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The onset of heat is something Louis still hasn’t learned to recognize. It takes three days of feeling hot and irritable in the middle of November for him to cotton on and by then it’s too late to make any plans. Not that he would’ve had any idea what sort of plans to make, anyway, because it’s been years since he’s had to spend a heat alone. That probably says something about the claustrophobic nature of his relationships, but it was convenient, always having an alpha around when he started feeling the itch. The prospect of not being coddled by anyone but his own hand this time is—disorienting.

It’s not like he doesn’t have options. It’s just—he’s distracted. They’re on break and he has a lot on his plate and no team breathing down his neck and organizing every minute detail. Louis never means to lose a day or four marathoning shows on Netflix, but it happens, and then he’s left scrambling to catch up on all the things he was supposed to do and promised he would. Until now, he didn’t realize those things would end up including being holed up in his bedroom wanking himself raw for hours on end.

Louis is not a very good omega. Stubborn, says his mum. Irresponsible, says his doctor. Loud, says everyone else. But the truth is, sometimes Louis just forgets—forgets that he should act a certain way and want certain things. Forgets about his inconvenient biology until it makes itself known like a kick to the head, draining him so thoroughly of anything but want that it’s all he can do to crawl out from under the covers and focus his bleary eyes enough to compose a text.

Harry’s been saved in his mobile as HUMP IT and Louis can’t remember why, but it’s fitting. Louis types out need you and by some miracle regains enough control of his body to keep from sending it.

where are you

It’s still a little too needy but right now Louis can’t be fucked with subtlety. Right now rubbing himself all over Harry until he gets the message and then sitting on his cock before he can protest sounds like the best idea Louis’ ever had. It’s not, in any sense of the word, because things with Harry are messy enough without adding a heat to the mix, but Louis has been lying in these filthy sheets all day, exhausted and unable to concentrate on anything but his hard prick and wet arse for more than two minutes at a time. It feels like a fucking oven in here. He can’t throw open the windows because it’s pissing rain outside, so he’s been breathing in the scent of his own desperation for hours, trying to convince himself he doesn’t need a knot, and he doesn’t, but dammit. He wants one.

Harry’s always the first alpha he thinks of, and Louis still feels guilty about that. He doesn’t know if it’s because he was there when Harry first popped a knot, or because they’ve practically lived in each other’s pockets since then, or because it’s Harry, and he’s always on Louis’ mind anyway, but it wasn’t fair to the people he was with. Louis hates being single but it’s a relief not having to crush every stray thought of Harry he has because he doesn’t want to cheat, even in the privacy of his own head.

And that’s what it was, every time. Cheating, because when Louis thinks alpha he thinks Harry, and when he thinks Harry he thinks his.

That’s only one in a long line of reasons why they don’t—fuck about. Why it’s stupid to think of Harry now. What they do for a living doesn’t afford room for possessiveness; certainly not the kind that they fall prey to so easily, again and again, this suffocating, volatile thing. But this is just a heat, Louis tells himself, and heats are straightforward, no fine print necessary.

It’ll be easy. It’ll be good—he’s sure of that. Harry can burn him up with a touch, heat or no. It’s been a while, but it’s not something you can just forget. Louis tries not to squirm with all the anticipation building up in him.

Harry’s text, when it comes, dashes it.

At the airport. x

Louis doesn’t know where he’s headed. He saw Harry a week ago at a birthday party they conned each other into attending, and it didn’t come up, which means it’s spontaneous and probably brought on by Harry’s displeasure over the weather. Louis isn’t surprised, exactly, but it’s bloody inconvenient, and kind of devastating. Whatever excitement he allowed himself to feel has curdled in his stomach. It’s fine, except Louis wants to scream a little bit, and now he hasn’t got a clue what to say that isn’t no, don’t go.

There’s an awkward pause where Louis knows Harry knows that he’s online and he still can’t think of a reply. He’s just about to go with ok have a good flight when Harry beats him to it.

Why?

nothing, Louis sends, before his rising heat can make the embarrassing seem appealing.

just wanted to see u
talk later have a good flight ! xx

There’s a moment, before he tosses his mobile aside in a fit of childishness, that Louis considers going through his contacts and calling someone else. There’s no shortage of alphas in the world and Louis knows more than his fair share; he can think of a few who’re unattached and wouldn’t say no to helping him through a heat on short notice and wouldn’t be awkward about it besides. It might even be better off, in the long run, but all the thought inspires in him is disinterest and vague disgust. The problem is it’s not just a knot he wants—it’s a connection.

And he’s never had a connection with anyone like the one he had with Harry. Has. Even now, even after all the fights and fuck ups and the careful, aching distance that comes with staying just friends.

He should call someone else. He won’t.

Exhaustion hits Louis between one blink and the next, like resigning himself to three more days of misery just used up the last bit of his energy. Omegas are supposed to anticipate heats and enjoy them. Louis never has, not really. It’s so physical. Mindless. He’s never been able to rid himself of the low grade panic that comes with not really being in complete control of your own body, can’t let go even when he’s coming his brains out. Heats mean anxious orgasms at best and an awful bloody chore at worst.

There’s an annoying little voice in Louis’ head that keeps suggesting maybe that’s because he’s never spent one with his best friend.

His mobile vibrates with a text but Louis doesn’t bother checking it, too busy kicking off sweat-soaked sheets and making his way to the loo. He doesn’t feel steady enough for a shower, a little like he might just fold under the water pressure, but the thought of filling up the tub and soaking in his own filth is even less appealing. A compromise results in him sat on the floor, knees drawn up to his chest, while water hot enough to turn him pink beats down over his back and fills his lungs up with steam.

Louis can still smell himself, thick and cloying, even over the apple-cinnamon scent of his bodywash. He stops trying to wash the smell away when he catches himself lingering on his throat and nipples and belly, his heat making every little stroke feel like a tug on his sore prick. Despite his best efforts he’s wanked off twice before he manages to get out of the shower, and fingered himself so thoroughly and for so long that he could take a cock—a knot—so easy that it’s a fucking crime there aren’t any around.

He has toys, of course, inflatable knots and things that don’t do a half bad job of filling him up. But they haven’t got a heartbeat, and they don’t smell like much of anything, and they can’t hold him down and tell him how well he’s taking it. They can’t kiss him. Louis wants to be kissed.

For half a second he wants it badly enough to regret not just telling Harry about his heat, mind spinning in frustrated circles. He doesn’t know why it’s become so hard to bloody well say what he means. Might be that half the time he isn’t sure what he means. Might be that a part of him that fears he wouldn’t be able to stop once he started, that he wouldn’t be able to bite down on just friends isn’t good enough.

Louis doesn’t have much of a filter, and it’s pretty much non-existent when it comes to Harry. Maybe it’s a good thing this didn’t work out. His body vehemently disagrees, but then Louis isn’t feeling too kindly towards it at the moment anyway.

He started sweating as soon as he dried himself off. The pair of joggers he pulls on are for comfort’s sake more than anything else, because they’re old and worn thin and feel good against his oversensitive skin. Louis reckons his heat won’t set in properly for a few hours yet, and it’s with that thought in mind that he avoids the bed he’s too tired to make and curls up in front of the telly instead, turning on the lights to keep himself from falling asleep again. He could use another nap, but waking up alone and aching and in the thick of it isn’t exactly the most exciting prospect.

The storm outside hasn’t gotten any worse but isn’t getting any better. Louis doesn’t hear the door open, but he does hear it slam shut.

“Hey,” Harry says, soaked to the bone and dripping all over Louis’ nice new carpet.

He’s got a bag of what looks and smells like takeaway in one hand and a hat in the other. His hair’s down and plastered to his head so Louis isn’t sure what the fedora was good for, but he watches, startled into silence, as Harry gingerly sets both on the side table before taking off his coat.

“Hey,” Louis says, once his heart’s slowed enough for it to come out casual. He was drowsing, despite his best efforts, and seeing Harry after he’d resigned himself to not seeing him was like a shot of adrenaline, woke him up so quick it gave him a headache. “You missed your flight?”

Harry toes his boots off and looks at him. “I was just seeing Cal off.”

“Oh.” That makes sense. Louis has a feeling he’d know that if he’d bothered to check his texts. He crushes the heat-addled part of him that wishes Harry had said I got off the plane or something equally ridiculous instead, and pinches his arm to snap himself out of it. His head’s gone all fuzzy. Harry brought the wind and rain in with him and the scent of it is making Louis feel electric, the hairs on his arms standing straight up.

“Lou,” Harry’s saying. “Towel.”

“Yeah,” Louis says vaguely, waving a hand. “Go ahead.”

Harry stares at him. “I’m wet,” he says, and Louis thinks oh. Me, too. “Can you get me one so I don’t track water all over the—Louis. What’s wrong with you?” He’s frowning now, taking off his belt. The grey t-shirt he’s got on is old and too small for him, stretched over his chest and shoulders, damp from the rain. Louis blinks at him. “Louis?”

The back of Louis’ neck is prickling in the most distracting way.

“Um,” he starts, and can’t finish, because that’s when he feels it: the first real flush of heat crawling over his body, scorching his face and clogging up his throat, settling in his fingertips. He’s been hard but his cock throbs now, and every brush of fabric sends hot little sparks skittering up his spine. He gets wetter, so good and loose he feels like presenting, legs spread and arse up and ready to get fucked, ready, ready, been ready. “It’s—um.” His eyes are burning. Is it always like this? He can’t remember right now. “Heat.”

Harry stops trying to squirm out of his wet jeans. “What?”

He looks so stupid, standing here like a deer in headlights, just standing there. Not coming any closer. Not touching him. Louis tries to swallow past the sudden sting of frustration and grits his teeth. “Can’t you fucking smell it?”

Harry doesn’t even try to scent him. Just takes a quick, fumbling step back, nearly tripping over his own feet trying to get away. This isn’t how Louis saw it going.

“Fuck. Okay—fuck,” Harry says, voice gone hoarse, just like that. “Do you need me to—do you want me to go?”

If Louis opens his mouth he might just scream, so he shakes his head no.

But Harry’s shaking his head too. “I don’t think—”

The noise Louis makes is small and hurt, half caught in the back of his throat. It has Harry cursing. He runs his hands through his hair helplessly and Louis can see the second he gives in, the way his entire body tightens with anticipation. He shucks off the rest of his sodden clothes while Louis watches, backs of his teeth tingling, clawing a little at the sofa cushions to keep from touching himself because he’s sore and bloody sick of his own hand. He’s still making these animal sounds, hungry instead of wretched now that he’s going to get what he wants, and Harry bangs his shins on the coffee table trying to get to him.

Louis doesn’t know why Harry’s kept his briefs on. He says something Louis doesn’t catch because he’s too busy kicking off his joggers and spreading his legs. He’s going to make a mess of the sofa, can already feel the slick smearing over his arse and the backs of his thighs, but when Harry drops to his knees and crawls the rest of the way everything else turns to white noise. He smells like a pocket of warmth amid the rain, cologne Louis doesn’t recognize and arousal he does. He’s close enough to touch, finally. Finally.

“Suck me,” Louis says, and can’t wait, has to hook his legs over Harry’s shoulders and pull him in. Harry’s face presses up against his thigh and Louis moans because his skin is chilly but breath hot, searing when it ghosts over his cock. Water drips from his hair and runs down Louis’ hand when he fists it, yanks. “Harry, Harry, I need it—”

Louis arches into Harry’s mouth, choking him on his cock until Harry grabs him by the hips and holds him down. He’ll come, he can feel it, tries to hold it back because it’s going to hurt coming this fast, but Harry’s relentless and his mouth feels too good to resist. Louis can’t keep his eyes open, can’t hear much of anything over the rush of blood in his ears, but Harry’s fingers are digging bruises into his skin when he comes, keeping him still even as everything in him falls apart at the seams.

It’s over quick. All of a sudden the gentle suction on the tip of his cock is unbearable, but Louis can’t work his limbs enough to push Harry away. Harry pulls off at the sound of Louis’ whine, high and sharp, but only to fold his knees up to his chest and fuck his tongue into Louis’ arse. Louis moans a little in protest, tugging on his fistful of hair, because he’s oversensitive still, clarity coming back in fits and starts, everything too sharp and bright.

“Cleaning you up,” Harry says when Louis tries to squirm away, between rough, thorough kisses to his hole that make Louis twitch.

“You’re not,” Louis manages, because all the attention is just making him more wet, slick getting all over everywhere, half of Harry’s face shiny with it when Louis pulls on his hair hard enough to make him raise his head. Louis gets a fucking head rush just looking at him, at his wet eyes and beautiful mouth and the way his throat’s working like he’s still swallowing Louis’ come. He licks his lips and Harry’s eyes drop to his mouth without missing a beat. Louis’ heart pounds. “Reckon you can smell it now, yeah?”

“You’re a fucking prick,” Harry murmurs, low enough that Louis has to strain a little to hear him. “Just wanted to see you,” he mocks, and Louis refuses to flush. “Thought I was in for some pad thai and Breaking Bad.”

“Well,” Louis says. “Don’t you feel lucky?”

For his trouble Louis gets a sharp little nip to the inside of his thigh that makes his pulse jump. Harry tongues at the mark he’s left, soothes the hurt with his hot tongue or just makes it worse, Louis can’t tell. “You could have just said.”

“Said what?” Harry’s skin is obscenely soft. Louis has to hold his breath as he touches him. “‘Drop everything and come fuck me?’”

Harry presses his face into the cut of Louis’ hip and sighs. Louis doesn’t know how long it’s been—not longer than ten minutes, surely—but his knees must be starting to hurt. Part of Louis wants to lie back and drag him up onto the sofa, be smothered by his weight and smell and the sound of his voice against Louis’ ear, but another part likes the way he looks as is, shouldered in between Louis’ thighs and taking in his scent where it’s strongest, maybe going dizzy from it. Louis wants him overwhelmed.

“We don’t have to do that,” Harry says. He’s smoothing his hands over Louis’ thighs, squeezing, feeling him out, and Louis doesn’t know what he thinks they were just doing, but.

“I hate to break it to you, pal…”

Harry’s eyes flick up. They’re wild in this light, moss green and hard to hold for long. “You know what I mean.”

It’s heat. Louis thought he’d be eager. An alpha that’s reluctant to get his dick wet is practically unheard of, but Harry’s always been more Harry than anything else, so this just figures. “What, you think you can get me through a heat with just your mouth?”

“Done it before,” Harry says easily, and wiggles his fingers, rings glinting in the light.

Louis doesn’t ask who, because the urge to scratch Harry up is strong enough already. He should know better than to bring up other omegas when he’s got Louis’ come smeared all over his face, should know how he gets. Louis hates how heats affect him, all this violence laced in with the persistent desire thrumming just under his skin. He wants to sink his teeth in, and that’s not an unfamiliar feeling, but the intensity of it startles him. He thought it’d be easier with Harry, but maybe he was wrong. So far it’s just been more.

But somehow still nowhere near enough. Louis stops trying to censor himself, abruptly sick of wanting and not having.

“What if I want your knot?”

Hearing Harry’s breath catch soothes him. The look on his face works even better: his wide, dark eyes and vulnerable mouth. “Louis. Come on.”

Louis licks his lips. “You don’t want to?”

“That’s not the point.”

“Yes it is,” Louis argues. “If you want it and I want it. Doesn’t make sense not to.” Harry doesn’t look convinced, and the heat is clouding Louis’ thoughts again, making it hard to do anything other than whine until Harry gives in. “It’s a brilliant, um. A brilliant idea.”

“You know it’s the heat talking. Louis—” Harry’s eyes flutter shut when Louis cards fingers through his hair and tugs his head down, hoping he’ll be easier to convince if Louis lets him eat him out some more. For a while it seems like he might be, because he makes a pleased, throaty noise and fucks his tongue in right away, and Louis spends long minutes pumping his cock and trying to breathe through the acute pleasure. Two fingers drive into him while Harry chases all the slick with his tongue, and having something to clench down on makes Louis come again, in these long, aching pulses that mimic the way Harry’s kneading at his spot.

But then Harry’s drawing away, wiping his mouth on Louis’ thigh and taking in a shaky breath. “Fuck. Fuck, I can’t think. You’re so fucking wet.”

“Are you hard?” Louis asks, petting clumsily at Harry’s face. Harry bites at his fingers, then sucks them into his mouth like he can’t help himself.

“Don’t ask stupid questions.”

“I wanna see,” Louis says, but Harry just looks at him, mullish. Louis thumbs his bottom lip and tries to say what he means. “It’s not the heat. I wouldn’t—if it was anyone else. I wouldn’t. I wasn’t going to.” He doesn’t know if that makes any sense. It doesn’t matter. Harry will understand him. “I wanted you.”

“Louis,” Harry sighs, and Louis knows he won’t say no, not to that, but the look on his face sends a jolt of panic through him anyway. Heat makes even the possibility of rejection seem unbearable. They’ve denied each other so many times before, over the smallest, stupidest things, but Louis doesn’t think he could stand it right now. Harry looks at him like he knows. “Louis, my knees are killing me.”

It startles a laugh out of him. “Tosser. You fucking—”

Harry straightens and combs his hair back from his face. It’s drying, starting to curl already. Louis can feel the heat building up again, faster now, every little bit of him clenching up in anticipation. His mouth is dry. As much as he liked the visual of Harry looking up at him, Louis wants him closer now, wants to touch him everywhere.

The sofa isn’t wide enough for the both of them. Harry’s leg stays braced against the floor when he crouches over him, arms flexing on either side of Louis’ head, and Louis tries not to leer too openly at his cock but he’s so fucking hard, shiny wet head poking out over the waistband of his briefs. He’s big, even for an alpha, and Louis knows that—he’s always known that—but it still feels like a discovery, somehow, like he got lucky. He has to touch, so he does, palming the thick line of him through the damp fabric and feeling his cock throb in time with his heartbeat.

“God,” Harry gasps, pumping his hips into Louis’ hand helplessly. “Oh, fuck. We’re going to be in so much trouble.”

“Shh. Not if you keep your mouth shut.”

“Yeah, because I’m the one who has trouble shutting up,” Harry says, before Louis surges up to kiss him and shuts him up for good.

Kissing Harry isn’t anything new, as familiar as cramped bunks and long nights on the road and the thrill of new places, feeling his heart leap into his throat and falling asleep with a smile on his face. Kissing Harry in heat is all of that and the taste of his own slick, this edge of teeth that has him arching up and scrabbling at the back of Harry’s neck, shoulders, desperate for something to dig his nails into.

They’re sloppy with it, kisses so rough Louis’ going to be able to feel the hot press of Harry’s mouth in the morning. Louis wants to cup Harry’s face, move him how he wants and get deeper than this hungry catch of their mouths, but he’s busy dragging his nails down Harry’s back. His mouth is so soft Louis could cry from it. Could kiss him forever.

“I’m not going to last,” Harry confesses between kisses. “We haven’t done this in so long. It’s been so long.”

Louis tries to silence him with kisses but the omega in him wants to know exactly how badly Harry wants him, wants to hear it. “Tell me.”

Harry shudders and pulls away just enough to look at him, mouth so red it must hurt, eyes the kind of desperate Louis feels somewhere in his chest. “I’ll get hooked on you again,” he says. “You know that. Impossible not to.” He kisses Louis slow, then presses his mouth to his cheek. “God, I think I already am.”

“Don’t stop,” Louis whispers, and gets kissed so thoroughly his toes curl.

“Couldn’t,” Harry tells him, and drops his weight down, rutting his cock into the cut of Louis’ hips. When Louis reaches down to pull it out of his briefs he whines and tucks his face against Louis’ neck, panting, fucking into his fist. “Louis. Louis. What are you going to do to me?”

Love you, Louis thinks. Love you, love you, love you.

“Baby,” he says, and kisses Harry quiet. He feels lightheaded and he doesn’t think it’s the heat. Everything burns, but the place their mouths touch burns hottest, so Louis tangles his fingers in Harry’s hair and lets the rest go.

He’s floating, for a little while. That’s never happened before. His cock’s hard enough to be a little painful, leaking against his belly and finding friction against Harry’s stomach, and he’s wet, so wet it’d embarrass him if he could be bothered by anything right now. Harry’s saying something but Louis just wants to kiss some more so shh, shh.

“Okay,” Harry says, “okay,” and reaches down to fist their cocks together. It’s good, it feels—it’s good, but why isn’t—Louis doesn’t want to come like that. Doesn’t want Harry to come like that.

“Knot me,” he mumbles into a kiss, dreamy. “Okay? Harry. I want your knot.”

“Lou,” Harry says, but it seems to get stuck in his throat. “It’s—I’m already—too big. It’ll hurt.”

“Okay,” Louis agrees, and tries to roll over, because he wants to get knotted like he’s meant to, Harry’s body blanketing his back and cock driving into him good and deep. But Harry won’t let him, and doesn’t seem to understand that Louis’ becoming cross, because he just draws Louis’ legs around his waist and kisses him again. “I want it,” Louis tells him, in case he’s forgotten since Louis said it last. “Want it so bad.”

“I know,” Harry says, and Louis feels the head of his cock snub up against his hole, clenches up on instinct. “Trust me, yeah? I’ll take care of you. Let me take care of you.”

Okay, Louis wants to say, but Harry chooses that instant to fuck in, and the girth of his cock drives the breath from Louis’ lungs. He’s big, he feels bigger and Louis doesn’t want him to stop but can’t keep these little hitching whines trapped behind his teeth. He means to tell him with a look but it’s too hard to keep his eyes open, to do anything but throw his head back and let Harry fuck him. Harry’s stopped talking to pant and Louis aches to run his fingers through his hair and tell him he’s good, so fucking good, but the most he can manage is rocking his hips up and gasping when Harry’s cock sinks in deeper.

Louis can feel Harry’s knot against his rim with every thrust. He thinks he might fear it if he didn’t know Harry wasn’t going to knot him this time around; it’ll hurt and let me take care of you only mean one thing, even to Louis’ heat-fuzzy mind. He isn’t too bothered, because Harry’s promised to give it to him, and Louis can wait if he’s getting fucked so well he’s crying from it while he does.

He thinks he’s crying, anyway, because Harry keeps licking at his cheeks and whining a bit. Louis could reassure him, try a little harder to kiss him back, but it’s easier to gasp into his mouth and come, instead.

“Fuck,” Harry gasps with him, “oh—” because Louis’ arse is trying to milk his cock—the knot he never put in—and Louis would reach down to wrap a hand around the swollen base of his prick, squeeze it to mimic the squeeze of his body, but he’s still coming and it’s all he can do to remember how to breathe.

He loses some time. Not too much, because Harry’s still gasping against his throat when Louis comes to, hips twitching as he fills him up with come. Some of it leaks out with every thrust and Louis feels panicked despite himself, because that’s not right, that won’t get him bred—

Bloody hell. He reels it back. Shoves the thought in a dusty corner of his mind to be examined when he’s not caught on Harry’s cock and sorely lacking in good sense. He doesn’t whine when Harry’s cock slips out, but he wants to, and is about to say as much when Harry lifts his head up and kisses him.

“Thank you,” Harry says against his mouth. Louis breathes him in and drifts.

Louis has a whole collection of hair ties stashed around the flat. He pulls one out from between the ruined sofa cushions, bright pink before it got smothered by dust bunnies, and Harry stops trying to blow hair out of his eyes to take it.

He doesn’t look any more put together with his hair in a bun. Stubborn curls escape right away and Louis trying to put them in their place leads to another string of kisses, slow and sweet now that Louis’ heat has banked for the moment. The food’s gone cold by the time they get around to it, but Louis is ravenous and unwilling to let Harry up for long enough to reheat it, so they fill up on tepid soup and greasy noodles and little touches, little kisses.

They don’t talk, and the storm goes on. It’s quiet inside Louis’ head.

They do make it to the bedroom eventually. It smells so strongly of Louis that he flinches, but Harry just takes in an unsteady breath and goes pink. He strips off the sheets and makes the bed they’re just going to ruin again while Louis does his best to be a nuisance. The windows get thrown open without a care for the rain, but when they get back in bed Harry draws the covers up and over them like he knows Louis likes best to be cocooned. The storm’s not so loud this way, can’t touch them inside their little nest. He puts Louis on his belly and Louis goes happily, digs his nose into Harry’s rain-damp t-shirt he’s been clinging to since they left the sofa. Sucks in the hot, humid air while Harry opens him up on his cock again and fucks him so good and easy it starts feeling like he never stopped.

Each slow, hard thrust drags a moan from Louis’ throat, the heat-flush having receded just enough to let him really feel it, hyperconscious of every sound Harry makes and every twitch of his cock. Louis doesn’t chase his own orgasm so much as it blindsides him, cock spurting out what little come he’s got left and arse clenching down on Harry’s cock until he gives in and starts grinding, just rolling his hips in these little figure eights while his knot starts to swell.

The stretch of it leaves him breathless. Harry’s hand finds his and Louis squeezes, clings.

Harry rolls them onto their sides once they’re tied, Louis helpless to do anything but dig his teeth into Harry’s arm and take it. The covers slip down to let them take in their first lungful of cold, clean air, electric from the storm outside, and Louis gulps it in greedily, anything to distract from huge Harry feels, locked in him. How easy it’d be to get addicted to this.

Harry doesn’t stop coming for what Louis knows can’t be more than a few minutes but feels like hours, breathing hard against the back of Louis’ neck and making these hurt noises every time Louis rolls his hips and squeezes more come out of him. He’s got a hand low on Louis’ belly and shivers whenever the wind blows more rain in.

Neither of them are in any position to get up and close the windows. Louis tests the knot with a little twitch of his hips and squirms at the feel of it. They’re tied up good, and whatever stubborn bit of Louis that was still tense unravels at the discovery. They’re tied. How they’re supposed to be.

“‘s good,” Louis slurs, turning his head to nuzzle Harry. He wants to sleep now, but it’s imperative that Harry know. “You’re good. You did so good.”

Harry kisses him despite the angle, slow and wet and sweet. They kiss until the ache in Louis’ neck becomes unbearable, and then they kiss some more. Louis’ head isn’t clear enough to wonder at the implications of it all; right now his heat could last forever and he would welcome it, thrill over never having to let Harry go.

“Louis,” Harry mumbles, and Louis only half-hears it, because Harry’s been saying his name for hours, awed and plaintive and hungry and weak, but something about the way he lays a hand on Louis’ chest makes him pay attention. “I would’ve come. Missed my flight if I had one.” He takes in a shaky breath that Louis feels, heart pounding so hard against Louis’ back, like there’s anything left to be afraid of.

“If you said you needed me,” he says. “I would’ve gotten off the plane.”

Louis hides a smile against his arm and closes his eyes. “I know.”