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The lights on the stage are searing through every part of Harry’s skin as they sing the last song of the show. He can feel the sweat falling down his neck, clinging to his abs, threatening to slide into his eyes. The other boys seem similarly pressed. The band around Liam’s snapback is a shade darker than it was when they started. Zayn had to ditch his jacket somewhere in the pauses of “Little Things” and now it lies dangerously close to the edge of the stage, where three girls keep unsuccessfully grabbing for it. Harry thinks briefly about tossing it to them but remembers how Zayn keeps threatening to dump his favorite boots and that is just. No. Niall is practically dripping, towel slung over one shoulder as he speaks to the crowd about how much they all love and appreciate them.
Harry sits and jiggles his knee and smiles at Niall and absolutely refuses to look at Louis.
Because the thing is, Harry knows exactly what Louis is going to look like if he turns to him. He doesn’t think he can handle that right now. He knows he can’t handle that right now, not when energy is thrumming through him like a drug, not when he feels so loose and relaxed and high off life that all of his atoms could just multiply and burst. Looking at Louis would make his throat seize up, his palms sweatier than they already are so they slip on the mic, his expression too honest, too open for ten thousand people with camera phones and ideas.
So he doesn’t look at Louis. But casually, in the middle of a particularly long cheer from the audience, he goes over to sit in the space between him and Zayn. Slinging an arm around Zayn and pinching for a nipple, grinning, he tries to make it look like Zayn is his target. But Harry knows that Louis will know why he moved. And Harry knows that Louis will know that he’s done it on purpose, that Louis will want it too.
Sometimes, when Harry can’t touch Louis the way he wants to, just being near him is enough. It’s like Louis’ heat radiates down a wire straight to his heart and all he needs to do is stand a few feet away to feel it pull him, to tug on him, call him in and reassure him that “hi, yes, there you are.” Listening to Niall finish up his speech, Harry can feel it now and he smiles big because it feels just that easy to call his love back in.
Niall’s finished and the boys all take their time leaving the stage. The crowd roars into a song of its own as everybody says goodbye, Liam doing a dance that only gets the crowd fired up again and Harry moving slowly along, making sure to wave to this side of the crowd, that side, and everyone in between.
By the time he gets backstage, there is an acute level of chaos that is still far less than the chaos of performing in front of tens of thousands of fans. The energy is still high, so high, Harry can nearly see it in the air, buzzing an orange glow around the boys and the crew as they get ready to head to the bus. His skin feels loaded down with energy, with nerves, with light and sound and movement. He immediately falls into the throng of cheering and giggles as another show’s been pulled off successfully, but he doesn’t really want the company of the other boys right now; that comes later. What he wants right now is something else entirely.
Harry detaches himself from a cackling Niall to slink off away from the noise. He meanders past discarded clothes, toed-off shoes with the laces still tied, and empty takeout boxes, turns corners, until he gets to a seemingly deserted corner in the back of the dressing room. There is a long line of mirrors, the kind that actors use behind stage to fix makeup and straighten outfits, with lights framing all around.
Only one set of lights is on, at the very far end, and Louis is standing in front of it.
He’s shirtless, but his jeans are still on. The dark denim hugs his skin and moves with him as he keeps bending forward, looking into the mirror. His hair is matted to the back of his head and draped across his forehead, sweat making it dark and sticky. He’s looking at himself like he wants to fix his hair but doesn’t know how, frowning at his fringe as he moves it one way, then back again, then back again, like he can’t decide how to adjust it.
Harry stares at him for a while, because he can. It sounds possessive as he thinks it, but he knows it’s true so he thinks it again. And again. Rolls it around in his head until all he hears is mine, mine, mine.
He hasn’t been able to look at Louis the way he wants to for hours now and it’s enough to make his skin feel raw, his body too frustrated at not being able to act how it wants. Louis’ body language is all nervous self-consciousness, and Harry is content to watch him for a minute, watch the energy thrum around him in this quiet space where the lights are warm. He watches his chest move and he follows the curve of his spine, down, when he leans forward, pulling at his fringe.
Louis is gorgeous like this; the lights around the mirror hit him softly at all the right places and every time he turns his head to get a better look at his hair, shadows pool in his collarbones, his cheeks, the hollows under his arms as he lifts them to pull at strands of hair. The sight of him makes Harry’s mouth go dry. He’s so utterly in tune with his body, all the way down to his bare toes on the carpet, and Harry can never get bored of watching him, watching him watch himself, touch himself, know himself.
Suddenly, Louis stands up straight and takes both hands and runs them across his whole head, shaking his hair out in a way that Harry recognizes.
He bends his head down and really messes with it, twice, three times, until he snaps his head up in the mirror and catches Harry’s eye right away.
The unexpected piercing look is enough to make Harry startle. Cheeky bastard, he thinks, grinning stupidly, as he steps away from the wall he was leaning on.
Admittedly, the look on Louis’ face is cheeky as he takes his hands out of his hair and plants them down on the counter. His whole demeanor has suddenly changed, from nervously worrying about his hair to confidently having it on display, having his whole body on display. He bends down slowly, stretching his torso so that the closer Harry gets, the farther back his body arches to meet him. He keeps their eyes locked through the mirror. By the time Harry gets right up on him there’s nothing cheeky about the air between them; it’s dangerous, dirty.
Harry slides right behind Louis into the space that he invites, hands coming up automatically to his waist and thigh, to position him so that he rests right between his legs. If Harry mentioned it Louis would probably deny it, but he presses his ass back into Harry the minute they slot together, like a reflex. Luckily for Louis, Harry’s mouth is too dry to mention anything but he does think “like puzzles” as he digs his fingers in.
For a minute, neither of them say anything. They look at each other in the large mirror and it doesn’t feel anything but right, but necessary, them being together like this. Harry can flex his fingers and he can feel them, relieved, tightening around Louis’ waist, his thigh. Louis still hasn’t moved his hands from the counter but Harry can see them clenching and unclenching minutely, nails holding onto wood like claws. Eventually their breaths line up and Harry can see the rise and fall of each inhale, exhale at the same moment that he can feel it, Louis’ back connecting with his front.
It feels insanely good to be here like this, in this quiet space where they can still hear the boys and the crew in the distance, but this, here, in a corner of the world where they can be for a minute without any noise but the sound of their own existence. It feels incredible. Louis feels incredible under Harry’s hands, the weight and shape of him. He smells like a night out too late, all sweat and heat. It’s driving Harry crazy, so he noses into the back of his neck, right in his hair where the smell is strongest. He looks down and notices that there’s an outfit laid off to the side, like he was meaning to change.
All of the boys usually go for a more comfortable look after a show, but right now Louis looks like the most arousing thing Harry has ever seen.
“Leave these on,” he says, pulling at a belt loop on the dark denims and bending low, watching the way his finger pulls the jeans from Louis’ skin, watches the space where Louis’ dick is starting to press up, already looking for Harry’s hand. It’s the first thing he’s said since he found him and he wishes he could say that he was surprised by how raspy he sounds, already. If Louis is surprised, he doesn’t show it. But he does raise an eyebrow in the mirror until Harry looks up.
“Why?” deadpan, like he’s neither impressed nor concerned with what Harry wants him to do.
The way he says it, clipped and dry, like he couldn’t give less of a shit, is enough to make Harry’s dick twitch. Arousal creeps up his spine and propels him forward, growling. His grip on Louis’ body had relaxed, but now it tightens again as he surges forward and pins him to the counter with a snap of his hips. Louis has to dig his nails into the counter to keep upright and the tiny scowl on his face is worth it when Harry, smirking, catches his eye in the mirror.
Louis would probably never say it, not unless it was coaxed out of him, but Harry doesn’t need to hear him say it, not right now; the way his eyes have fucked over, dark and glassy, is enough for him to know that Louis can feel how big Harry is all around him. He looks like a monster compared to Louis. He’s in all black tonight and the contrast is stark against Louis’ glowing, bare skin. He fits his head over his shoulder, presses his face into the join of neck and collarbone, breathing harshly so Louis will hear, and he hunches down so they’re both fit as tightly together as possible. He hears Louis swallow and catches his eye in the mirror to see him flushed, wild-looking and he makes sure he holds his gaze for what he’s going to say next.
Because the thing is, Louis will brat around and whine and pout for an extraordinary amount of time before letting someone else give him what he wants. And honestly, Harry wants what Louis wants so there’s never an issue. But sometimes, Louis likes to cat-and-mouse him, like some sort of delicious roleplay that only works him up higher so the comedown is even sweeter.
Harry really, really doesn’t mind.
Harry loves when he gets like this because it means that even though he feels like he’s in control, Louis is still the one making him choke, and stutter, and sweat, and always, always come too soon. Harry might set the pace but Louis is the one who decides how much, how little, to give and take until Harry is so twisted around he can’t see straight. Louis loves to make Harry work for it and Harry loves working for it, so when he catches his eyes in the mirror he can’t help but grin as he recognizes the look on Louis’ face. It’s the one he gets when he’s turned on but trying to ignore it, trying to make Harry tease it out of him. It’s the one he gets when he wants to touch Harry in public but physically has to refrain from doing so. It’s the one he gets when he desperately needs Harry to fuck him but he doesn’t want to say it, doesn’t want to be easy for it, but wants Harry to rile him up until the only word he remembers is Please.
Harry sees that look and digs his fingers in even harder.
“Because,” he says, sliding his hand slowly up and down Louis’ thigh “you look incredible in these.”
His voice is husky and more breath than sound, but he knows Louis hears it by the flutter of his eyelashes, the slow parting of his mouth. Harry can never get enough of this slow build, the way they tiptoe around the obvious until it is so painfully, blindingly obvious that it’s all they can do to tear their clothes off and fall on a bed. He loves it, the way he never knows which Louis he’s going to get until he’s right up on him, like he is now. He spreads his fingers apart and they nearly fill the entire thick span of Louis’ thigh, until his little finger can run up the seam between his legs, and Louis makes a noise high in the back of his throat.
Harry wets his lips before he says “Look at yourself.”
And suddenly it’s like all that unspent energy on stage, all that space in between them that remained untouched, unaddressed, all those signs that had nowhere to go, lost without the tether of each other, all of that suddenly floods out of them both and collides. It’s hot in the room, but suddenly it’s not hot enough. Louis pulls his head up and Harry knows, he knows, the minute that he looks at himself and really sees them together, how out of their minds with lust they look, because his eyes flicker almost-closed like he can barely stand to see it. Like he can barely handle knowing what it feels like to be so much a part of another person.
It’s always like this for them, this push and pull of fastfastslow, like every touch and word that can’t exist in certain places has to explode in private spaces where it can flow, where their love can attack each other like it wants to. Looking at the picture they make, together, is almost too much after being apart for so long. Seeing it in front of their faces is enough to send them both reeling.
This time when Louis pushes his ass back, it’s on purpose.
Harry chokes. He tightens his fingers hard, wanting to find bruises later after he’s peeled off the denim, and reflexively grinds up into Louis as Louis grinds down. And Louis keeps grinding, like he’s decided that this is how this is going to go, this is how he wants it. And yeah, ok, Harry can deal with that.
Louis has his elbows bent so he can push back in the little space that Harry’s given him, and his back is curving with the effort, turning obscenely again, and again, each time he moves. His lower back is dimpling and where his ass is rolling, so slowly, the band of his denims sinks lower and lower, resting on the delicious curve at the top of his ass. His mouth is open and he’s staring at Harry in the mirror, obviously concentrating, daring Harry to do something about the pressure on his dick through two sets of denims.
His eyes are sparkling, he’s teasing. “This gonna get you hard for me?”
His voice is soft, delicate, like he doesn’t want Harry to stop looking at his ass move, but it’s pointed enough to make him look up anyways, to bring up a hand and squeeze his ass, hard, as he grins.
“Yeah, babe. And you too, I think.”
Louis answers his grin with one of his own and, breathless, pushes back into his hands. Harry stretches the fingers of one hand and runs them right up the crease of Louis’ jeans, right into the seam that runs along his crack, until he gets to the front and can feel the heavy weight of his balls. Louis keens and whines and keeps grinding.
The sound of their bodies is rough and it matches how Harry feels inside, like an animal cooped up too long. He moves a hand slowly from Louis’ thigh to press his thumbs in, scraping his nail along the way, into the dimples in Louis’ back, little dips that Harry momentarily, crazily, thinks he’d like to come in. And Louis’ ass is so fat, so heartstoppingly thick where it meets Harry’s groin so the arch in his narrow back is deep, deep enough to collect his come if Harry wants to put it there.
“Would you let me come on you, here,” he asks, pressing his thumb down hard onto the soft skin. Louis doesn’t hesitate before he tosses his head around so he can see Harry’s face, can see down the line of his back, and moans “Yeah, Haz. Anywhere.”
Harry doesn’t know how to respond to that, so he doesn’t.
They don’t speak and it’s like grinding is the language of how they meet again. The harder Louis pushes back, the harder Harry pushes forward. The slower Louis rolls his hips, the tighter Harry holds his waist, lets the pressure ride on his dick and move around, around, around. Harry’s hips grind, so deep, into Louis’ ass, and Harry thinks that if they were fucking right now it would be a slow night, one of those nights where Harry eats Louis out for ages, has him whimpering and thrashing like a man possessed, until he can follow the slack pull of Louis’ pleasure and sink right into him, thrusting shallowly until he builds Louis up again and all Louis can say is Harry, Harry, Harry.
Now, Louis catches Harry’s eye in the mirror and this time he punches his hips back fast and brings them forward again so slow, so that Harry can feel all of him.
For a long time, the only sound between them is their heavy breathing but Harry hunches down again, to get right in Louis' ear and say
“You going to let me have you like this? Right here?”
Says “You going to let me come in you, fill you up?”
Says “Louis, god, Louis.”
Exhales.
Louis plants his palms down flat on the counter and rolls his hips back as he moans, louder and longer than before. He hangs his head down as he swallows but pulls it up again to catch Harry’s face in the mirror. Harry’s mouth is still slack and he’s looking at Louis, waiting for him to answer, still grinding his dick as deep as it can go.
Louis blinks and grins and breathes “No,” on an exhale, and he locks his arms so he can arch his back again, so he can get Harry to moan like he wants him to.
Without fail, Harry does make noise at that and he runs a hand up Louis’ spine where it curves, pressing into the bones there until he reaches the neck. He curls his fingers around Louis’ delicate neck and hopes that he can feel the press of each finger, hopes that the pad of each digit leaves a nasty purple stain so that everyone can see and know that, sometimes, Louis likes to choke on his pleasure. The movement isn’t lost on Louis and he brings one of his own hands up, scratching at Harry’s hand so he can hook a finger around one of Harry’s and hold on. Harry allows it, crooks his index finger around Louis’ as Louis’ breath stutters, his throat bobs, and Harry uses his other hand to creep up the back of Louis’ neck. He smirks and catches his eye in the mirror.
That’s all the warning Louis gets before Harry yanks his hair. Hard.
It has to fucking hurt, Harry knows it does. But Louis has the best poker face Harry’s ever seen and instead of squealing, he tightens his jaw and steels his eyes. It’s been a long time since Harry’s pulled his hair to get his attention. It feels almost juvenile to do it, but with the way Louis was messing about it earlier Harry thinks it’s ok if he puts his hands in it. And there is nothing juvenile about the way Louis’ breath has changed, from irregular to downright erratic, Adam’s apple bobbing as his neck is bared and he struggles to swallow.
Before a few weeks ago, there wouldn’t have been anything for Harry to grab onto. But he takes full advantage of the length now, winding his hands in the sweaty strands. He hopes Louis can feel the cold metal of his rings on the back of his neck. He hopes he’s imagining what his fingers will feel like later, inside him, if the rings will kiss up against his skin and he’ll feel cold metal there, too. If the way he’s sucking in breath is any indication, Harry thinks he might have some idea.
Harry uses his tight grip to pull Louis’ head back until it’s resting on his shoulder. He uses his hips to pin him to the counter and keep him in place while he mouths along the side of his neck. He’s not kissing, not really, just breathing hot air and skating his lips along the sweat that’s already dripped paths down Louis’ face and neck.
It should feel ridiculous, Harry thinks faintly, like teenagers rutting in a corner at a house party, but it doesn’t, not with Louis, never with Louis, it feels exhilarating and sexy and Louis’ so loose and his skin is on fire like he’s melting and he is melting, he thinks, he’s melting into Harry. Louis has his fingertips braced on the counter, pulled back like he is he can’t reach it to plant his hands down, not really, can’t do anything but breathe and moan and move his head wherever Harry wants it.
It still isn’t enough.
Their new position isn’t good for the grinding rhythm of his hips but it does put him level with Louis’ ear so he can hiss.
“Now I’m going to ask you again. Are you going to let me have you,” he yanks the hand in Louis’ hair, sharply to the side “like this?”
He bites along his jaw, his neck, anywhere he can reach while his other hand slowly works its way to Louis’ denim covered dick where it squeezes and rubs. He swears when he feels the fabric already damp, too wet already. The fact that Louis has been waiting for this moment as long as Harry has is enough to pump his hips forward, sharp and involuntary. He pushes his hand around the wetness, curls his fingers right where he can feel the tip of his cock, presses down until Louis howls and he feels more warmth seep into the denim.
Louis might be desperate for it, but that doesn’t mean he’s going to make it easy.
“Depends,” Louis says, as his hand frantically scrabbles down to tangle with Harry’s, so they’re both squeezing his cock through his jeans, and he’s breathy but he tilts his head so Harry can hear him, can see him, “how you’re planning to take me.”
And it’s cheeky and bold and so fucking Louis that Harry’s almost blindsided by it, takes it like a slap in the face to be reminded, yet again, that he is so eternally thankful to have found this boy. This boy who will bite at him with words, with teeth, will claw at him with hands, will destroy his heart by loving it fiercely, will put it back together again with a look, with a thought, and is never, ever, afraid to be so utterly himself around him; Harry’s so in love he can’t think straight.
“Louis, fuck,” and he does spin him around then, and he does kiss him.
He can’t do anything but kiss him. Louis whines into it and he closes his eyes, momentarily disoriented by the speed with which Harry turned him, and Harry’s hand is still in his hair so he can’t really do anything but slide his hands down Harry’s neck, down his abs, down to his waist that dips like it was made for his hands, to his back, under his worn and ratty tee, where he breaks skin. The heat from their mouths is incredible; Harry finds his tongue and sucks on it like he’s feeding him life, sucks on it like he’s wanted to all night. Louis tries to grind forward onto Harry but Harry’s got him too tight to the counter, pinned so he can’t really move. It's so fucking hot, how Louis' body just goes with it, floats with it, every single time Harry's body overpowers him. He licks around Louis’ mouth like he can’t get enough, and he can’t get enough, sometimes thinks he’ll pass out before it’s ever enough, so he moves down to his jaw, finishes forming the bruise he started earlier. He gets a knee between Louis’ legs which Louis immediately humps, fast and shameless, sobbing out a “yes” when it catches on his dick just right. Harry feels like he’s going to melt out of his skin. Louis, characteristically, is loud.
“Haz, what the fuck,” he whines as Harry pulls his hair again, pinches a nipple right after. Louis’ hands are everywhere, pulling and stretching and tearing. “Haz, Haz, get your ah get your—get this shit off,” he’s impatient, insistent.
Harry steps back for a second, detangling himself, to pull his shirt off. He feels his heart racing as he pulls the shirt over his head and he gives Louis a minute to see him again, to look at his body and drink it in. Harry can see his fingers twitch and he knows that he probably wants to run his hands along the birds, mouth at his butterfly, bite at the “might as well” where he likes to leave bruises that nobody else can see. Louis is staring at him unashamedly, chest heaving and red, eyes wild and hair still a sticky, sweaty mess. Harry desperately wants to fuck him up.
“I’m going to fuck you up,” he says, unbuttoning his jeans and legging them off.
Louis smiles, so pretty, “Ok,” he says, like he doesn’t quite believe it, like he’s daring Harry to show him what he means because, frankly, he doesn’t think he can do it. Louis gives him the equivalent of a damn shrug and if Harry is sure of anything, it’s that he knows how to make Louis’ body do a lot more than shrug. But this is all part of the game, the role Louis plays to goad Harry into doing something that he wants without actually having to ask for it. And again, what Louis wants is what Harry wants; he’s easy like that, he doesn’t mind. Louis bends down to tug off his own jeans and quickly does his briefs next. Naked, he’s even more alluring and Harry suddenly needs to do something, anything, to keep the smile on his face.
He pulls down his own briefs and his cock springs forward. He sighs when the air hits it, stinging where it’s already wet. He pulls on it a few times and stands in front of Louis, watching him watch him. It’s unbearably arousing. Louis’ gaze is zeroed in on Harry’s hand and his mouth falls open, unconsciously, as he follows the in and out of Harry’s cockhead in his fist. Harry keeps pulling on his cock with one hand and with another he runs it down his chest, pinches both nipples, and tugs on his balls. He groans and Louis pops his eyes up at that.
Still tugging lazily on his cock, Harry asks, “What do you want, Lou?” His voice sounds like he’s been chewing rocks, rough like he’s already had a cock in his mouth. “Tell me what you want.”
Louis doesn’t hesitate, sure of himself, “You know what I want, Haz.”
Louis pulls on his own cock and inches forward, gaze wavering from Harry’s cock to his hand to his face back to his cock. He walks right up to Harry, presses himself along the line of his body until Harry’s thumb is bump, bump, bumping against Louis’ thigh, against his beautiful cock that’s already curved up and leaking at the tip. He brings his hands to Harry’s waist and Harry can feel the sticky press of them. Louis leans up to catch his mouth and it’s a deep, searing kiss that’s enough to stutter Harry’s hand on his dick. Louis keeps turning his head, refusing to keep it still, so he ends up pressing kisses on Harry’s bottom lip, the corner of his mouth, the dented piece of skin right under his nose. Harry can’t do anything but keep up. Eventually, Louis pulls back and locks eyes with Harry as he slowly, slowly sinks to his knees in front of him.
Harry is breathing, but just barely. “Yeah, Lou, you’re so good, sweetheart,” he praises, his hand still wetly slipping on his dick.
Louis on his knees isn’t a sight that Harry ever tires of and he feels proud, honored every time he sees it. The fact that this is for Louis’ pleasure as much as it is for Harry’s is something he’s not sure he’ll ever get used to. Harry looks down and thumbs along Louis’ bottom lip, his jaw, and Louis immediately turns his head to kiss the finger and suck it in, deep, like a promise. He brings a hand up to hold Harry’s finger in his mouth so he can bob around it, twisting until he gets it where he wants it. His mouth is so warm and wet and Harry frantically wishes it were possible to kiss him and fuck his mouth at the same time. He watches him for a minute and then he slowly pulls his thumb out.
“You ready for me to fuck you up?” He rasps out, grinning. And Louis grins back like he knew the question was coming.
Bold, confident, and so beautiful he says “Show us how you do it, then.”
Instead of waiting, like Harry thought he would, he bypasses Harry’s help completely and heads straight for Harry’s cock, mouth first. His lips are parted but the minute he gets his mouth around the tip, he seals them like a vice. He sucks deep on the head and slowly works his way down, down, until he tightens his throat and swallows. The whole time, he keeps his own hands in his lap.
“Yeah, Lou,” Harry exhales, unable to look away from Louis’ pink lips around his dick. He grunts as Louis gets his hand on it as well, meeting his mouth with each pull. And it’s not always like this but tonight Louis is sloppy. He’s eager, he’s always eager, but tonight he’s not careful at all. He’s moving like if Harry asked him to slow down, to change his pace, to change anything, he would bare his teeth and scrape, just to show he could. He’s absolutely going for it, letting spit dribble out of his mouth onto the carpet, pursing his lips and hollowing out his cheeks until Harry knows it must be painful, turning and twisting his head at an incredible pace. Harry realizes he's watching Louis make love to his cock, lick and suck at it like he could never want anything else.
“Lou, Jesus, look at you take it,” he breathes out, slowly bringing a hand up to pet Louis’ fringe out of his face. “Watching you like this gets me so wet,” and Louis falters his pace for a minute, peers his eyes up at Harry like he knows, like he can tell. God, his mouth is so full already, from his own spit and Harry’s precome that just keeps spilling, spilling, spilling out. Louis does use a little teeth, then, and Harry welcomes the minute pain with a sigh, letting his head fall back as he bares his own.
His hips start to thrust, shallowly, slowly, and he looks down, catches Louis’ jaw to warn him that it’s coming. But Louis bobs his head like he knows it already, like he wants it, tears collected in the corners of his eyes, and that’s so stupidly hot that Harry nearly shouts.
Louis visibly relaxes his throat and takes one of Harry’s hands to place at the back of his head, right where his hair has started to grow. It’s lower than where Harry would usually put his hand, but he thinks he gets it.
“You want me to pull your hair, yeah?”
Louis vibrates around his cock and his eyes squeeze shut.
“You want me to fuck your throat? Like I’ll fuck you later? Like you want to fuck me?”
Louis moans and Harry feels it all the way down to his toes.
“Yeah, love, ok. Ok.” His heart is like a piston in his chest and he flexes his fingers in Louis’ hair, letting him get used to feeling them there, before he pulls his head back completely off his dick. A strand of saliva runs from the head of his cock to Louis’ bottom lip and Louis glances down, sees it, and swipes it with a finger that he sucks into his mouth. He looks up at Harry and his eyes are so, so dark. He’s breathing in deep gulps of air and Harry has no idea what he’s going to say but he says
“Give it to me, Haz.”
And it’s so fucking honest. His voice sounds like it’s being pulled out of him against his will, ruined and absolutely fucked that Harry doesn’t know how he’s going to make it through the next show. Louis latches back onto Harry’s cock and he uses his hand in Louis’ hair to guide him up, down, and abruptly stops thinking about anything that isn’t his pleasure, Louis’ pleasure, and the love in between them. It’s intensely effective, being able to tug and push and watching Louis take it, and take it, and give it just as good. He fucks into his mouth deep, and slow, the way he knows Louis will want to fuck him later. Louis knows when to swallow and he knows when to moan and Harry is so, so caught up in the way his eyes crinkle every time he tugs on his hair that there is no way this whole thing is lasting much longer.
Harry opens his mouth to speak, to warn him in between his stuttered breaths, but he doesn’t have time, can’t form the words around the love that’s growing in him, the orgasm that is building and building, until he thrusts once more and, pulling Louis’ hair harder than before, comes shouting down his throat. Louis whines and squeezes his eyes shut but sucks him through it, and sucks him afterward, until Harry falls down and catches Louis’ mouth with his own.
Suddenly, he needs to remember what Louis’ cock tastes like, what it feels like stretching his mouth and his throat, so he nudges until Louis is horizontal and, still catching his breath from his own orgasm, inhales deep enough so he can swallow Louis down whole. It doesn’t take long for Louis to come and when he does, he cries out and claws at Harry’s shoulder like a dying man and his back arches so far off the ground Harry thinks he might split in two. He’s beautiful.
Afterwards, they lie beside each other, legs entwined, and catch their breath. In a minute, they’ll have to get up and find the boys and head to the next show and learn how to be apart again but for now, they call their hearts in and they let them stay. They stay together.