Title: give it to me like i want it
Summary: Harry is overwhelmed by Louis's size and after being fucked by him, he just can't stop wanting to have him inside of him at every opportunity. (~1,400 words)
A/N: Title from 'Roc Me Out' by Rihanna. Originally posted here.
"You okay?" Louis murmurs, smoothing a hand across Harry's tensed stomach.
"Yeah, yeah," Harry replies quickly, but his breath is hitching and his voice comes out rough, and Louis can feel him quiver under his hand.
Louis smiles softly, easing back a little. "You sure?"
Harry sucks in a breath through his teeth, eyes squeezed shut. "Yeah, just—fuck." He opens his eyes and looks at Louis, his gaze heavy-lidded and intense. "You're, y'know. Big." He chuckles, and Louis is pretty sure he instantly gets even harder, heat pooling in the pit of his belly and making his brain short-circuit.
"Do you want—" he starts, but he's not even sure what he's going to say. More lube? To slow down? To—god forbid—stop?
But Harry's shaking his head rapidly. "No no, no," he says. His legs, sort of carelessly sprawled open with Louis between them, spread even wider and he hooks his ankles around Louis's hips, pulling him closer. Louis steadies himself, slides in a little deeper, and the tight heat envelops him and god, it's good, so good. Harry makes a sound almost like a whimper, and when Louis looks at him he sees wide glazed eyes and pink cheeks and a slack, open mouth.
"You okay?" Louis says again, and Harry can only nod this time. His cock is lying heavy and full against his stomach now, flushed dark and wet at the tip, but Louis knows it would be way too much for him to touch it right now, Harry already hypersensitive and overstimulated from slowly being stretched this way.
Louis watches himself as he pushes deeper, in awe of how thick he looks, almost too big to fit. His throat is dry and he swallows, holding Harry steady by the hips as he slides in all the way, slick heat all around him and so fucking tight it almost hurts. They're fully skin-to-skin now, Harry's arse cradled against Louis's hips, and Harry grabs at a tight fistful of duvet and chants, "fuck, fuck, fuck."
Louis wants to ask him if he's okay again, because he looks wrecked—teeth gnawing at his bottom lip, eyes almost watering—but he can't seem to speak. All he can do is hold him close.
"You can move," Harry chokes out after a few seconds, and Louis isn't actually sure that he can but god, he needs friction, and so he draws his hips back a little before pushing back in, and Harry almost whines. Louis does it again, still so slow, and Harry looks sweaty and wild and totally dazed. He looks almost drugged, like he's high off of it, off the feeling of Louis splitting him open, rocking back and forth, driving in deep.
Louis runs his hands along Harry's thighs, holding his legs apart, thumbs pressed into the tender skin behind his knees. He goes a little faster and he's not even sure Harry can handle it—Harry stares up at him with those wide eyes, curls damp with sweat plastered to his forehead, his cock leaking precome against his stomach, smearing wet. He moans brokenly. His knuckles are white against the sheets.
"I'm—oh, fuck, Louis, I'm gonna—" he pants out, and Louis doesn't even have a second to process it, can only watch in awe as Harry shudders and comes, splashing up onto his chest, cock pulsing and twitching untouched. He writhes against the bedcovers, panting, and Louis eases out of him, stunned, running his fingers gently through the wetness on Harry's heaving chest like he can't quite believe it.
"Um," he croaks. He can't come up with any other words. His wandering fingers begin to pet Harry instead, patting, soothing.
Harry stares up at him, and slowly an enormous, beaming smile spreads across his face. He's an utter mess, but he looks completely blissful and Louis can't help but grin right back at him, shaking his head in disbelief.
"We're, uh," Harry says, and his voice is so raw he has to clear his throat, "we're doing that again."
"Yes, please," Louis replies, and he's already thinking about when they'll get a chance to, their next night off—it takes him a second to realise that Harry is pulling him in close again. He feels the head of his cock press up against Harry's flushed hole and his heart jumps. "Now?"
"Mmm." Harry has that dazed look on his face again; his eyes are sleepy as he hitches his hips up, reaching down between his own legs to try and get Louis back inside him.
Harry is insatiable after that. Louis thought it was bad enough when they first started messing around—it was nearly impossible to find private moments to themselves and he still remembers the heady days of wanking each other off in toilet cubicles and dressing rooms, the hurried blowjobs whenever they got a chance. But this, this is on a whole different level, and Louis doesn't feel like it's the kind of thing they can really do between interviews or in a spare few minutes before a performance.
Harry, however, does not feel the same. Practically every moment they're alone, he's jumping on Louis, kissing him and undressing him with a sort of frantic desperation. Louis tries to tell him to wait, that they've got the privacy of a hotel room waiting for them if they can just hold off til tonight, that they can literally go without sleep if he wants—but it's not enough for Harry, and by the time Harry's got them both half-naked Louis can't really resist either.
The morning after that first unbelievable night, they had to get up at seven for some radio interviews, but Harry woke Louis early by clambering on top of him. Louis barely had the energy and found himself more of a passive participant, lying there watching sleepily as Harry fingered himself—clumsy but determined, his brow furrowed, curls hanging down over his eyes—and then sank down onto Louis's cock and rode himself to a quick, messy orgasm within mere minutes. The alarm went, and Louis half-heartedly mumbled something about them having to get ready, but Harry leaned in close and pleaded "more," and Louis couldn't deny him that, not when he had that look in his eyes like he could do this, just this, for the rest of his life and never want for anything else.
And from then, it's more, moremoremore, an obsession, and they get reckless and stop worrying—and even caring—if the other boys can tell something's up, if they can hear Harry's wrecked sobs and moans through the hotel walls. They show up late to interviews, and Harry shifts uncomfortably and Louis knows he must be sore, and they can't help but exchange knowing little glances and god, it's all so crazy and stupid but it's like Harry fevers for it, like he literally can't get enough.
Once, with three fingers twisting deep inside Harry, Louis asks him why. Harry groans and squirms with frustration, hips churning helplessly. "Because it makes me feel good," he says, breath catching as Louis curls his fingers just right, "so full, full of you, stretching me and—" he's red-faced and eager for it and Louis knows there was no point in asking, not now when he wants it so bad he can barely form sentences, "I can't explain it, just fuck me, Louis, please."
And Louis can't ever tell him no, doesn't ever want to tell him no, even when it's the worst timing and everyone around them is starting to get seriously annoyed by the way they're always showing up late, with flushed cheeks and obvious sex hair and thrown-on clothes. Even when they've got a scant ten minutes before a show and Harry drags him into the bathroom and locks the door and just fucking goes ahead and bends over.
"I need it, I need you in me, Lou, I can't—fuck," he says, voice low and wavering, his fingers slipping on Louis's zipper, "I can't function." He laughs then, sudden and wild, at the ridiculousness of all of it, at how foolish they're being, at how brain-meltingly wonderful it all is.
Louis kisses him softly to try and calm him down, and then holds him close with his fingers combing through dark curls, and then—pressing him face-first against the cool tiles—gives him what he wants.