you,” he said tightly. “Like, rationally I know you would want to help, but I didn’t…I didn’t want it.” I don’t want it, he thought bitterly, but that ship had sailed, and he was reminded every time he swallowed or touched the left side of his face. “Sorry, I’m fucking mental. Told you.”
“I love you,” Harry said, which was sort of a non-sequitur, although he knew Harry didn’t see it that way.
“Love you too,” Louis said after a moment, shifting to try and find a more comfortable position in the cramped space, before he gave up and just shuffled as close to Harry as he could get, and he was so grateful that when his eyes got hot and wet, Harry didn’t say anything, just kissed the top of his head and watched the episode of Corrie that was on the tiny hospital telly.
He’d gotten out of hospital the day before his birthday—thank god for small favors, he supposed. On the day of, Harry baked a cake, and Louis silently pleaded with his mum not to make him have a piece, not yet, but she wouldn’t meet his eyes and set the wedge she’d cut down in front of him with the same authority as she did each of the meals and snacks on his plan, a motion that left no room for argument. The second he started refusing food, he knew, he’d be marched right back to hospital so they could put him back on a feeding tube, and anything was better than that abject humiliation. Still, he hated that he was sitting there, on the verge of panic and tears over a piece of his birthday cake that his boyfriend had made for him, beautifully, with three layers and jam in the middle (blackcurrant, Louis’ favorite), and a swirly Happy Birthday Louis frosted on top. He’d covered it in fondant, for crying out loud—Louis made jokes while he was bustling about the kitchen, flour all over his face and sweating as he rolled and rolled the sheet and carefully draped it over, tucking the edges in like his mum did bedsheets, a look of such seriousness on his face that Louis had to break the tension with an exaggerated imitation of Harry’s slow, deep voice saying I used to be a baker , at which Harry had laughed, but not hard, so Louis had started talking about what a great housewife he was and how domestic they were being, which had made Harry’s cheeks pink and his mouth twitch, and then, to Louis’ horror, his lips wobbled as he clearly tried to hold back tears, and Louis had rushed over and wrapped his arms around him, petting Harry’s back and scratching his scalp to soothe him, told him, “Shhh, love. It’s going to be okay.”
*
And it is, more or less; here they are, together officially for a year, and god, Harry’s just the most gorgeous person in the world, blinking up at him with eyes gone shiny and blown.
“Yeah,” Louis murmurs into his neck, rolling his hips down, “you want me to fuck you, huh?”
“Please,” Harry whines. “Please please please—”
“Shhhh, baby.” Louis bites under his jaw. “Don’t hafta beg.” He feels the frantic jump of Harry’s pulse and knows his own must be equally quick, but Harry gets off on Louis seeming calm and in charge while he gets desperate, and Louis will always do his best to give him anything he wants. Which involves pushing past his reflexive embarrassment, sometimes. He wriggles his hands under Harry’s bum and grips as much as he can, squeezing. “Gonna give you everything you want.” He squeezes once more before releasing and smirking at the petulant sound Harry makes. “Hands and knees,” he decides. “Scoot up the bed a bit—there, good lad—and stay there. No moving. Clear?”
“Clear,” Harry echoes, sounding like he wants to say something else. Maybe Louis’ just projecting, though. He’s not about to ask Harry to call him sir; he can do what Harry asks for, but asking for that himself seems daunting. He snaps back to the present; Harry’s in position, the light reflecting off the light sheen of sweat all along his back, collecting in the slight dip above his bum. Which is unfairly hidden by his tiny grey briefs. Shit. Louis should’ve thought of that first. Harry likes being made to stay still, and Louis wants to let him for a while, whilst he figures out all the straps and rings and other awkward nonsense that comes with using a strap-on dick without the pressure of eyes on him.
Okay, he tells himself. You can do this. It’s not that he doesn’t want to; he really, really does, but—what if he’s bad at it? What if Harry doesn’t like it? He wouldn’t be mean, of course, but Louis knows he likes his arse fucked, and sooner or later he might want a real cock doing the job, and Louis can’t give him that. God, what if he has a weird embarrassing breakdown in the middle of it because he’s thinking about all this shit?
He takes another look at Harry, his arms just visibly shaking, head bowed and necklace swinging slightly, the arch of his back becoming more pronounced by the minute. Louis’ heart swells with love for him, so sweet and lovely, eager to please and unselfish and Louis’, somehow.
It’s not that difficult to get the harness on once he works out the right way to approach it and manages to adjust a few of the straps, probably not as tight as he should do, but to where they should work. Of course, then he realizes that he actually has to get the dildo in place before he puts it on, so he swears under his breath and wriggles out of it. This time, he gets it right, and it’s…odd. He doesn’t dislike it. A tiny part of him had kind of been hoping that it would be some kind of aha moment, would make him feel right, but he feels the same, just with a fake dick strapped to him. Maybe it’s that the toy is pink and glittery. Harry’s face had just lit up so brightly when he’d seen it. He’s ridiculous.
Ridiculous, and making subtle rocking motions with his hips, his arms slid forward so they’re no longer directly under his shoulders. Louis feels a pang of guilt for telling him to do something he couldn’t, but then he hears the tiniest little moan, and he realizes Harry did it on purpose.
His theory is confirmed by the destroyed whine Harry lets out when he tuts and says, “What did I tell you to do, Haz?”
“Hold still,” Harry whimpers. “Sorry.”
Louis rakes his nails down Harry’s broad, sweaty back, settling them on his bum and squeezing harshly. Harry wriggles back into it, so Louis feels safe to give him a moderately hard slap. Harry moans and bucks his hips back, so Louis gives him another one, and another, and another after that, mesmerized by the hot stinging of his own palm and the sound of the smacks and Harry’s little wails that follow. The only thing more appealing than continuing to spank him is the idea of seeing what kind of color he’s put on him—Harry’s got such sensitive, pale skin, such a pert little arse, like a peach. The marks Louis bites into him last for days.
He hooks his fingers under the waistband of Harry’s briefs; he’s startled, briefly, by the movement of the toy between his legs, and abruptly realizes just how turned on he is, fucking dripping almost down to his knees. God, okay. Time to get on with it. The color revealed when he yanks the underwear down is beautiful: fairly even and blushed pink. Louis gives him another slap just to see the brief impression of his hand in white before the blood rushes back in. They moan in unison. Louis always likes how their voices sound together, even if he doesn’t like his own. They sound like they fit.
They’ve got enough practice at this part; Louis grabs the lube on the night table and slicks up his fingers, pressing one, two, then three into Harry and curling, rubbing tight circles into his spot once he finds it and soaking in the whines Harry lets out—God, he’s loud—until Harry’s fucking back rough onto his fingers, his cock dripping and so hard Louis imagines it must be painful, but he didn’t tell Harry to touch himself, so Harry’s not. He feels frozen, for a minute.
Louis swallows. “Y’ready, babe?”
Harry nods frantically into the pillow and arches up so his arse is even higher in the air. It’s actually too high for Louis’ hips, so he shoves him down a bit, which has the unexpected but lovely effect of spreading Harry’s knees wider. Louis steadies him with a hand on his lower back, and looks down. He’d slicked the toy up while he was prepping Harry, so there’s nothing more to do. He takes a deep breath.
It doesn’t feel monumental. It doesn’t feel much of anything—it presses the base of the toy a little harder against Louis’ groin, which feels good—but Harry’s nearly silent moan and the slap of his palm on the bedsheet is definitely something. It takes more effort than Louis would have imagined to push the toy—which isn’t that big, Harry has a bigger vibrator, his size queen thing something that Louis does not remotely understand—all the way in, and he finds himself out of breath once he’s got his hips nestled against Harry’s bum.
“Y’alright?” he asks, holding still. His thighs are already starting to shake. He’s really just started being somewhat active again, and he hates how much muscle he lost in the relatively short time he was seriously restricting, and then in the subsequent refeeding period in which he wasn’t allowed to exercise. He gets distressed when he thinks about it too long, but it is what it is—which is now inked into his chest, a reminder.
“‘M good,” Harry says, panting, circling his hips just slightly—Louis feels the movement against his clit, which sets this apart from the times he’s fucked Harry holding a toy. “You can move. I mean, please move. Please.”
Louis chuckles low in his throat, and slides his sweating palms up to Harry’s hips, trying to get a good grip. “Okay, sweetheart,” he says quietly, and pulls back, watching the drag of the silicone outward, and then thrusts forward, gently, pulling Harry back at the same time. Harry moans, and he does it again. The intermittent pressure against his own crotch feels pretty amazing, but it’s much more difficult than he anticipated. He keeps slipping all the way out by accident, his thrusts awkward and lacking rhythm, and he feels his face and eyes start to burn just a bit, both with exertion—god, his legs hurt already—and disappointment in himself.
He swallows it down and decides to power through; he’s good at that. He plants himself more firmly and adjusts the angle so that he’s pushing down into Harry, which is easier, and has the added bonus of making Harry cry out, apparently hitting his spot. Louis feels sweat trickle down his forehead, his upper lip, his chest, constricted and smothered under two layers, still. His feet twitch and his thighs burn properly after a few minutes, and he can’t—he has to take a break.
“Sorry,” he pants, sitting back on his haunches. Harry looks back over his shoulder, eyes glazed and lips bitten, cheeks the same pink as his arse—God, he’s obscene, and looking at Louis with that little furrow in his brow that makes Louis want to smooth it away with his thumb. “Just a second,” he manages, trying to get his breathing under control. “Got a little out of breath.”
“It’s okay,” Harry rasps. “We can stop, you don’t have to—”
“I want to,” Louis bites out. “Just gimme a minute.”
Harry nods, but then gets an odd look on his face, and sits up—his limbs are awkward, all stiff from lack of movement—turning towards Louis and kissing him hard. Louis feels their cocks knock together and swallows down Harry’s moan. He’s about to reach for it when Harry moves to the shell of his ear and whispers, hoarse, “C’n I ride you?”
Louis’ throat goes dry as sandpaper in an instant. He’s glad he doesn’t choke. “Yeah,” he says, strangled and high-pitched. “Uh, yeah, that works.” He flushes, hearing his own stutter, and wills the authoritative voice he knows he can use to come back. “Yeah, c’mon, babe,” he tries, flipping onto his back and pulling Harry down with him. “Wanna ride me?”
Harry smirks. “Just said so,” he says, although the smug expression is undercut by how wrecked his voice sounds from all the caterwauling he’s been doing. Hopefully will be doing again in a minute. Louis’ fully expecting to get reprimanded by residence life tomorrow for all the noise and does not care at all .
There’s an awkward few moments where they struggle to get the position right—the dildo keeps slipping up Harry’s crack or along his cheeks, making him giggle and Louis laugh with him—but once they do, Louis can’t figure out where he should look: at the shifting muscle and softness of Harry’s thighs; his heaving chest and puffy nipples; his face, mouth dropped open and wet and eyes closed, brow just slightly pinched, his hair mucked up and sweaty; the bulge of his biceps and rhythmic tensing as he moves up and down; his cock, gone just slightly softer but still hard, drippy—God, Harry always gets so wet. He’s so fucking beautiful.
“So beautiful,” Louis breathes. “God, baby, you’re gorgeous. Look so fucking good like that, riding me like a champ.” Harry bounces faster and moans, head tilting up towards the ceiling. The bed’s squeaking in a way that’s vaguely concerning. “So good. You’d think it wasn’t your first time, wouldn’t you?” That gets him a keen, and he continues. “But it’s just me, right, babe? Only me who gets to see you like this. I got to you first.”
“Yours,” Harry moans. “Yeah, just— fuck— just yours, Lou, love you, oh my—fuck—” Is—are his cheeks wet?
“Baby,” Louis says, reaching up and thumbing tears away from the corners of Harry’s eyes. “Love, are you okay?”
“So good,” is Harry’s only answer, his hips humping increasingly frantic and chaotic, and his cock is jumping like he’s close. Hell, Louis is close, just from watching and the slight stimulation. It would only take one touch, probably, but he tunes it out as he zeroes in on Harry, wants nothing more than to make him come so hard he blacks out.
“Yeah, c’mon,” Louis says. “Come for me, baby, c’mon, just like that, so good you have to cry, huh? So good, baby, you’re so fucking good, so pretty, look so good, c’mon.” He twists his fist around the wet head of Harry’s cock, tugging the foreskin down and jacking him fast and hard, and that’s all it takes for Harry to let out a sound Louis isn’t entirely sure is human and buck his hips frantically, shooting into Louis’ hand and streaking up his belly, where Louis’ shirt has ridden up. He hadn’t realized, and reflexively panics, the pouch of his abdomen exposed, the excess of flesh at his sides, God —
He nearly has a heart attack when Harry slides off and leans down, face close to Louis’ belly, thinks no no no no no don’t look at that, preparing himself for Harry’s disgust at this part of himself he’s been studious about keeping hidden, but Harry’s tongue just darts out, hot and wet, and licks up his own fucking cum, which is so hot Louis’ brain momentarily forgets to be self-conscious and moans, hips bucking up of their own accord, trying to get friction, Harry’s tongue so close to where he wants it but not quite there. Harry seems to understand his inarticulate whining, though, because his hands are sliding up Louis’ thighs, which has no right to feel as good as it does, especially with how Louis feels about his legs, and he’s undoing the buckles on the harness and yanking it down and off, not even taking a breath before he pulls Louis onto his tongue, just going straight for it the way Louis needs, having been on edge for what feels like years now. He lets out a strangled yelp as his orgasm builds and hits him like a truck, his whole body seizing, hands finding purchase in Harry’s hair and pulling hard, Harry moaning against him and his tongue still working as Louis barrels straight through his orgasm and into a second, whining so high in his throat that his voice disappears entirely, his whole world narrowed to the perfect unbearable pressure between his legs, Harry’s face clenched between his thighs as he humps aggressively into his face, definitely cutting off his airflow, and all it does is make Harry work harder, impossibly pushing Louis into a third that he outright sobs through, and Harry seems to know that it’s time to gentle his tongue and pull away as Louis comes down from it, muscles spasming, thighs shaking hard, sweat absolutely pouring out of him and soaking through the sheets underneath his back, not to mention the wet spot where his hips land, finally, his whole body loose and boneless.
“Holy shit,” he says, some time later when he’s able to catch his breath and focus his gaze. He wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d gone permanently cross-eyed, although he’s not sure that can actually happen through sex. He’ll have to ask Liam. And ugh, he doesn’t want to think about Liam for like, at least an hour pre- and post-orgasm. It’s a rule.
“Holy shit,” Harry agrees from beside him, lounging on his side like some fucking painting of Venus—Louis’ actually told him that before, and Harry just beams and further exaggerates the pose—and smiling at Louis, dimpling and blissed-out and looking so thoroughly fucked that Louis feels pride settle somewhere in his ribcage. They’re really fucking good at this.
“We’re really fucking good at this,” Louis murmurs, his eyes slipping shut again. He’s so fucking sleepy all of a sudden.
“We are,” Harry says. His fingers brush a piece of Louis’ hair out of his face. “Thank you.”
“Thank you ,” Louis counters. “You did most of the work.”
“Not true.”
“Yes true. I wimped out after like…two minutes.”
“It was like ten,” Harry argues, “and how long did I last the first time we did it the other way around?”
“That’s different,” Louis insists. “Wasn’t just ‘cause you got tired.”
“It was like 30 seconds.”
“I took it as a compliment.”
“As you should’ve. I’m just saying, it’s tiring, especially when you’re not used to it. That was amazing, Lou, thank you so much.”
Louis opens an eye to peer at him, and now that he’s truly coming down he becomes suddenly very aware of his half-clothed state, all the parts he doesn’t like bar a couple out on display. He searches for a sheet or blanket, but somehow they’ve both ended up on the floor where he can’t reach them. He tries to be discreet about tugging his shirt down to cover his stomach, but of course Harry notices, making a small sound and reaching out a hand to lay a couple of fingers atop the back of Louis’—not even remotely forceful, but very much there.
“You’re amazing,” Harry says, gently stroking along Louis’ knuckles, where he knows the skin used to be perpetually red and raw and had taken quite a while to go back to normal. As had all things, Louis supposes. He’s not sure if normal is achievable, but for the most part, he likes where they are now. He’d be happier if he lost 10 pounds, but he’s not going to say that out loud. “Seriously,” Harry continues. “You’re so fucking—you’re gorgeous. Most beautiful person I’ve ever met.”
“Must not’ve met yourself, then,” Louis mumbles. He still tugs his shirt down, but he moves closer to Harry, too, nosing at his bare shoulder and kissing it.
“Shower?” Harry says.
Louis tenses. They’ve only showered together the once, and it was before Louis had gained all that weight, and he’d been really uncomfortable anyway, constantly fighting the urge to turn his back to Harry or rip down the curtain and wrap himself in it. “Um,” he says, voice wavering, “I’m not sure—”
“Oh!” Harry exclaims. “No, I didn’t mean like, together. Unless you want to, which I’d be up for. But. Just meant did you want first shower.”
Louis’ heart has melted so many times over for Harry, and he’s not sure when it’s going to stop. He hopes never. “Sweet of you,” he says, kissing Harry’s shoulder again. “You sure?”
“Very sure,” Harry says. “Go on, I’ll change the sheets ‘n’ stuff.”
“Love you,” Louis has to say, the feeling overflowing the way it sometimes does, like it’s going to start bursting out of his body in little rays of light that splinter the surface of his skin. Harry makes him feel like he’s shining, still. “Happy anniversary.”
“Happy anniversary,” Harry repeats, beaming so big and bright it feels like it could fill the whole room and then some. Louis has the best boy in the world.
*