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Steaks High (Bitch I'm a Cow)

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Orville’s genuinely not sure if Harry Styles is a fan of his music, or if he just wants to get his pretty mouth spit in. If he respects him at all, or if he’s just looking for a real king who can handle.

The thing is, Harry is also cute enough that Orville doesn’t really care, so. He replies in the affirmative to a series of very polite emails regarding Madison Square Garden on Halloween and embarks upon some necessary reconnaissance.

His google searches prove inconclusive. Harry Styles is a decoupage of incoherent aesthetics and wide-sweeping influences, and it’s difficult to find any concrete truth buried in the layers of taffeta and overripe fruit and pastel nail polish and, somehow, respectable rockstar sensibilities. Orville appreciates anyone who leans fully and completely in to what he's doing, though, and then there’s that mouth. Built to be kissed, and bitten, and fucked into a swollen hole for come. He doesn’t learn much, but he learns that Harry Styles has a cock-sucking mouth.


It’s even better in person. Candy-pink and slick, if only because Harry keeps licking it as they talk, spit glowing there in the cupid’s bow peak. It would be the most distracting thing about him if he wasn’t also wearing a fucking cow onesie, complete with a butt-flap and a pink udder-shaped pocket on the crotch that Orville’s gaze keeps accidentally sweeping down to because he’s a little drunk and this whole thing is more than a little weird.

They’re at some swanky before-party at someone’s huge-ass house, drinking tequila mezcal under blacklights, the white spots on Harry’s onesie glowing an eerie blue underneath them. It’s been mostly small talk thus far, about flights and the venue and the event itself, and still he can’t get a read on whether this is a shared bill or an elaborate booty call. His only indicator, really, is the aforementioned cow costume.

The moment there’s a lull in the conversation, he rests the edge of his glass on his own bottom lip and asks, “So. You trying to tell me something with this look?” He reaches out then, hooks his index finger in the tail and tugs it. Harry, who he is learning is not suave but still somehow confident, grins.

“Just that it’s Halloween,” he murmurs, fishing the lime out of his drink and sucking the remaining juice from it. “Happy Halloween.”

“Hmm,” Orville says, dropping the tail, studying Harry’s resulting pout. It’s not a real pout, he decides. It’s a taunting pout, only moments away from inverting into a sly smile. Harry Styles is definitely flirting with him, at least. He wonders if it’s the sort of flirting that goes somewhere, or if fame has made him unattainable, a tease out of necessity. Orville can easily see it going either way. “So it’s got nothing to do with trying to wrangle a cowboy?” he asks, laying his own cards on the table. It’s an easier thing to do while wearing a mask, he’s figured out. The fringe provides him a guise of mystery, lets people make him into whatever they want him to be, his actions always skewed through that preexisting cognition. It simplifies things like cruising, things like sex. He can always step into the anonymity of his persona.

Harry’s eyebrows, which are plucked and elegant, rise on the plane of his forehead. “Depends on if a...a cowboy were looking for a cow to wrangle. And if it would be a quiet and, erm…,” he trails off before deciding on, “discreet wrangling.”

Orville bites back his grin, hiding it with mezcal instead. “I figured as much,” he says, offering his hand for shaking. There’s a zing of electricity when Harry takes it, squeezes it, and he’s surprised by how soft his hands are. They’re sweet, pretty, rich-boy’s hands, and he can’t wait to see them wrapped around his cock. He also wouldn’t mind holding one while he and Harry Styles shared a whiskey and watched the sunset somewhere in Wyoming, but. He’s more of a dreamer, not the sort to get ahead of himself and want impossible things in any serious way. Yearning designed to forever remain aimless and unrealized is more Orville’s speed. He drops Harry’s hand. “We have an accord, then.”

“Seems we do,” Harry says slyly, pulling the hood of his cow onesie up, floppy horns and little white fringe looking absurd as they flatten the soft brown curls across his brow. “Do you—how about we find somewhere more private, yeah?” he asks then, cheeks pinkening, and, damn, he looks fucking young right now. Hardly more than the boy Orville remembers from the cheesy, grinning band shot from 2012. It makes him ache, a little, for Harry Styles. He’s not sure how he would have navigated this world if any of his old bands had ever blown up and taken him further than grimy European tours where he slept in his van.

“How private?” he asks then. He’s fucked boys in rest-stop bathrooms before, his dick is all over the Internet. But he also wears a mask everywhere he goes, so. He’s not entirely sure what private looks like, in a world other than his own. “Your apartment in the village? Or, like—”

“There are so many locking rooms in this place,” Harry interrupts eagerly, refilling his drink with a clumsy flourish as he totters in his heeled boots. He’s the sort of boy who wears ungainliness with an odd sort of grace, and Orville has always liked boys like that. Their excess, their angles, their ugly. “It’s like a Gatsby house.”

So that is how Orville ends up wandering, following a mess of black and white up a spiral staircase as the music fades to a distant thud alongside his heartbeat.


They end up in a library that does not lock but does have a piano. “Do you play?” Harry asks, dropping down onto the bench, laying his long, ringed fingers down on the keys like he’s greeting old friends. He plays a few scales while Orville stands and watches, and then so suddenly he’s fishing around in his udder pocket to pull out something white that he immediately puts up his nose. “You want some?”

“I play a little,” Orville says, gently pushing Harry’s offer away, even as he’s drawn into the blown, widening black of his pupils like something prehistoric getting mired in tar. “But not tonight.”

Harry smiles, flicks his hair out of his eyes, and returns to the piano. “One of my songs, my last single, has a piano,” he announces. “I always want to sit down and play it every time I see one. I think maybe it’s sort of vain, but I dunno…I think it’s nice to like your own songs.”

“I think so, too. I like my songs,” Orville says, wavering where he’s standing in his rhinestone custom boots, wondering what in the hell he’s doing here. If he missed something, misread what wrangle meant, and Harry was actually just offering a private piano show. Regardless, he’s intrigued. He’ll stay, and watch, and wait, because it’s better than being downstairs listening to remixes of “Hot Girl Summer” on the second to last day of October, the year the world thought it might up and end.

He thumbs over the braided rope of his lariat as Harry smiles, sniffles, and says, “I like your songs, too. They’re good songs.”

“Thanks,” Orville says, because there’s nothing else to say. He sits down on a leather armchair a few feet away from the piano, busying himself with unbraiding the fringe of his mask since he’s not sure he should drink anymore. He doesn't like to be as or more drunk than whoever he’s fucking—he likes to know what’s going on. Orville has never figured out how to let himself go, but he’s become an expert in teaching boys the ways in which they can let go. He wonders if that’s still on the table with Harry, nylon strands falling in a curtain over his lips, inexpert piano echoing in the room sometimes in time with, and sometimes in opposition to, the thud of the bass downstairs.

“Did you like the record?” Harry asks after a minute, hands halting on the keys as he turns around, a pleading note to those too-black eyes. “If you heard it, I mean.”

Orville has heard the record, and he does like it. It’s sad and it's pretty and it's funky and, more than anything else, it’s weird. It’s weird in a gay way, and even if something is not suited to his tastes, he’s always got room in his old broken heart for distinctly and deliberately queer shit. “I did like it,” he murmurs, combing his fingers through his fringe as it eclipses his mouth. “Not my thing, and I liked it anyway, so, big compliment. It’s an honor to play with you.”

Harry lets out a long, shuddering breath, and it’s a nice thing to see, vulnerability like that. Wanting approval and not being afraid to get it. “S’an honor to play with you,” he mumbles, turning back to the piano and tapping out an idle, tuneless mess of notes together. There, with his back turned to Orville, he adds, “I didn’t want you to think I was just inviting you to play because I want you to fuck me.”

It twists white-hot and sudden in Orville’s gut, and he would sputter into his drink if he had one. Instead, he purses his lips, tightens his fist around the rope at his waist again. “But you do want me to fuck you, right?”

“Very much so,” Harry announces, swinging his legs around the other side of the bench to face Orville, head cocked questioningly, like he’s still waiting for him to take the lead. “I mean, I dressed up like a cow. I also have a suitcase in one of the guest bedrooms with condoms, lube, toys, if you’re into that. I wasn’t sure, so—”

Orville swears under his breath before rising to his feet. He thinks about stomping over to Harry and kissing him up against the piano, relishing the tuneless thunk his body would make as he spreads him out across the keys, but he stops himself in favor of unhooking his lariat from his belt. Harry likes him, at least in part, because he thinks he’s a cowboy. Because he wants to be wrangled. Because he does like his music, is a fan, and that means Orville should treat him as such. He’s not fucking a rockstar ex-boybander who generously invited him to play a show. He’a fucking a young, messy, clumsy little boy who specifically likes what he does. It’s a play, it’s show-fucking, and Orville is good at nothing if not pageantry. So he twists his rope a few times above his head in an easy loop, careful not to knock anything expensive off the walls, and then he lassos Harry Styles right there on the piano bench.

“You just wanna be milked, right, little doagie?” he asks in a low, sincere voice, tightening the loop and tugging him up to his feet.

Harry looks terrifically relieved, like all of his rodeo trade fantasies are coming true. “Yes, sir.”

“A hungry little heifer who wants all her holes filled, huh?” Orville is not even sure where the her came from, save for the udders, but Harry visibly melts at it, eyes getting hazy and wet and big. He likes that, so Orville does it again. “Should I take her up to her room to play with all her toys?”

“Second door on the left, down the hall,” Harry says breathlessly, twisting in the stiff confines of the rope. Real lariats are hard, and it’s probably biting into Harry’s arms through the thin, fleecy fabric of his cheap onesie. Those giant, black, strung-out eyes blink up at him hopefully, and Orville remembers his deep, slow voice stretched over the word discreet.

M’gonna take this off, and you’re gonna follow me like the good, dumb cow you are, okay, baby?” he whispers, holding his fringe aside to kiss Harry on his stubble-rough cheek. He smells good, not like cologne but perfume, something floral and sharp and sweet. There’s the salt of sweat, too, so he licks the place he kissed, loving the way Harry’s breath picks up.

Harry nods as Orville unties him, studying his jaw, reaching out with warm fingers and brushing the line of it. “Will I ever see your face?”

“Not if you don’t want to,” Orville tells him.

Harry nods again, pretty lips twisting up into a half-smile. “Good.”


Orville tries to get a hold of himself once they’re behind closed doors, once Harry flops down onto a sprawling king-sized bed and announces, “I love high sex.” He looks a mess already, good enough to eat in his cow-print get up, but Orville wants to lay it all out first. Figure out what he’s in for before he rides any mechanical bulls tonight.

“Okay, ground rules,” he starts, unbuckling his belt slow and careful, to give them both time. “You clean? Not a deal-breaker if you’re not, but I like things messy. I like to come in boys.”

“Oh, god,” Harry says thickly, cheeks pink, head lolling in the horned hood. “I’m clean, I love being come in, I love when it’s messy, too.”

“Good, we’ll get along just fine,” Orville promises, setting his lariat aside, rolling the skin-tight denim of his embroidered Levis down his thighs. Harry watches eagerly, licking his lips, eyes wide as he starts to palm himself through the onesie. It shouldn’t be sexy, but it is, that he’s just so sure Orville will want him dressed like this, that he can’t even be bothered to unbutton the cheap fabric down his chest. “Back by the piano, I was teasing you. But if you’re not into degradation, I can be sweet,” Orville adds, arranging himself on the bed between Harry’s splayed thighs and starting to braid his fringe back again to expose his mouth.”

“Degradation is fine but I need—I need it to be sweet, too. So, both please,” he murmurs, sitting up to touch Orville, splay big hands on either side of his chest and thumb over his buttons. “You’re smaller than I thought you’d be from your pictures. I didn’t think I’d be broader than you.”

Orville laughs. “You disappointed?” he asks.

Harry shakes his head and swallows thickly, moving his palm down to cup Orville’s cock where it’s tenting his boxers, more and more obscenely as his pants sink lower on his hips. “Not at all,” Harry says, feeling him out. “Jesus.”

“Hmm, a heifer and a size queen,” Orville murmurs, tucking the two plaits of his mask into the collar of his shirt so they’re out of the way, grabbing Harry’s chin between thumb and forefinger to examine him. “Demanding.”

“Not demanding,” Harry says, falling back onto the bed passively, sweat beading in the hollow of his throat. “Very obedient. I’ll do whatever you want.”

“I want to taste your mouth,” Orville tells him, crawling up slow and steady on his knees, looking down into Harry’s inky pupils, his gasping lips. “Been wanting to ever since I saw it online. You’ve always had such pretty cock-sucking lips. And I wanna get ‘em all wet before I fuck ‘em.”

Harry whines, and Orville crushes it between their mouths, kissing him deep, sweet, tender. He could kiss a boy like Harry Styles forever and probably come just from that. He loves kissing, loves touching while he kisses, loves breath and spit and gasps and teeth. Harry is a sloppy kisser, and he likes that, too. Likes being able to taste the desperation in a guy’s mouth when he sucks their tongue.

Harry’s hands are all over him, knocking his hat off, twisting in his bleached hair, pushing down the back of his shirt. Eventually one of the fringe-braids comes loose from his collar and falls into Harry’s open-wide, messy mouth, and Orville reaches into the slick heat of him to try and fish it out, but Harry catches him there, fits his soft, plush lips around his knuckles, and sucks. “Fuck,” Orville murmurs, pushing in experimentally, seeing how much it takes to get Harry Styles and his big mouth to gag a little on him. “You’re just a slutty little cow who likes having all her holes filled, aren’t you?”

Harry nods frantically as he sucks, cheeks hollowing out so pretty it makes Orville want to spit right onto this face. He withdraws his fingers, replaces them with his tongue, fucks the slick plush of Harry’s mouth for a few seconds before wrenching away, gasping. He’s fully hard now, so he ruts his erection against Harry’s stomach as he explains, “Tell you what, then. M’gonna fuck this pretty mouth once I’m done kissing it. Then, when you can't take it anymore and need me to breed your ass, m’gonna stuff one of my toys in here to keep you filled up. Sound good?”

“Sounds so good,” Harry whines, rubbing his face into the bedspread, chest sweat-damp as the top-most button of his onesie is rucked open as he writhes. “Please...fuck my mouth.”

Usually Orville would say no, force his boy to wait longer, to beg, to soften. But he’s never fucked a celebrity in someone else’s house during a party, so he cuts his losses and caves. He clambers up so that his knees are bracketing Harry’s face and gets himself out of his pants, stroking his cock inches away from those licked-pink lips. “You want to choke on it, don’t you?” he asks, sliding his free hand into Harry’s hood, petting his hair, the soft skin of his neck where his pulse is visibly fluttering.

“Yes, please,” Harry whimpers, opening his mouth wide, frothing spit out onto his tongue to make it inviting (as if it isn’t already the most inviting fucking thing Orville’s seen in a long time). He takes his cock in hand, slapping Harry a little with it at first before he gives him a taste, just hitting the flat plane of his tongue rhythmically while he stares down at him, teasing.

“You wanna suck it?” he asks, hooking his thumb into the corner of Harry’s mouth, tugging him open even wider. A ribbon of spit rolls down his cheek, thick and white and pretty. Harry nods helplessly, and Orville doesn’t feel like acting anymore, not when Harry’s so eager, so slick. He tells him so as he grabs his hair in a fist and holds him just right to sink into. “Fuck. So wet, baby.”

Harry likes that, going limp, opening his mouth wider, relaxing his throat. Orville can tell he’s the kind of guy who knows how to give an engaged blowjob, but right now, he’s just slackening up, becoming a hole to fuck, handing Orville the reins. It’s a role he’s happy to fill, so he holds him fast and thrusts deep into the soft ring of Harry’s lips.

He could come like this, he realizes. Just holding Harry up limp and willing by his hair, feeling the shift of cheap polar fleece against his knuckles as he fucks his throat rough and merciless. But he wants so many other parts of him. He wants to see how far he’ll go, how much he can take, so eventually he pulls out and kisses him. “Still doing good?” he asks, thumbing over the corners of his mouth as he licks the gasping pout of it. “God, you’re fucking perfect. So pretty. Could fuck every one of your holes for hours.”

“I’m doing great,” Harry assures him, scouring his lips raw on Orville’s stubble. “Want you here, though,” he says, voice getting low and sheepish as he rolls onto his stomach with some difficulty. He pops one of the snaps on the butt-flap of his onesie, flicking it aside to reveal his plump, pale ass. Orville’s mouth waters, spit-wet cock twitching at the sight of Harry Styles palming his muscular cheeks apart. “Want you to fuck my pussy.”

And, oh, okay, Orville can roll with that. He grabs Harry’s hips, drags him up so his spine is curled crudely. Then he thumbs him open and spits right onto his hole (which is the same pink as his lips, the same pink as his tongue, the prettiest shade of pink), “Yeah? Bet this little cow has a wet, hungry pussy.”

“Yes, she does,” Harry murmurs into his arm, weight shifting as he unbuttons his onesie enough to get his hand on his cock. “Needs to be bred.”

“Bet it does. Bet it needs to be filled up so it’s overflowing,” Orville mumbles, thumbing over the sweet pucker, rubbing the froth of his spit into it so it shines. “You got lube in your suitcase of toys, baby?”

“Yeah,” Harry whines, gesturing loosely toward a leather satchel conveniently near the bed. “And other stuff.”

“Hmm, let’s look at what this slutty heifer carries around in case she gets fucked,” he says, pushing a thumb past the tight but relenting ring of Harry’s rim. It’s puffy, soft, and Orville can tell he gets fucked a lot, that he’s one of many men who gets to play with Harry Styles. It doesn’t bother him, not really. He does like knowing he’s probably the only one who gets to rope him, who gets to call him a dumb cow. It's not anything he’d usually find hot, but the exclusivity, the specificity—-that alone has him rock hard and hungry. He hefts the bag up onto the bed, rifles around through it, overwhelmed. There are cuffs, a collar, everything made from heavy black-brown leather. There’s also a glass dildo, a realistic one, a hitachi, and a handful of plugs in different sizes. He grabs one of those, topped in a cheesy jewel, and the bottle of lube. “Gonna spit in your mouth and plug it up with this,” he explains, nudging the pink silicone against Harry’s red, flushed cheek. “Then m’gonna fuck that sloppy pussy until you’re dripping.

“Please, please,” Harry keens, wiggling his hips, drooling onto the bed. “Please breed my pussy.”

Orville chews the inside of his cheek, needing a little pain to take the edge off how load-bustlingly hot this all is. And not because he likes the idea of fucking a pussy, but because Harry clearly likes it so much, wants it so badly. Gets off so much on the idea of being called a cow, of getting his pussy filled, and more than anything, Orville aims to please. Harry is so easy to please, so messy, so hungry, so desperate, so open, even if his desires are, at their core, embarrassing. Orville lubes up his cock as he fingers Harry deep, crooking his fingers up inside him to find where he likes it best. “Look at that hungry little cunt,” he murmurs against the shell of Harry’s ear, licking him, making him keen. “Needs my cock.”

“Yes, please, need it so bad,” Harry begs. Orville could stretch him out longer, but he wants it to hurt a little, only because he can tell that Harry wants it to hurt a little. So he kisses his temple and reels back, aligns his cock, teases the tip over his swollen, glistening hole.

“Okay, pretty girl. Steady,” he mummers, like he would to an animal, and holds onto the meat of Harry’s hips as he sinks in balls-deep. Harry rocks back into it, yelping, hollowing out his back into the lowest, sluttiest dip. “That’s a good girl,” Orville praises, rucking the butt-flap open wider so that he can land a few open-palmed slaps onto Harry’s undulating cheeks. “God, such a pretty fucking pussy. Sucking on my cock.”

“You can really—you can fuck me hard until you come. Fill me up. M’right on the edge, I’ll bring myself off when I start to feel you come in me.”

“You’re talking too much, cows don’t talk, remember?” Orville tells him, smacking his ass again with a little more power this time. Harry whines wordlessly, ass pulsing around him, the already tight grip hot and maddening. Orville’s got great endurance, but tonight might not be one of the nights he demonstrates it. He pulls back and slams back in punishingly, finding the plug he already got out where it’s rolling around on the bed near Harry’s knees. “Open that slutty mouth, little girl. Say moo.”

Harry’s cheeks get so fucking red at that, and he squirms uncomfortably. Embarrassment is pretty on him, and Orville fucks him sweet and shallow for a second, punching little whimpers out of his mouth as he reaches up and brushes his knuckles over his face. “C’mon, baby, my pretty girl. Say it.”

“Moo,” Harry moans, lashes fluttering against his cheeks, so hot. “Mooooo.”

“That’s it, more cock for that pussy, huh?” Orville purrs, slamming back down, watching Harry buckle and gasp, a string of precum dripping onto the bedspread between his knees. He reaches down and feels him out, stroking his impressive dick slow and tender, just to feel him shudder around the shaft. Then he gets the plug wet with Harry’s precum and pops it right into his panting mouth. “Suck that while I make you come, baby. Gotta have all your holes filled up while you’re bred, like a good little cow.”

He doesn’t even know what he’s fucking saying anymore, not really. His voice is coming out labored and weak, wheezy because he’s so close already, driven to the edge by the curve of Harry’s spine, the burning clutch of his ass, the way he’s so goddamned filthy, at the same time he’s so goddamned sweet. “Fuck, you’re gonna make me come in that pussy, sweetheart,” he murmurs, kissing the back of his neck, licking up the sweat crusted in the dark curls there. “Feel so fucking good, so warm inside. Want it so goddamn bad.”

And Harry starts to come then, the suddenly spasming clench of his hole a dead giveaway, and Orville lets that push him to finish, too. He grips Harry tight, empties himself in ribbons into his insides, watches him through slitted eyes as he moans around the plug, drooling and coming onto the bed with his ridiculous onesie pooled around his thighs in a black and white mess. Eventually he collapses, and Orville pulls out, leaning up to kiss him on the cheek, the corner of his still-stuffed mouth. “Gimme that, spit it out,” he demands. Harry does in a river of spit, and Orvile licks the froth off before he pops the plug right into his used hole. “Gotta keep my come in your pussy,” he says casually, clambering down onto the bed beside Harry, pulling him into his arms, kissing his slack mouth. “God, you are something else.”

“You are,” Harry purrs, rubbing his cheek into Orville’s throat. “Sort of wanna keep you.”

“I think all your other boys might try and fight me,” Orville says, thumbing over the teary tails of Harry’s eyes, finger combing back up into his hair. “Don’t blame ‘em. Such a sweet, pretty boy. Such a tight ass. And a perfect mouth.”

Harry grins, looking very pleased with himself as he settles into Orville’s arms. “No one else will mind,” he offers. “I don’t have boyfriends, I have dick appointments. And to be honest…and this is sort of embarrassing, so don’t make fun of me, but I have this thing for older, unattainable straight guys, too. I could use someone who knows what he’s doing in the regular rotation.”

Orville laughs as he tucks himself back into his jeans, giddy on the smell of Harry Styles’s drug and sex sweat. “Oh, yeah? Is that why you wanted me to open for you? Want a break from your daddy issues?”

Harry frowns, a cute line through his forehead that makes Orville’s heart flutter. He leans in and licks it. “No,” Harry says, batting him away playfully. “I genuinely love your record.”

“Okay, and I genuinely love yours,” Orville admits. “But I also really wanted to fuck you, so.”

Harry smiles. “Does that mean this can happen again? You didn’t milk me, after all. And I can come like that. Hands-free, while m’fingered. I could do it for you, if you’d like that.”

Orville’s stomach flips over, and he wonders what sort of sweet, lovely honey-trap he’s stumbled into with Harry Styles. “Yeah, I’d like that,” he says, ruffling up Harry’s sweaty hair. “Obviously.”

And they lie there together, as the almost-end of October turns into Halloween.