Louis is sobbing his heart out when the doorbell rings. He chokes on some tears and scrambles for the blanket, wiping his face in haste and checking whether there are any used tissues or cutlery lying around. There’s a fork he kicks under the couch, but other than that he’s in the clear. As soon he’s buzzed the entrance for the main gate, he’s got about four minutes during which he runs towards the guest toilet, washes his face, brushes his teeth and uses some floss to get rid of the rice between them. When the knock comes, he’s already by the door, regulating his breathing.
“’ve you been crying?” Harry asks, after Louis has opened the door and they’ve stared at each other for approximately ten seconds, the December wind barrelling in.
Louis scowls and turns around, expecting Harry to make himself comfortable in Louis’ space, just how he’s been making himself comfortable in every aspect of his life for nearly ten years now. “Got this new face cream. Good to know I’m not the only one who thinks I’m allergic, need to get a new one.”
Harry hums and there’s the sounds of him taking off his scarf, his coat, his shoes, but Louis is back at the couch, too exhausted to watch him settle into the flat like it’s 2012 and they’re still living together. They might have made a habit out of this but that doesn’t mean he has to be one hundred percent happy about it. Especially not when the first thing he smelled after opening that door was at least three alphas’ perfumes and pheromones.
A kiss to the back of his neck has him flinching. “You’re so soft,” Harry purrs into his ear, exhale hot on Louis’ cheek. “Maybe you shouldn’t change that cream.”
He goes to reply something snippy, talk about being the one who decides what touches his body, what gets to soak into his skin. But then Harry steps around the couch, dragging and slow, his feet bare on the carpet, the blue light of the TV hitting his angles, and Louis’ words get stuck in his throat.
When Harry went out, he had worn some high waisted trousers and a silk blouse, scoffing at Louis’ concern about the weather. Now he’s got his arms crossed, shoulders bowed, goose bumps visible as they raise the thin hairs on his arms and legs - at least where the cut of the dress he’s wearing exposes them. It’s made of lace in big flower patterns, neckline wide, hem ruffled and about mid-thigh. It reminds Louis a bit of a kitschy upholstery, but Harry has been rocking the grandma fashion for a while now and he’s got a little smile on his face that speaks of contentment, of mirth, of knowing exactly how sweet he looks.
Louis is sure his expression gives away everything he’s thinking. “You look lovely.”
Harry preens and lifts the skirt of the dress, swishing it a little. “Someone had a sowing machine.”
“And they made that just for you, huh? That’s nice.” He reaches for the remote.
“No, they had it prepared. And like. Took measurements and adjusted it.” Harry frowns at the remote, shifts so he’s blocking Louis’ view. “What are you doing?”
Louis makes an impatient gesture. “Finishing this episode of Peaky Blinders.”
“No, you’re not.”
He raises a brow, settling further into the couch. “Is that so?”
The edge of Harry’s jaw ticks and his fingers tighten on his own arms; Louis can see the dents in his biceps. His painted nails, blue and pink, are bright against his golden tan. When he steps closer, the light changes and cuts down his sides, washing the white dress into a cool shimmer, the black of his tattoos shifting beneath the lace. “You promised to fuck me.”
Louis sighs. “Never did. I said you could sleep over while you’re here.”
The line between Harry’s brows extends. His nostrils flare and he seems like he’s going to spit out something sharp, but then he apparently changes tactics, lays his head into the bend of his neck and knocks Louis’ knees apart with his shins. This close, the traces of other people on him are blatant and intrusive. An acrid stench, like a cheap deodorant, clings to the hands he puts on Louis’ shoulders. His hair is greasy, gripped and pulled by anonymous fingers. And when he settles onto Louis’ lap, dress stretching across his thighs as he rolls his hips, his pout is bruised and bitten red. “You don’t want me?”
“You stink,” he snaps, regrets it as he realises that it reveals the fact that he’s been searching for Harry’s scent the second he opened the door.
Harry’s pout quivers, definitely threatening to form into a smirk, but he plays his role remarkably well. His palms slide up the sides of Louis’ neck, thumbs stroking over his pulse that picks up speed with every little grind of his. Harry’s pupils dilate as he leans closer, away from the light that’s painting him into a silhouette in front of the TV. His nose brushes Louis’ ear. “But you smell so nice. Feel so nice.” The hitch in his voice is so convincing, it sends a shock through Louis’ centre. “Would feel even better in me.”
Louis suppresses a groan. He wants it, wants it so much, has been waiting for it ever since he got the text informing him Harry was going to stay in London for a few days, but he can also sense alphas all over him: In the bite marks on his exposed shoulder, the spit soaked into the neckline of the dress, the tip of his tongue that nudges Louis’ lips. Involuntarily, his fingers find the edge of the lace where it has bunched in the dip of Harry’s waist. “I’m not fucking you when you’re probably still dripping from an alpha.”
Harry doesn’t suppress his groan. He breathes it right into Louis’ face, along with the taste of lime and come and chewing gum. “Could fuck it right out of me,” he whines, nails clawing into the back of Louis’ neck. He whines again, when Louis yanks on his curls.
“You’re a fucking slut. If you’re so desperate to get fucked, go take a shower, see if I’m still awake after.” It feels good to see him gasping for words, throat jumping and lips contorting into a silent cry. In the decade they’ve known each other, everything in their lives has shifted and changed, they’ve grown together and apart, but this, this stayed the same: Harry surrendering himself to Louis.
The air in the room, previously weightless from the rain behind the open windows, now grows heavier with their scents. Louis isn’t the only one who notices. Harry’s half-lidded eyes snap to his neck, he pivots his covered cock into Louis’ tummy and licks his lips, inhaling visibly. “Promise? Want you to make me take it, want you to make it good–”
“If I’m still awake,” he repeats, “then yeah. You better hurry up and get yourself ready for me.”
Harry blinks languidly and drifts forward, swallowing repeatedly when Louis doesn’t move the grip of his fist with him, creating tension in his scalp. “Can I get a kiss? As, uhm. Motivation?”
“Since when do you need motivation to get fucked?”
Another silent moan. “Please, Louis, c’mon, just a small one, promise I don’t taste like-”
“No. See if you’ve earned one by the end of the night.”
Harry stares at him. At first, he looks put out, frowning deeply. Then he leans into Louis’ hand and slides his own down Louis’ shirt, resting it above his heart. Being touched right there will always make him tense up for a second, but since he’s had his mastectomy it’s been easier to relax his shoulders again and allow the contact. Still, he’s acutely aware of the lack of space and sensation. Harry doesn’t seem to notice. “You know, you shouldn’t get jealous about these things anymore.”
He informed Louis about his stay like it was a given he’d sleep over, he went out to get drunk and fucked by various people and now he’s expecting Louis not to get jealous, not to crave their past, not to crave a different present. And he’s right. They’ve been doing this for a few years now and most of the time it’s bearable, easy to handle, even. It’s a mutual agreement, like so many in their lives. It’s just that Cillian Murphy looks great when he’s brooding and thinking of his dead wife and Louis shouldn’t identify with him this much, shouldn’t look at him standing in a field and scream at the sky and think yeah lad, you get me.
Harry waits for a moment, something flickering in his face, and slides off him when Louis doesn’t answer. His footsteps echo from the hallway and the stairs, then there’s the slam of the bathroom door and, a few minutes after, the pelting of the shower. Louis, who is too tired and annoyed to dwell on the images of Harry slick and slippery with soap, presses play on the TV and sets his jaw, prepares to suppress his tears. The episode takes off right where Louis had started sobbing, but now he’s barely feeling anything as he watches Tommy Shelby lose his otherwise well controlled temper.
He didn’t expect Harry so early, was fully prepared to finish the three remaining episodes of the show and go to bed to be woken up at four in the morning. There’s a box of new condoms, wet wipes and bottles of water next to the bed, even a pack of cigarettes. Everything is waiting upstairs, but he’d be damned if he got up and showed a sign of weakness now.
When Harry gets back, he’s even more languid and dazed than before his shower. Back in his dress, he pads into the living room, first tugging at the hem and then his pink bottom lip. His curls are mostly dry, only the ends still damp, droplets trailing down his neck. Louis pretends to keep watching the show, remote in his lap and eyes glued to the screen. It shouldn’t surprise him when Harry drops to his knees in front of the couch, shouldn’t make his lungs stutter, but he forgets just how much Harry likes being denied and pushed to earn his praise.
He wonders how long he can get away with ignoring Harry before he runs off and finds someone else to fuck him, if he’s just going to drop the submissive act and take what he wants instead of goading Louis into it. Thus, he doesn’t say anything when Harry shuffles closer, up to his open legs and rests his forehead on Louis’ knee, doesn’t complain about the hand that wraps around his socked ankle. He blinks at the TV, swallows the spit that pools behind his teeth, swallows the endearment at the tip of his tongue. A tingle crawls up his spine, persistent and demanding, urging him to take while he can, but he resists it and watches the montage of factories and smoke and fires and horses on screen.
It doesn’t seem like Harry is going to get up any time soon. His breath, warm through the cotton of Louis’ joggers, slows gradually. The episode ends and during the few seconds he has before Netflix loads the next one, he lets his gaze travel down to the curve of Harry’s neck, his lashes still a little dark from makeup and lying gently on his skin that’s rosy from his lotions and the late hour. His scent is still thick, but it has settled, less desperate and antsy. It makes it easier to breathe, to let his guard down and relax, to accept that this is where they are at right now. Somehow, and Louis doesn’t even know when it happens, his fingers find the drying wisps of Harry curls, card through them, follow them to the curve of his ear and the pearl in his lobe.
“Did you leave this in for your shower?”, he finds himself asking quietly.
Harry’s nose rubs into the cotton when he shakes his head. “No. Took it off.”
“And dressed up again,” Louis whispers, barely hearing himself over the soundtrack of the series. He can feel himself getting hard, throbbing in his joggers, probably staining them a little, too.
Harry turns to lay his cheek on Louis’ thigh, the high plane of it illuminated with a lilac glow, a pinprick of blue in his irises. There are a few lonely hairs between his brows, mirroring the dust of stubble above his mouth. It parts in an affirmative little noise.
“Yeah? A good boy for me, got yourself all pretty?”
Harry traps his bottom lip between his teeth and lets it go slowly, thin skin first turning white then a bruised red. “Your good girl.”
Louis’ breath leaves him in a stutter. “Yeah?”
His hold in Harry’s curls involuntarily tightens, the word rushing through his body like a spasm, settling deep in the pit of his stomach. They’re not mutually exclusive, the names, not by far, not when Harry sometimes is a girl outside the bedroom and daddy would never cross the threshold. But Louis knows it makes Harry feel vulnerable, the complexity of his gender that he hasn’t quite figured it out yet, and apparently being good makes it easier, makes the anxiety and stress fall away.
All at once, his irritation fizzles out. “God, darling,” he gasps and bends over to kiss Harry’s forehead, the little hairs soft under his lips. “Gonna make you feel so great.”
Harry whines sweetly, leans into the touch. “Thank you, daddy.”
Louis mouths down the bridge of his nose and over the delicate skin of his under eyes, ignores the strain on his spine, and inhales the perfumes of his own shampoo in Harry’s curls. “Smell so good, baby, all wet like this.”
Harry shifts on his knees, wiggles too intently for it to be a simple reaction to Louis’ words, and he is probably riding back into the heel of his own foot, getting himself messy. “You too, daddy, you smell amazing, I wanna–.” He seems to get a hold of himself, shudders to a halt and sucks on the fabric of Louis’ joggers. He moves sluggishly when Louis guides him closer by the hand in his hair.
“What do you want?”, he asks but can already tell where this is going.
The hesitant look Harry gives his crotch is rather obvious. “Wanna – wanna eat you out, daddy. Please.”
Louis can’t hide his smile, makes sure to make it appear as pleased and approving as possible. “You can, baby girl. But you know the rules, yeah? You can’t come.”
Harry nods, squirms again, accompanied by a surge of his scent, always so eager to use his mouth. His shoulders prevent Louis’ joggers from coming off until he makes himself smaller, curves his back and lets Louis pull him in, doesn’t even comment about the absence of underwear. With his heated skin exposed in the air and the love of his life on his knees, Louis’ heart flies up into his throat, echoes in his ears, in his mind. His nerves are on high alert, his muscles twitching with every inch that Harry’s mouth gets closer. “Go on,” he says, surprisingly even, when Harry looks up with a search for permission in his wide eyes.
Harry licks him languidly, pleased noises muffled as he buries his face in between Louis’ thighs, going straight in instead of teasing like he’d do any other night, swallowing slick like he’s starving for it. He keeps his hands around Louis’ legs, uses nothing but his chin and nose to get closer, tongue strong and skilful, digging deep. It’s like he has a set goal in mind, and that goal is to make his daddy come as quickly as possible.
“Jesus, baby,” Louis gasps, one of his calves twitching when a particularly surprising force of pleasure explodes in his abdomen. “Desperate tonight, huh?”
A jumbled sentence gets lost between his pubes and he tips Harry’s head back with a thumb at his jaw, tells him to repeat himself. “Can – gonna prove to you that, that I’m -,” he breaks off, nips at his shiny bottom lip, his grip rigid under Louis’ knees. There’s slick all over his face, reflecting the light of the TV, and fuck, that’s still on, Tommy Shelby barking orders that Louis paid no attention to because he was too busy buckling under the tongue of his ex. He grabs the remote and pauses the show, the room bathed in silence. Then he chucks it to the other end of the couch and thumbs over Harry’s wet cupid’s bow, brings the digit up to his own mouth to taste himself. “You want to work for it? Show me that you’re not just a brat who barges in and demands her daddy to fuck her?”
Harry used to blush a deep pink when they first started using these pronouns, used to get all tear-y eyed and speechless, thanking Louis afterwards and trying to explain the effects of them. Now, the trace of delight is as strong as the flush making its way down his neck, into the wide collar of his dress that doesn’t even reveal his collarbones and still manages to make him look like everything Louis ever wants to see. “’m sorry, daddy. Wanna be good.”
“Prove it to me,” he simply says, and scoots lower on the couch, swings a leg over Harry’s shoulder and reels him in. Soon that wonderful, wet pressure is back, forceful tongue circling his clit, fucking into him, lapping up what he’s leaking onto the couch. He starts to grow hot way too fast, his shirt clinging to his spine where he’s slumped against the cushions, sweat tickling a sensitive spot on his hip. He gives up trying to be patient, wrenches Harry in with both hands in his curls and grinds himself into his mouth, hips rolling up on their own accord. “Fucking - fuck, baby, got such a sweet mouth on you, you were made for this, made for blowing your daddy.”
Harry moans loudly, right into the slick and seals his lips over his clit, sucking harshly, then going slack, his lids fluttering close, giving himself over. Louis rides his face, his lips so plush and hot on his fluttering hole it makes him curse, only moving faster. His body is thrumming with it, his insides constricting in desperation, hurling towards the edge. A low grunt rips out of him when he comes and his torso jerks forward, seizing up for a moment, his grip in Harry’s curls almost painful in his knuckles. “Fuck,” he moans, shivering through the aftershock, vision slightly blurry.
He’s glad about the dim light in the room, hopes his eyes don’t betray him when he struggles on a deep breath and fights the surge of emotion in his chest. He blinks on tears and traps them between his lashes. Harry tries to keep going, sticks out his tongue, but before it can make contact with Louis’ tingling skin, he tightens his grip on Harry’s neck. “Enough. Don’t get greedy.”
Even though he has been on testosterone for years now, the overwhelming onslaught of sensation on his clit can get too much, verging on the side of too painful. He fights the urge to cross his legs and shield himself, digs his teeth into the inside of his cheek and distracts himself with a languid look at Harry’s debauched form. He is back in his daze again, looking up at Louis with huge, trusting eyes and a slack mouth, swaying forwards when Louis’ fingers swivel over his damp chin. “You wanna come, baby?”
“Yeah,” Harry says softly; has to cough to clear his voice. “Please, daddy.”
“Mmhhm, okay, get up here.” He gets rid of his shirt and stretches the tensed muscles in his back.
Harry’s haze becomes even more apparent when he’s hugging him close, nuzzling into his cheek. His arms are heavy on Louis’ shoulders. “Was I good, daddy?”
Louis’ ribs squeeze around his heart. “Yeah, baby,” he whispers and nudges Harry’s jaw with his nose. “Did really good. I’m proud of you.”
“Thank you,” Harry sighs quietly. It doesn’t seem like he’s eager to get fucked, his haste from earlier completely replaced by his contended smile. But there’s an underlying current in his smell, a need that makes Louis crave to see him lose control.
He slides his hands up Harry’s thighs, over his smooth and shaven skin, discovers more lace beneath the dress and knocks their brows together in surprise. “Fuck,” he breathes. “Really did get yourself ready, didn’t you?”
“Told you,” Harry says and scoots closer. “Was waiting for you.”
Again, his ribs ache. This is all too familiar, all too reminiscent of coming home in the past and finding Harry spread out on their bed, wearing nothing but knickers, grinning around a lollipop. “I was here.”
Harry’s breathing stumbles audibly. His pulse is palpable under the thumb Louis has on his inner thigh, the air damp and soaking with their scents. “I don’t – I didn’t mean –”
Louis closes his eyes for a second. Grounds himself in the moment. The room is silent, high enough for the traffic to be muted, big enough for its space to feel vast and impersonal. Everything, except for the two of them on this couch, is far away and untouchable. His hands, sweaty on Harry’s skin, travel up until he has spread them above the panties. The dress has ridden up over his forearms, exposing Harry from the waist down and allowing Louis to drink him in. He’s so wet it has darkened the lace of the panties, his small cock so hard it strains the fabric. The trail of hair he usually has growing down his abdomen is completely gone, not even a stubble left. He must’ve gotten waxed, his skin silky and heated. “Always so pretty,” he begins, but he’s interrupted by a sharp nip to his chin.
“Want you to – want you to be mean, daddy, please –,” Harry gasps. “Need you to push me around.”
Louis has no option but to obey. He closes his eyes again and snaps the hem of the panties. “Get these off. Such a fucking slut, strutting around in these all day, parading yourself to everyone who wants to get a piece of you.” The words shouldn’t come this easy. But there’s a wire around his tongue, sharpening it, and a pleased curl in his tummy when Harry whines and shuffles to comply. He only opens his eyes again, when there’s pressure back on his thighs.
Harry is still wearing the dress but he’s presenting Louis his panties like an offering to appease an angry god. He probably wants to be gagged with them. Louis picks them up and pushes them into Harry’s face. “This turns you on? The stench of your own slick? If you could lick yourself, you probably would, hmm?”
“Yes,” Harry pants, slurred through the lace.
“Well, then. Suck on it.”
There’s only a short pause before Harry draws the fabric into his mouth and sucks, brows furrowed and lashes fluttering. It makes an obscene sound, but neither of them laughs, staring at each other while Harry swallows his own slick. Louis hums. “That’s all you can do?”
When Harry goes to defend himself, he pushes the panties past his lips and muffles the whine of protest. “Suck,” he repeats, with a set jaw this time.
He waits until even the part of the lace that’s dangling from Harry’s mouth gets damp before dragging them out and draping them over the armrest. Harry’s gaze is still stuck on them when Louis sneaks his hand under the dress but as soon as his fingers caress the shaft of his cock, Harry swivels around quickly. His pupils are blown wide and overshadowing the green of his irises. “Gonna fuck me now, daddy?”
“No,” Louis says and drags his fingers down, through the wetness and towards his hole. “You’re going to prove yourself and ride me. Don’t expect me to do the work when you were the one acting like a spoiled brat.”
Harry looks like he’s about to protest again. But he nods firmly when Louis raises a brow and leans into the back of the couch, angling his arm in a way that isn’t too uncomfortable. He already knows his muscles will be smarting by the end of it, but it’ll be worth it for the sight Harry makes as he’s desperate to come. For now, Harry only frowns and rotates his hips experimentally. His hole catches on Louis’ fingertips, already loose. “Like this?” he asks in a high voice.
Louis shrugs. “Don’t pretend like you don’t know what you want.”
The frown deepens but Harry balances himself with a hand on Louis’ shoulder and sinks down on one digit. There’s no stretch, the glide perfectly easy and his walls swollen and sore. He probably took one or two knots earlier, so different compared to what Louis can give him, and the thought is enough to send a snap of jealousy through his chest. Harry rises and with his fall, Louis pushes three of his fingers inside.
“F-fuck,” Harry moans, hand sliding to Louis’ bicep. He starts bouncing in a rhythmic pattern, occasionally rocking back and forth, effortlessly getting what he wants. Louis immediately knows when it gets good, the drop of Harry’s bottom lip as unmistakable as the clench around his fingers, gripping tight. Slick starts sliding down his wrist and he wishes he could see Harry’s rim stretched and pink, but he loves it like this too, loves Harry exerting himself, loves the way the dress hides what’s going on. And Harry must love it too, always keen on having his crotch either on display or completely ignored.
“Like being stuffed full, don’t you,” Louis mutters and refrains from giving him another finger. “I should fist you again.”
Harry whimpers, and sacks forward, nails digging into Louis’ arm. “Please, please, yes, do it.”
“Maybe another day, when you’ve earned it.”
Harry falls in on himself, face crumpling. “Please, just, just give it to me, make me take it until – until –”
Louis’ heart skips a beat, worried he’s pushed it too far, but then Harry keeps grinding, plants his lips on his neck and sucks. The action paralyzes him, people don’t do that, exes don’t do that. He’s going to have a bruise and it’s going to be obvious who it’s from because all his friends know he only sleeps with one person, hasn’t carried someone’s mark in years. He yanks on Harry’s curls. “The fuck are you doing,” he gasps, helpless as his blood starts pulsing and his own scent clouds his sensations. It’s like a rush, like the flash of a heat going through him, his body preparing for someone to bond him.
“Please, daddy,” Harry pleads. “Give it to me until I – until I...”
“Until, what?” He manages to ask through the surge in his veins, his tongue heavy.
Harry closes his eyes, embarrassment enflaming his cheeks – and how can he still be embarrassed when they’ve been doing this for a decade, when they’ve had each other in almost every way imaginable, fucked each other into oblivion, dismantled each other only to get the pieces mixed up and tangled. “Until I cry, daddy, until I need you to stop – and – and longer.”
Louis’ neck throbs. So does his cunt. But he doesn’t give in. “I told you to work for it.”
“If you make me wait any longer, I’ll -” Harry visibly grinds his teeth and pushes his thumb into the bruise on Louis’ neck. There’s still a desperate shimmer in his eyes, his hole pulsating and his scent like a wafer on Louis’ tongue.
Slowly, Louis brings his free hand to the waist of the dress and moves up, coming to rest at the base of Harry’s throat. “You’ll what?” He says, breathing past the rush of adrenaline. “Tell me, baby. What will do you, hm? You’ll find someone else to fuck you?”
Harry’s pulse is as fast as his own, his Adam’s apple bopping hastily. “Daddy.”
There’s so much in that one word. “If you can make yourself come in the next five minutes, I’m going to make you cry, baby, okay? Exactly how you want it.”
“Okay, okay, yeah, thank you –”
“Put your hands behind your back and hurry up.”
The new order brings energy into Harry, his thighs tighten around Louis’, his mouth sets in a determined line, and the next swivel of his hips is forceful, driving Louis’ fingers deep. Sweat begins to gather on his collarbones, on his temples, glistening in the dark. The dress is damp around his pits, stretching over his chest as he keeps his shoulders straight and his arms where he was told. He alternates between trapping his lips between his teeth and parting them wide, choking on moans.
Louis’ wrist is aching, demanding a break, but the sight of Harry struggling for air and balance is too precious for him to stop. It’s simply too pleasing to see him putting an effort in sinking up and down Louis’ fingers, visibly exhausted when several minutes have passed. A shiver runs through him, forceful enough to convulse his hole.
He licks his lips and grins. “You won’t make it in five, will you? Won’t get to cry after all.”
“Will, I will, daddy,” Harry promises desperately and rises despite his trembling thighs. “Can you just –”
Louis tightens his hold around his throat ever so slightly, not enough to have effects on his breathing but to remind him of who is in control. Then he decides to take pity on him and crooks his fingers forcefully. Harry mewls. “Thank you, oh, thank you, thank you –”
It takes approximately thirty seconds of Louis digging into his spot and holding his throat before Harry’s trembling has reached its peak and he is positively shaking, leaning into the pressure. “Close,” he rasps, eyes wild. “Close, daddy, told you.”
Harry squeezes his eyes shut and leans forward, their foreheads aligning and his breath sweet in Louis’ nose, smelling of slick and spit. His windpipe presses against Louis’ palm, his lips scutter all over Louis’ face, dangerously close to his mouth but never giving into it, and it reminds Louis that Harry doesn’t kiss anyone else, doesn’t let many people choke him. He spreads his fingers inside him and bites at his earlobe, teeth clanking against the earring. “Then come, baby girl, come like the slut that you are.” And then shifts the hold on Harry’s throat, away from his windpipe and to the sides of it, applies careful pressure, counts to three and watches Harry’s eyes roll back, watches the silent moan caught on his lips. As soon as his lids flutter close, Louis lets go and hugs him close.
With their chest aligned, he can feel Harry’s breathing as if it were his own lungs grasping for air. “That’s it, baby,” he whispers and withdraws his fingers from Harry’s hole, smearing them across his belly where his come is warm and sticky, already soaking through the dress. His cock is still hard, the perfect size for him to wrap his hand around it and keep it so.
Harry quietly whines and hides his face in Louis’ neck, right where he left the bruise. “Daddy,” he murmurs and strikes Louis’ collarbones. He doesn’t reprimand him for moving his arms. “’nother one?”
“Yeah, darling, you’ll give me another one. Got your dress all messed up, but we’ll make it even messier, yeah?”
“Yeah, daddy, will.”
“I want you to breathe with my strokes, okay,” Louis says and tugs up. “In.” Harry inhales slowly. “And out.” He strokes down even slower, can’t move an inch before he hits the base of Harry’s cock, but drags it out until Harry has exhaled for four seconds. He keeps his pace steady to make sure enough oxygen gets back into Harry’s circulation, but also to make him squirm and long for more. Like him, Harry’s gets sensitive after his first orgasm, but he loves it, loves being pushed further, loves it now as the glide is smooth with his own come. He is back at sucking on Louis’ skin, evidently back to a normal breathing pattern.
The rush in Louis’ own blood has evened out a bit, the back of his mind still reeling from the expectance of a bonding bite, but his limbs not as strained and frozen. The jealousy has waned, too. He rests his arm around Harry’s waist and contents himself with the intensity of the moment, nuzzling into Harry’s curls and sweeping at the pre-come pooling at the tip of his cock. “Ready for more?”
After a calm nod, he brings them into a horizontal position, cushioning Harry’s head on a pillow and settling in the V of his thighs. He stretches the muscles in his legs, then hikes up the hem of the lace dress and continues to work Harry dick, getting faster now. With his free hand, he fondles Harry’s balls, and dips lower, pleased when he finds his hole as wet as before, if not wetter. If he hadn’t waxed, his pubes would be sticking to his skin, like they used to when they were younger, rough under the pad of his thumb. When they slept together for the first time, Harry had been so shy and insecure about his body hair, repeatedly saying he’d shave if Louis wanted him to, and now he’s almost always smooth, but there used to be a year where he’d let everything grow naturally and Louis had never spent more time blowing someone than back then.
He craves his smell. He graves the texture under his tongue. He craves something to remember.
Harry shudders when Louis sucks the head of his dick into his mouth. “Daddy, oh –.” He combs his long fingers through Louis’ fringe but doesn’t push him away, stays pliant and good. “Thank you, daddy.”
“Hands above your head, be a good girl,” Louis says and blows over where his own spit has left trails before taking him down again. The taste is tangy but welcoming, the weight perfect, the length exactly right for pressing down until his nose hits soft skin without having to gag. He loves sucking cock, loves sucking other omega’s cocks specifically, loves how they fill him up without being too much. Loves sucking Harry’s cock for the kitten-ish moans and the obedient restraint of his hips, not bucking up a single time.
He rubs his tongue on the underside of Harry’s dick, aware that his tip is too sensitive right now, hollows his cheeks and makes sure to keep stroking with his fingers. First, he circles his hole, so open and slick, then brings them up to the juncture of Harry’s abdomen and thigh, knows the spot to make him fidget. He scrapes his nails towards Harry’s love handles and looks up to see him throw back his head. “Always – always,” he whines nonsensically. “Always, daddy.”
Louis bops up and down, lips tight, fingers scratching, and prepares himself to swallow as soon as he feels Harry throb forcefully. When he comes, he comes in long spurts. It burns on the way down Louis’ throat, exactly what he wanted. He gives himself a couple of seconds and then sits up, wiping his mouth. Harry is staring at him with hooded eyes, expression washed soft in the dim light, his chest heaving. “Gonna cuddle me now, daddy?”
Louis laughs. “No, baby girl.”
And then he clutches Harry’s hip with one hand and drives two fingers of the other into his gaping hole, not giving him a second to recover from the orgasm and instead pounding into his spot relentlessly, curling his fingers to make sure they catch on his fluttering rim. Harry chokes, scrambling for Louis’ arm, but before he can stop Louis’ movements, he digs his nails into his hip and raises a brow. “You’re gonna take what I give you.”
“Daddy,” Harry sobs, immediately putting his hands above his head again. His thighs are trembling, whole body taut, ready to snap and crumble. The dips and expanses of his skin are glistening with sweat, one half of his face alit with the brunt blue of the TV. “Daddy, I can’t–”
“Aw, baby,” he slows his pace for a few seconds to pretend he’s giving in, smiles at the shaky intake of air and thumbs at the wetness around his own knuckles. “You can’t what? Give your daddy another orgasm? Is that what good girls say?”
A devastated groan leaves Harry’s torn lips and he starts shaking his head, lifting his hips and parting his legs, eyes glazing over. “’m sorry, daddy, please-”
Louis speeds up again, slips in a third finger with the next thrust and almost giggles at the ensuing moan. “Isn’t this what you asked for, baby? What you came here for? To get fucked?” He doesn’t say it to remind Harry, not really. They both know Harry wants to be pushed to his limits, have had long conversations about it, about safewords and physical clues, but this isn’t about smudging those lines, it’s about taunting him with them, making him take it because he wants it, begs for it, like he’s begging now.
Harry’s torso is convulsing and coiling, his slick leaking in spurts, the sound of his breathing ragged and the squelching of his hole steadily growing louder. His mouth is open, glistening with his own spit and Louis wants to kiss him so badly, just lick between his teeth and take. But that’d mean having less leverage to fuck him, having less control over the twists of his hips, not to mention that he wouldn’t even get as far as aligning their lips before he’d start to cry himself.
So he talks. “Came here to get fucked hard and when I finally give it to you, you say you can’t, all that whining for show, hmm?”
“No, no, daddy, never, want this – need this, please –” Harry’s cock twitches, so pink it’s in stark contrast to the glow of his skin, to the black of the laurels. Louis rakes his nails along the tattoos and under the dress, up toward Harry’s nipples, flipping one with his thumb.
“Love your tits,” he murmurs, lost in his own thoughts.
“God, fuck,” Harry whimpers, curving his spine so his pec raises into Louis’ hand. There’s a tear slipping from the corner of his eye. “Want you to, daddy, want you.”
Louis squeezes Harry’s right tit before outlining the other, scraping right over his hard nipple, feels it draw even tighter. The lace is stretched taught above his hands, so flimsy and thin. It’s most likely ruined, too delicate for the washing machine and too saturated with their scents to bring it to a dry cleaner. This dress, something Harry got just mere hours ago, from someone who possibly fucked him after, is now drenched in his own come and Louis’ smell. He can barely suppress his smile.
He’s still thrusting mercilessly into Harry’s leaking hole, slick pooling in his palm, trailing down his wrist. “You have been so good for me, darling, been such a patient slut and took what daddy gave you, look so beautiful like this.”
Harry starts crying properly. He hides his face behind his arm, sobs shaking his torso, no strength left in his body to hoist his hips up for Louis to have better access, just lies there and takes it. He’s being pushed up with every odd thrust, hair spilling wild and probably getting tangled at the back, his earring swinging wildly, his dress barely covering him.
“Look at me, baby,” Louis demands and pounds into him faster. “Look at your daddy when he fucks you.”
“Close,” Harry cries out when his arms are back above his head, wrists twisting, and Louis teases his pinky around the stretch of his rim, threatening to slip it in with a little prod. “Close, daddy, please, please, can I come, daddy, please-”
He wails as soon as Louis hisses a Yes, baby girl, you can come, come for your daddy and cramps up hard, crushing Louis’ fingers, clutching them like a vice. “Daddy daddy daddy always always, yours –”
His cock dribbles pitifully, nothing but a few beads of come mingling in the mess of his stomach, but his hole squelches when Louis pulls out. He licks his fingers clean and smiles at Harry’s blush. “What, you can be greedy but I can’t?”
Harry shakes his head and tugs him in by a hand at the shoulder. “Come here.” His voice is spent, but his tone mostly back to normal less whiny and pleading. He smells amazing, addictive, all consuming. Louis drapes himself over his sweaty body and digs his nose into the side of his jaw where he’s able to hide his expression and breathe him in. “Got exactly what you wanted, didn’t you?”
Harry makes a displeased sound. “You promised.”
Louis doesn’t answer. There's no sense in arguing and he wants this calm to last as long as possible.
“Do you want to...” Harry trails off, but his fingers trail towards Louis’ neck. Swirling above the bruise he left. Then he tilts his own head to the side. “You wanna?”
Louis’ breath evaporates. “Jesus,” he whispers. “Don’t do this, Harry.”
“It’s okay,” Harry says, his hand pulling Louis closer. “You can have me.”
This isn’t fair. It’s not fair of him to say it so casually, to offer himself up when he’s probably been saying the same stuff to random alphas earlier, when he had been saying these things in earnest when they were together.
“I fucking hate you,” Louis growls but cards through Harry’s curls to keep him in place. He scrapes his teeth up his shoulder, over his thrumming pulse, feeling drunk with the knowledge that he could just bite and change everything. His clit throbs, hard again. Harry seems to notice, like he always notices, despite his nonchalance, and raises his leg.
“It’s okay, daddy. You can. It’s okay, everything’s –”
Louis sucks, just to make him shut up. He seals his lips on his neck and draws the blood to the surface of his silky skin, its sweetness mixing with the tang of Harry’s sweat and the phantom taste of his spit. Only a moment and the memories come rushing back to him; the memories of kisses, of first times, of last times. His mind spins and suddenly time is inexistent, he’s eighteen again and meeting the love of his life, he’s twenty and high on love and life, he’s twenty-three and begging for Harry to stay, he’s twenty-five and watching himself lose him. He’s in the now and pretending to be fine.
He finds himself rubbing off on Harry’s strong thighs, holding onto him, tears smeared into the mark he left, coming fast, his back cooling in the heavy air, his heart on his sleeve.