Like half the shit in Harry’s life, it starts off as a half-baked, half-crazy idea and ends up changing his entire fucking future. Audition for the X Factor. Suggest to your new best mate who you’re totally in love with that the two of you should move in together. Dare your boyfriend to try on a pair of heels.
Harry’s only sort of kidding. He doesn’t think, when he says it, that this particular incident will end up turning into an absolute thing. But he also didn’t think that auditioning for the X Factor would end in him becoming a fucking popstar or that the moving in conversation would subsequently prompt Louis to be, like, yeah, sounds good, but you should probably know the truth behind my fixation on your hair before we do that, prior to launching into the love confession of the century. So, Harry’s idle whims tend to give way to much bigger life changes, maybe. But it was just a pair of heels, ugly and scuffed, red vinyl pumps someone left in their living room last night. They weren’t supposed to be the catalysts to anything crazy.
But the shoes? They have other plans.
Harry’s hungover and exhausted and still recovering from the PJs and PB&Js party he and Louis threw at their shared flat (it’s still such a thrilling novelty to say it, shared flat, like they’re proper grown ups or something), half-heartedly scrubbing jelly out of their couch with a Brillo pad. “This is disgusting, like, what a bad idea. I guess I really didn’t think too much about what might happen with a bunch of drunk people and so many sticky substances…,” he trails off, wrinkling his nose at the smell of grape and beer.
Louis is somewhere in the kitchen, collecting cups and dumping plastic in the rubbish bin and setting aside glass to wash later. “Can’t hear you, Harold!” he shouts in his party-hoarse voice. “Something about sticky substances? Come in here!”
Harry could let it go, but he does everything Louis says without fail, so instead he drags himself off the couch and stumbles into the kitchen. “I said,” he starts, but then he stops, because Louis has a sort of look on his face, and that’s always a little terrifying. It’s the smile that curves up mischievously at the corner of his mouth, bright and sharp, like a shard of glass pressed to the thrum of Harry’s pulse. “What…what?” he asks, swallowing.
Louis bends down, digs around behind the rubbish bin, and pulls out a pair of red pumps. “Someone left these here…I think you should try ‘em on,” he says lightly. It’s not a suggestion, really, even if it’s disguised as one. It’s an order.
Harry’s stomach plummets as he folds his hands in front of himself demurely, covering his cock discretely because he knows he’s seconds away from critical danger zone, and if he gets hard before they even start playing, Louis’s gonna tease him so much, and then he’s gonna get even harder. “Okay,” he answers, rubbing the back of his neck and flicking his gaze up to meet Louis’s so he can smile at him a little, let him know he’s onto him, knows what he’s doing.
Louis drops them to the floor with a clatter and toes them across the tile. “Go on, then,” he says, crossing his arms. “Red looks good on you.”
Harry blushes as he lowers himself onto the ground, well aware that he’s too clumsy and hungover to even try to put on fancy shoes while he’s standing. He grabs one, and before he even tries in vain to get it on, he knows it’s way too small. It sits there, pitifully wedged on his toe and probably the least sexy thing in the world, making him feel like Cinderella’s ugly stepsister. “M’feet are too big,” he pouts, kicking the shoe off and across the floor toward Louis. And then, just as an afterthought, a joke to save himself from the fact that he’s sort of twitching in his joggers because Louis ordering him around fucks him up, and he's easy for Louis, he adds, “Why don't you put ‘em on? You have girly feet.”
Louis arches an eyebrow, placing his hands on his hips thoughtfully before carefully righting each shoe with deft, elegant toes. Harry watches from the ground, transfixed by the smooth, lovely way Louis moves, like poetry, like dance, so effortlessly pretty. Louis makes things like poetry and dance seem so simple, and then there’s Harry, who has been known to trip on absolutely nothing.
His breath catches as Louis slides his foot into the shoe. “It fits,” Louis murmurs, stepping into the other one and wobbling only the slightest bit, suddenly four inches taller, glorious in red pumps, tight black Top Man briefs, and a stretched-out white T-shirt, sporting messy bedhead and standing in the middle of their kitchen like some insane fantasy Harry didn't even know he had.
Harry swallows thickly, staring up at him, dry-mouthed. “Cinderella,” he breathes.
“God, these are uncomfortable,” Louis gripes, bending down to adjust them properly in the back before standing up again, legs weirdly gorgeous and even more shapely than they usually are, his calf muscles standing out in stark relief before giving way to the tuck of his ankle. “Women are amazing...these are, like, absolute torture devices? But I do feel…I dunno. Powerful? More powerful than usual, maybe. S’weird, can’t really describe it,” he explains as he pops his hip out, looking down at Harry from beneath the cut of his fringe sassily. “How do I look?”
Harry…Harry doesn’t have words, not really. He sits there on the floor with a half-hard cock, gazing up at this taller, scarier version of Louis with wide eyes. “Like I want you to spin-kick me in the face,” he admits after a moment, shakily inhaling. “You look…really good.”
Louis throws his head back and cackles. Somehow, the movement hardly throws him off balance, like he was fucking meant to wear heels, like he’s some sort of drag queen prodigy. Harry is astounded. He remembers trying on his mum’s shoes more than once as a kid and how he had to grip the edge of her dresser lest he topple right over. “You’re easy, Harold,” Louis tells him, stalking across the kitchen in his new shoes, the narrow stiletto heels making sharp click clicks on the tile. “What, are you into this? Want me to boss you around? Want me to step on you in these?” His voice has taken on the familiar firm edge it does whenever he’s asking if Harry would like this or that, a lilting crispness that makes Harry want to lie face down on the floor and be used like a dish rag.
“I dunno,” he mumbles, eyes still trained on Louis’s golden legs as he walks around the kitchen straightening up, walking like he’s been walking in heels forever, like it’s a simple and not at all dangerous thing to do. “I’m…how are you doing that? How are you not falling?”
“Not everyone has the grace of a newly born gazelle,” Louis says, kicking one of his legs out toward Harry from where he’s standing at the sink, a teasing, sexy little kick. Like a can-can girl, only it’s Louis, and Harry…Harry doesn’t know why it makes him want to roll over onto his back like a dog, belly up and obedient, but it does.
Harry’s hungover and confused, and he really wants Louis to ruin him in those shoes in some way or another; he’s sort of mortified by how much he wants it, and mortification always makes his cock harder, so he’s basically a mess. He watches Louis soap up a sponge and wash one of their champagne glasses, all the while standing in those shoes, and he whimpers. He’s literally never seen Louis do a dish in his entire life, so he knows that this is a performance, part of a show. He's just not sure where it’s going.
“Lou,” he says quietly, cheeks burning.
“Hmmm…,” Louis murmurs, setting the glass down with an elegant wrist flourish without looking at Harry, brows raised in mock innocence. “What?”
Harry doesn’t know what to say. I want you to fuck the shit out of me in those shoes is too crass, and he really only knows how to ask for what he wants when Louis’s been playing with him for a long time, when he’s tear-streaked and broken down by desperation. But he’s not there yet, so he can’t find the words. “Erm…,” he starts, crossing his arms over his chest and sighing.
Louis smiles, mouth twisting into a lovely shape. Still, he keeps his eyes trained on the dishes, swaying his perfect round arse back and forth a bit as he reaches for the next glass. Harry bristles and heats up because he knows that Louis’s doing this on purpose, that he’s fucking diabolical. “Harry?” he asks, voice soft, high, uncaring.
“Uggghhh!” Harry groans, flopping down onto the floor pathetically, flushed cheek pressed against cold tile punishingly. “Lou! Don’t make me say it, please,” he begs.
Louis walks over, clicking all the while. Then, he nudges Harry’s face up with the red vinyl toe of his left shoe, firm but gentle. Harry’s skin prickles, stomach dropping as he stares up at Louis, vision sort of hazy. “Spit it out, love,” Louis says, grinning spectacularly, so white and electric and terrifying that it hurts. Harry’s hand flies to his twitching cock, trying in vain to cover it before Louis notices how much he’s chubbed up.
“I want you,” he says lamely, curve of his cheek burning against Louis’s shoe. “Really, really, really badly.”
Louis’s smug grin gets even sharper, something Harry didn’t even think was possible. “Thought so.”
Harry whimpers, squeezing his eyes shut in defeat, in humiliation.
“Okay. Get up, and go get in bed. Don’t fucking touch yourself, but take your clothes off. And wait for me, yeah?” Louis tells him, smoothing his tongue over his lower lip as Harry staggers to his feet, already dropping into the quiet, hazy, blood-thrumming place he goes to when he knows Louis’s going to take care of him. Hurt him, maybe, take him apart and break him into pieces, but always, always take care of him in the end. Harry loves being here; it’s like every heavy thing in the world slowly slides off his shoulders and leaves him to float suspended in the absolving, secure heat of Louis’s want. He blinks before heading in slow motion to their bedroom, and Louis grabs him by the wrist as he passes, grip tight, solid, anchoring as he towers above him, for once. “Hey,” he says gently, bringing Harry’s sweaty hand up to his lips, uncurling his fingers from his palm, and kissing him there. “I love you,” he whispers, licking up salt, tongue so soft and hot that Harry’s face sort of crumples in overwhelm. “You gonna be good?”
“Yeah,” Harry answers, clearing his throat. “Yeah, Lou.”
“Okay,” he purrs, flicking his tongue, and it tickles at least as much as it burns. “See you in bed, love.”
Harry somehow ends up there, shivering, feverish, in a daze. He kicks down the duvet and shucks his clothes, wincing as the cloth drags over his dripping cock. He rolls onto his stomach to hump the bed (Louis said he couldn’t touch, and technically this isn’t touching), and there, arse in the air and mouth open on Louis’s pillow, the scent of his hair everywhere, Harry waits.
He waits a long fucking time.
He waits so long that his breath comes tight and fast, and he has to roll onto his back because he’s too close, vision sparkling at the periphery with static. He stares at the ceiling, naked and fisting in the sheets, frustrated because how long does it take Louis to get whatever he’s getting? And what even is he getting? All the shit they might need is in the bedside table drawer: lube, condoms, some pretty black silk sashes Louis ordered online so he could tie Harry to the headboard whenever he wants to, and a wooden spoon from the kitchen because Louis likes the welts it leaves on Harry’s arse better than the leather paddle Niall got them as a “joke” last Valentine's Day.
Harry is five seconds away from yelling for Louis when easily the most gorgeous girl he’s ever seen in his whole seventeen years of living appears in their doorway. She’s got on Louis’s new red pumps, an impossibly short white skater skirt riding dangerously high on plump, golden thighs, and nothing but a pair of red braces on top. And, oh. Of course. This girl…this girl is Louis. His Louis. All the air quite suddenly evaporates from Harry’s lungs, and he feels sort of like he’s dying, gasping there on the bed, stomach coiling up tight and humiliated as he squirms, covering his aching cock reflexively because it’s, like…dripping.
“I told you not to touch yourself,” Louis teases, voice high and light and, fuck, Harry’s never heard that voice before?! It’s still sharp, warning, a different facet of Louis’s do what I say or else voice, but it’s…different. Prettier, softer. Which is insane because Louis already has the prettiest, softest voice in the world.
“Sorry,” Harry blurts, covering his face with his hands instead, his gaping mouth. “Just…Lou. My god.” He cannot stop staring, eyes sweeping from those red heels up Louis’s (newly shaven? when did that happen?) legs to the cut of his hips, where the fastenings of his braces are attached to the waistband of his illegally short skirt, which flips as he stalks effortlessly to the bedside.
“Pretty crazy, yeah?” he asks, twirling and flicking up the back so Harry can see that he isn’t wearing anything underneath, arse as round and peachy and delicious as ever, this time only partially concealed by white, fluttery cotton. It’s…it’s…Harry is salivating, his cock pulsing and stomach in knots; he can’t fucking breathe. He can’t do anything but wonder if he’s gonna survive to actually get to have Louis like this, or if he’s gonna incinerate before he even gets to touch him.
“You…you’re wearing makeup…,” he stutters, gaze sweeping over Louis’s already very pretty face. He’s darkened his lashes with mascara, making them somehow even longer and more life-ruining than they already are, which is a massive feat because Harry has never seen a boy with longer or more luscious lashes, ever. He also has something shimmery on his face, loose eyeshadow, maybe, which is making the elegant cut of his cheekbones more glittery as he bats his eyes coyly.
“I am,” he confirms. “It’s funny, I picked some up at Tesco the other day because it was on sale, and I thought I’d use it on you, right? I had already bought the skirt… was gonna surprise you, tie you up, and make you all pretty. But then this happened, so…,” he shrugs, snapping one of the elastic braces against his flat chest, making Harry flinch because he’s so fucking on edge right now that he might die. “How do I look?”
“Like…like a fucking angel,” Harry says honestly, completely blissed out. Louis looks like he’s backlit with a magic halo, glowing hazily, lips so pink and sweet that Harry thinks there might be some gloss on them. He doesn’t know for sure, but he really hopes he gets kissed soon, so he can find out. “Like…angelic.”
Louis laughs, the high peal of it lighter and more tinkling than it usually is. “Angelic? But I’m gonna wreck you, baby,” he sing-songs, swaying up to the bedside to curl his hand into Harry’s hair. It’s the first real contact since the palm-kiss in the kitchen, and Harry nearly whites out from it, tilting his scorching cheek into Louis and whimpering.
“You are?” he asks, even though he knows it, is counting on it. Then, because his hands are aching to, “Lou, can I touch?” as he raises his fingers to hover tremulously in the charged air between them for a moment, waiting for an answer, already half-sure of what it’s gonna be. “Please, just a little,” he adds in a whisper, and he knows it’s coming, but he still yelps when Louis smacks him away.
“No,” he says, smoothing Harry’s curls down before rucking them up into a deliberate mess again, backing away to the opposite wall. Harry wants to cry. “Can’t touch yourself, either. I wanna see you on the floor again.”
“Okay,” Harry answers automatically, sliding off the bed and crawling over to Louis on all fours, unsteady. “Where do you want me?” His own voice sounds far away even to himself, like someone else is begging, like someone else is this broken over something so small and simple.
“On your stomach, not just your hands and knees,” Louis orders, kicking one of Harry’s arms out from under him with a swift tap to the inside of his elbow. He uses the toe of that motherfucking shoe, and it’s cool and smooth against his skin briefly before he topples. Harry faceplants, sprawling out on the carpet and whining, embarrassed and grateful at the same time, like he wanted to be kicked but also feels like a kicked person, and the dual sensations war overwhelmingly in his chest, making him grind down his hips, rubbing himself against the floor.
“Oh, baby Hazza,” Louis whispers, voice shaking the slightest bit. “You’re already crying.”
Harry rubs his cheek with his fingers, and they come away salty, sticky. So he is. “I just want you,” he sniffles, crawling on his stomach toward Louis, who’s lingering by the wardrobe in the corner, a still and lovely silhouette. “Really badly. Wanna touch your legs...they’re all smooth, want…want…,” he stutters, suddenly short of breath as he thinks of all the things he wants, too many, enough to crush him.
“I know,” Louis says gently. “You okay? Need me to stop?”
“No, no, no, no,” Harry shakes his head, scooting forward a few inches on his stomach, ever closer to Louis, eyes pleading. “Don’t wanna stop.”
“Okay,” Louis tremulously inhales, drawing himself up a few inches, like he’s pulling energy from the floor through those red stilettos. Then he strides across the room and deposits himself all over the foot of the bed on his back, propped up on his elbows with his knees splayed lewdly, cock tenting the front of that white cotton skirt, so fucking good and obscene. “Then come over here, but take your time, so I can watch you move. Look so good, Harry, crawling for me.”
Louis’s hand disappears under the hem of his skirt so he can wank lazily, eyes fixed on Harry’s back. Harry watches mesmerized, stunned that someone in the world like this can exist period, let alone in his life, in his bedroom. He just…he needs Louis so badly, needs him and loves him so much that love feels like air, like without Louis, he’ll just suffocate. He blinks through a haze of stinging wet and slowly, slowly drags himself across their carpet until he’s between Louis’s parted legs. There he lies, waiting for instruction, breath so labored it aches.
“God, so pretty,” Louis murmurs, lifting one foot and resting it on Harry’s back, between his shoulder blades. The stiletto scrapes against his skin teasingly; Louis isn’t putting any real weight into it yet, but Harry knows he will, so his heart leaps in anticipation. “You want to get under my skirt, babygirl?” Louis teases, smiling sweetly and thumbing over the head of his cock, a secret motion under white cotton.
“I’m babygirl?!” Harry asks, words slurred as he pitifully humps the carpet, which burns against him. “But you…you’re the girl.”
“Yeah, and I’m not gonna have straight sex,” Louis snaps, rolling his eyes, and, oh, there’s that heel, digging relentlessly into Harry’s back, biting deep. Harry cries out, scrubbing his tear-stained cheek against the carpet to distract himself. Louis is so hot and so mean, and he loves it. “So, even if I'm a girl, you’re my babygirl, yeah?” he asks, and Harry nods, sniffling, bucking back up into the pain of that heel in his skin, the single point sharp and white-hot.
“Yeah,” he mumbles, voice snagging on snot in his throat, “that’s fine.”
Louis hums in his throat, the sound of his hand moving sticky and slow over his cock the only noise in the room, a muted snick under the shift of cotton. After a few moments of Harry listening and grinding to the rhythm of it, he says, “Come up here now, love. Lemme see you.”
Harry is so fucking relieved that he sobs a little, chest aching as he rises shakily onto his arms. He leans forward, and Louis reaches for him, getting a fist in his curls and drawing him close, pulling him flush and rough between his thighs, inches away from the tented skirt. He’s close enough that Harry can smell Louis, musk and sweat and last night’s alcohol, the shaving cream he used on his legs. It’s fucking dizzying, and he licks his lips, wanting so fucking badly to touch the newly smooth skin of his calves, to bury his face between Louis’s thighs and suck and suck. “Can I taste?” he asks, eyes flicking up to Louis’s face, blown away again by the way he looks right now, his soft, combed fringe and his shimmery eyes and those unreal lashes. “Please?”
“Not yet,” Louis tells him, petting his hair, running his fingers through the curls so roughly that they snag, tugging his scalp tight. “You can watch, though. You want to see me touch it?”
“Yes,” Harry whines, licking his lips, which have been licked so many times by now that they’re raw, swollen, chapped. “Please, please.”
Louis giggles high and and breathy, sounding a little drunk as he pulls the skirt up over his cock to expose himself, white fabric pooling around his waist, making everything seem bigger, redder, hotter. It’s a revelation, and Harry’s shocked and silenced and gagging for it; he’s seen Louis’s cock more times than he could ever count, but somehow he’s stunned every time he gets to look at it, play with it, choke on it. That it’s his. “Oh, Lou, fuck,” he breathes, teeth deep in his lip. “Please, lemme taste,” he begs, laying his cheek on Louis’s shaved-smooth thigh, face crumpling. “Please.”
Louis sweeps one of Harry’s tears with his thumb and then smears it up the underside of his own shaft. “Just watch, babygirl.”
“Ughhh,” Harry moans, blinking hazily, gaze trained on Louis’s wrist as he works himself over slowly, tugging his foreskin up to the crown of his cock and sliding it back down, putting on a show, getting everything wet, messy. Harry flicks his tongue in the air in time with his strokes, pretending he’s licking up and down Louis’s length, wondering if it drives Louis crazy, or if he just looks ridiculous, not even caring one way or the other because he feels like he needs to, like he'll die if he’s not at least pantomiming what he wants. Eventually, Louis slows his wrist, exposing his slit, where precum is leaking in regular spurts. He dabs his finger into a bead of it, getting it shiny, slick, then he holds it out to Harry. “Since you’ve been so good,” he murmurs, and in seconds, Harry is on him, sucking his finger down as far as he can take it, tongue swirling in a froth of hungry spit.
He can taste Louis, bitter and salty and perfect, stinging in the back of his throat as he chokes himself, groaning around Louis’s knuckles, drooling onto his palm. He wants so much, there’s no end to it, no walls or fences. He wants Louis in a massive, infinite way, and if all he can have right now is some precum from his fingers, he’ll take it, he'll make the most of it. “Easy, Haz, easy,” Louis hisses, but Harry forgets he’s supposed to listen because getting as much of Louis down his throat seems more important, at least in this moment, until Louis makes a firm fist in his hair and pulls him off with an obscene smacking sound.
“Harry, fuck,” he breathes, and his voice sounds so wrecked that Harry opens his eyes to look, finding Louis sprawled out and flushed with two spots of color on his cheeks, chest heaving. “You good?” he has the nerve to ask, raising an eyebrow.
“Fuck, yes,” Harry groans, fucking devastated that he doesn’t have his mouth around anything of Louis’s anymore, arms shaking so hard it’s getting difficult to hold himself up without collapsing. “M’sure, Lou, I’m so sure, just...please...”
“Okay,” Louis says, composure and girl-voice back in full force, as if nothing had happened. It’s so easy for him, and Harry is so fucking ruined, muscles in spasm and throat thick around the threat of tears. He's alarmingly close to being pushed too far, which has happened a few times when they play. Times when Louis didn’t check in or give him something soon enough, and he just crumbled, caving in on himself as the balance between frustrated humiliation and desire toppled into something unsalvageable. Harry can’t make his throat work to tell Louis he’s almost there, though; he’s too choked up and breathless, and it’s in this moment that Louis licks his lips and rolls over, pushing his perfect arse in the air over the edge of the bed. “Want you to eat me out now,” he says over his shoulder, spreading his thighs and sliding down so that his heels dig into the carpet on either side of Harry. “That what you want?”
Harry is suddenly a mess of hiccups, sobs, and trembles, all because Louis knows, he knows. “Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you, Lou, thank you,” he babbles, crawling closer, cock so heavy as it bobs against his stomach, throbbing at the thought of finally getting Louis’s skin under his tongue. “Thank you.”
“God,” Louis sighs, reaching being himself with an elegant hand and flipping the skirt up over his back to expose himself completely, pulling one cheek apart from the other and giving Harry the most fleeting glimpse of his hole before letting himself go. His arse undulates, the most obscene fucking thing ever, and Harry’s drooling, keening in the back of his throat as he watches with wide eyes. “What are you waiting for?” Louis asks, swaying back and forth lazily.
“I…I can I touch you? With my hands?” Harry asks, voice hoarse and and tear-wrecked.
“Yeah,” Louis tells him, and that’s it, that’s all he needs. He leans back to sit on his heels and pitches forward with the rest of his weight, sliding two wide, greedy palms up the back of Louis’s calves, finally, finally. He can feel him, feel his smooth, baby-soft skin, the definition of his muscles, the twitch of them the higher he goes. He can feel the heat of him, the power of him.
Everything materializes from the haze. Louis’s skin, so hot and smooth, it’s unbelievable; Louis’s breathy, anticipatory moan, cutting across the room like a blade. God, Harry yearns, so much so that he’s whimpering before he even gets his tongue in him, mouth open and drool moving down his chin as he thumbs Louis apart and holds him spread. He’s dusky pink and smells of musk and unshowered skin and darkness, and Harry is built to do this, to do every single thing he wants, so it feels like absolution as he finally gets to lick messily up his crack, so deep there’s no air to breathe, no space to inhale. Just skin and slickness and salt and bitterness and Louis’s cut-off whine as he twists against the bed, bucking into it before pushing himself back onto Harry’s tongue, further smothering him. “God, Harry, your mouth, so good babygirl,” he babbles, voice so high it’s more like a whine. “Your pretty mouth.”
Harry can barely hear him because he’s deafened by the blood pounding in his ears, but he can tell he’s murmuring filth, he always does when they’re like this, and it drives Harry insane, makes him feel electric and sparkling, a champagne bottle shaken and unpopped, nowhere to go. He pulls back to suck in a messy breath, eyes half-lidded as he stares at Louis’s winking, spit-shiny hole for a second before groaning and diving back in, licking him out desperately, hungrily, like there’s nothing else in the world but this, his angel in his sharp red pumps. He loves having Louis all over his face, sweaty and dirty and raw like this, the best thing there is to lick up, so he’s dazed and frustrated to the point of another near meltdown when Louis shoves him away, panting. “Please,” he groans, pulling against the tight fist in his hair, “please.”
“You’ll get it,” Louis purrs, two spots of violent color on his cheeks as he looks over his shoulder at Harry with hazy eyes, tangled up in his own braces as he strains to hold him back, bicep flexing. So fucking gorgeous, it’s unreal. “Just wanna know how my pussy tastes.”
“Fuck,” Harry swears, writhing around as his hair gets pulled, fucking the air uselessly. The word has never felt as filthy as it does coming from Louis’s glossy lips, and Harry’s stomach is coiled tight and humiliated around it as he answers, “Perfect, so good. The best thing...love the way you taste.”
“Want more?” Louis asks, arching his back, pushing himself up sluttily.
“Need it,” Harry slurs. “Please.” And then, because he knows what Louis likes and knows it will get his mouth full again sooner, he swallows, cheeks positively burning with shame, as he adds, “Need to eat your pussy.”
“God, fuck, that’s a good girl,” Louis keens, letting him go so he can dive back in, pry him apart, and drown. Harry’s legs tremble, his cock pulsing against his stomach as he settles back in where he’s meant to be, licking dutifully until Louis’s rim softens up enough to let him push up inside, and then he fucks him open, jaw aching and positively dripping with saliva.
Louis talks him through it, a chorus of breathy good girls and fucks and oh, god, babys. Harry lives for the praise, happy to just suffocate and die here if it means he’s done a good job, if it means he’s made Louis feel good.
At some point Louis reaches back and tangles a hand in Harry’s hair again, making a fist and holding him fast so he can grind his arse—his pussy— against his open mouth, rough and deliberate. Harry’s vision whites out, and he can’t breathe, cock throbbing and dripping against his stomach as he rides the waves of breathless, choked-out euphoria. Louis releases him before he slips into something less than consciousness, and he pulls away, gasping, face a mess of drool and tears and sweat. “Louis,” he moans, just to hear it, the name of the most important thing in the universe, his whole universe, at least in this moment. “Lou.”
“You can touch yourself,” Louis tells him, kicking one red heel up into the air, face flushed where it’s pressed into their duvet. “Make yourself come while you eat me out, my good babygirl.”
Harry dissolves, shuddering as he finally gets a hand on himself, wincing because he’s almost too sensitive to touch, raw and achingly hard. He holds Louis open with his other hand and licks him deep, dipping the tip of his tongue into him, tracing his rim, soft and teasing so he can at least catch his breath for a moment, balance his own pleasure alongside Louis’s as he wanks. He’s so close, though, and has been for so long, so close that he’s shaking, stomach so knotted that he’s sick, tightening and tightening until he’s spilling over his fist in hot spurts before he can even really process what’s happening, face still pressed into Louis’s crack as he sobs his way through the sudden, powerful orgasm.
Time passes, maybe, but it’s hazy and slow and rushing all at once, nothing but desperate breath and the smell of spit and arse and painful little clenches in Harry’s gut every time his cock twitches in aftershock.
“Oh Harry, you needed it so bad, come here, love, that’s it,” Louis mumbles at some point, having rolled onto his back again, sitting on the edge of the bed with his legs parted. He manhandles Harry between them, thumbing spit away from the corners of his mouth. “Look at you,” he breathes. “The prettiest thing.”
Harry doesn’t even know what's happening, but he knows he’s not done, not really. He sniffles, eyes stinging as they leak down his cheeks. “Come on me,” He murmurs, needing it, dazed and wrung out from having come but not satisfied yet because Louis, Louis hasn’t gotten off, and Louis is everything. “Please, Lou.”
Louis’s eyes get dark, and he hooks a leg around Harry’s back, drawing him up tight between his parted thighs, tugging his face down to his cock with a fistful of hair. “You want me to fuck your mouth, don’t you,” he mumbles, rubbing his length over Harry’s cheek, his eyelid, his temple. Heels bite into Harry’s back, making him collapse further, hands trapped uselessly against the edge of the bed, so he can’t even get a fist around Louis. “You want me to come all over your face.”
“Yes,” Harry mumbles, slack and uncoordinated as Louis puts him exactly where he wants him, holding him upright and thumbing open his jaw as he wobbles to his feet. Harry is confused for a minute because Louis is like…too tall, but then he remembers the heels, the beginning of this whole wild ride, and he groans, reaching for them, wrapping his fingers around Louis’s strained ankles and dragging himself across the carpet on his knees, rug-burn quick, so that he can be as close as possible.
Louis doesn’t waste time aligning himself, he just fucks in, rough and merciless as Harry chokes and sputters, frothy drool spilling down over his chin before it drips onto his own heaving stomach. And this…this is where Harry belongs, where he’s meant to be. Nose and eyes streaming as he struggles to keep them open enough to see and breathe, trying with everything left in his used-up body not to gag as Louis fucks him, and fucks him, and fucks him some more. Hollows him out, chokes him blind, gets so far down his throat that Harry’s half-sure he’s gonna throw up but always pulling back at the perfect moment, leaving him to hack mouthfuls of thick, clear mucus out onto his lap, seconds of recovery before Louis is shoving back inside, balls deep.
Harry loves it, eventually ceding to the sway and letting his eyes flutter closed as he rolls back, mouth wide and slack and hungry, just a hole for Louis to use, to come in. He’s hard again by the time Louis finishes with a yelp, pitching forward and emptying himself in a wild snap of his hips, tasting so fucking good and salty and bitter that Harry’s swallowing even though he’s not sure his throat works properly anymore. It’s all Harry wants, and he feels complete, like every piece of his existence is falling into place.
Louis collapses back onto the bed, bouncing a little, arms sort of tangled up in his braces, and he looks a mess, too, even Harry can tell from the haze of tears he’s blinking through, still crouching on the floor on burning knees.
“C’mere,” Louis slurs, holding out his hands. “C’mon. Need you.”
Harry shakes as he clambers onto their bed, collapsing into Louis’s outstretched arms, nuzzling his chest with his hands everywhere he can reach. “Did I do good?” he asks, voice reduced to tatters.
“Fuck, yes, yes, yes, you’re so good,” Louis murmurs, rolling Harry onto his back and showering him in kisses all over his slick, tear-blotchy face, sticky with snot. Then he’s catching his mouth, fucking it open with his tongue, and giving him a long, long overdue kiss with every ounce of the yearning and desperation and sharp, wet adoration that Harry has been feeling for the last hour, a kiss like fucking, like fighting. Harry groans around it, shivering with the ghosts of sobs. Louis pulls away, eyes bright and a little crazy as he says, “You’re amazing...the very best, Harry. Such an angel.”
Harry pouts, still feeling like he’s floating, turned on and shivery and everywhere all at once, the whole of his skin a single raw nerve. “No, I thought I was babygirl, and you were angel? Those can be our girl names. When we’re girls,” he adds, and he’s pretty sure he’s not making sense, but Louis looks so fucking charmed, eyes scrunching up at the corners and face wobbling for a second like he’s going to cry before it shifts into a wild, boundless grin.
“Okay,” he agrees, getting his hands into Harry’s hair, holding his head steady so he can kiss him deeply, claiming his mouth. “You’re hard again,” he murmurs, getting his thigh between Harry’s and nudging it up against him, smiling into Harry’s swollen mouth. “And I'm gonna make you come again...lay you out and suck you off really sweet and slow, okay? But first I'm gonna get you some water and maybe some tea, and you’re gonna drink it all so you can sing on Monday.”
“Yeah, okay,” Harry rasps, because he knows better by now than to argue with the things Louis prescribes for him after playing like this. He nods, still dizzy, still shaken, hands smoothing down Louis’s shoulders lovingly. “But stay here a minute?”
“Of course! For more than a minute, even. You scared me a few times, you're so…fuck. You’re so incredible,” Louis whispers, skating his lips down the side of Harry’s face, eyes fluttering closed in awe. “Almost broke and gave in a few times...wanted to say to hell with it and kick those stupid shoes off and fuck you. You were so gone, so fast...you liked it a lot.”
Harry…Harry did like it a lot. But he can’t talk about it yet, he doesn’t have the words or skills to unpack something like that, the why behind it. He’s strung out and fucked to pieces and even just breathing is a challenge; all he wants to do is curl up against Louis and be babied and petted and soothed and loved, brought down carefully and tenderly from the sky on a string, like a well-worn kite. He inhales shakily and mumbles, “The shoes aren’t stupid...they’re really, really sexy.”
Louis makes a face. “They’re torture,” he complains, reaching down and yanking them off by the heel before chucking them noisily across the room so they clatter against the opposite wall. “But I’ll do anything for you, I guess.” he shrugs, smiling, and meanwhile, Harry floats.
And I’d do anything for you, he thinks, nuzzling into the solid heat of Louis’s chest. My angel.