September 9, London
The day Harry meets Louis, it’s a relatively cool day in early September and he’s shedding his Yves Saint Laurent coat in the doorway of Liam Payne’s house. Just past the high-ceilinged foyer, throngs of people with familiar, dolled-up faces smile prettily and sip flutes of bittersweet wine. It’s just crowded enough that Harry feels a bit warmer already after just stepping inside, but the atmosphere is relaxed and the chatter is quiet enough that no one has to raise their voice to be heard. Handing his coat over to a young man off to the side with a gracious smile, Harry makes his way further inside.
Almost immediately, he’s spotted and greeted by one of the hosts, Liam’s wife Sophia. She flows through the room with the grace a model like her is expected to possess, the lace hem of her black dress rippling above her knees as she moves. The smile she offers Harry is genuine, moving in to give him a friendly kiss on the cheek.
Harry reciprocates the gesture and says, “Soph, hey. Haven’t seen you in a while.”
“And who’s fault is that, hm?” Sophia teases light-heartedly. “Disappeared off the face of the Earth for a week straight right after the VMAs. Could’ve texted back to let us know you were alive, Liam was worried that you’d gone and brained yourself on a doorknob or something.” Her tone is mostly joking, but Harry can hear the traces of actual concern there.
Guilt and fear spike in his chest briefly, wishing he could just explain why he often has to take a week off from the outside world instead of having to lie and worry about people finding out. Most people assume he has a secret lover no one knows about, but the truth would be much more shocking if they ever found out.
When he started out in the fashion industry, he had just barely presented a couple of months prior to landing his first gig. Only his family knew about his status as an omega, and when he moved to London to see if he had what it takes to be an honest-to-god fashion model, it was one of the first things he was asked. He’d answered honestly that he was an omega, but it didn’t come up again until later on when he was offered a contract with a management team. Apparently, his management team did not have enough faith in his ability alone to get him places and decided that lying about his gender definitely would.
At the beginning, they had convinced Harry that it would be best for his career to conceal his true gender and continue life under the guise of a beta. According to them, revealing himself as an omega might be too off-putting for potential brands and an audience who (again, according to them) consisted largely of straight females who would want to get in the pants of whatever attractive man was plastered across adverts and had tight abs. It was bullshit and he wishes things could be different, but it was a bit too late to turn back after he signed that contract at age sixteen.
Stereotypically, omegas are thought to be the weaker gender, succumbing to alphas and following their commands. Harry was always raised to believe in more equality than that, though. His parents are both betas, but his sister is an omega and his step-dad is an alpha, yet all of them get treated the same regardless of this difference.
It’s different, though, when you’re under a glaring spotlight with a keen audience of millions across the globe and you’re a male omega, one of the most controversial genders around. Regardless of what someone presents as when they mature in their mid-teens, there is still sexism in terms of one’s gender identity as well. Society has seemed to always have uncertain views on female alphas and male omegas, particularly because the stereotypical gender roles placed on them are in constant conflict. Harry remembers learning about older times when female alphas in many parts of the world were forced to behave in the same way as a beta or omega, society trying to suppress their nature because women were still absurdly expected to be dainty, delicate creatures of submission.
Of course, times have changed and there are no suppressive laws, at least in the UK, about how an alpha, beta, or omega must behave. However, the prejudice still lingers and Harry feels it most whenever he’s stuck in a meeting with his management and is again reminded by them that coming out as omega would still be suicide for his career, even with his established reputation and high level of respect in the industry. At this height of his fame, the backlash would be so harsh regardless of how hot and nice people may think he is. He’s seen how other famous omegas can get treated for their gender, whether it’s by a stranger on the street or a photographer on a shoot or a member of a stage crew, and while he doesn’t want to hide forever, he’s not quite ready to take the plunge yet.
It’s times like these, when he’s just gone through a particularly difficult heat and wishes he could just go out and find an alpha to mate with, that he wishes he could just come out. Still, he makes himself smile sheepishly at Sophia and answer, an apology on his tongue for more reasons than one, “’M sorry, you know how I get when I’m caught up in my head. I’ve been taking too many jobs on lately, had to enjoy my down time. Besides, I hadn’t cuddled with Kiwi in too long, had to make up for it.”
Kiwi is the sweet grey tabby cat he adopted two years ago as a small fluffy kitten. Now she’s a big fluffy adult and still enjoys curling up in the dip of his throat as if she’s still only a tiny four-pound ball of fur. Harry’s friends sometimes tease him for being more devoted to loving his cat than he is to finding a boyfriend.
“Ridiculous,” Sophia huffs, mirth gleaming in her eyes. “You sure it isn’t because you found yourself a mate?”
He wishes. “Positive.” Harry decides now is a good time to change the subject. “Where’s Liam anyway?”
“Oh! Shit, thanks for reminding me. I was on my way to the kitchen to get us drinks, but totally forgot when I ran into you. I’ll find you later, alright?” She leans in to kiss his cheek again, manicured nails ruffling his hair playfully. “I’m glad you came. Try not to disappear again.”
Harry murmurs a goodbye, not making any promises, and waits for her to wander off towards the kitchen before he goes off to mingle on his own.
Harry makes it about an hour into the party, flitting in and out of clusters of people and their conversations, before he meets him.
“Oh, fuck,” a voice breaks through the air, just before Harry feels a heavy splash of liquid soak the backs of his legs, startling him out of the conversation he was holding with Cara. He jolts forward in surprise, nearly knocking the glass out of Cara’s hand, and rights himself before twisting around to inspect the damage. His trousers, which were already rather snug, are now stuck to the skin of his calves and thighs, fabric darkened where someone has apparently spilled their drink. The moisture drips down onto his suede boots, staining the expensive material. Great. He probably smells like whatever the stranger was drinking now.
“Shit, I am so sorry, mate, I’m such an idiot,” the same voice as before babbles on, sounding frazzled.
Harry looks up to identify the clumsy celebrity that stained his clothing with what is probably red wine, with Harry’s luck, and stops short when he sees him. His eyes get caught on strong thighs encased in black skinnies, darting up to scope out the compact, slender torso under a soft graphic T-shirt and neat blazer. Finally, he recognises a tan face, currently pinched in worry, and warm blue eyes.
Louis Tomlinson. Everyone knows Louis Tomlinson.
Teenage Harry and his right hand especially know Louis Tomlinson.
Actor since sixteen, he shot to fame rather quickly in the span of only two years and received his first Golden Globe nomination at age eighteen. At nineteen, he actually won. Since then, he’s done acting, producing, a bit of directing, and some modeling that provided Harry with a lifetime’s worth of wank material. Harry thinks he may have his own fragrance as well.
Harry just got spilled on by one of his teenage celebrity crushes. Holy shit.
“Hey, you’re, erm, Harry… Styles, right?” Louis Tomlinson asks, eyes brightening with recognition.
Even though his thoughts right now are just a continuous loop of Louis Tomlinson knows who I am, Harry manages to respond, “I, yes, that’s me, I’m that. Harry.” Great, Harry has lost all of his fucking chill.
“I’m Louis.” I know. “Look, I am so fucking sorry for ruining your clothes. Can I compensate you or something? I feel like such a tit.”
“I mean…” C’mon, Harry, be confident. Be calm, cool, and collected. “You could go out with me,” he blurts out, his brain throwing it out there before he can take the time to word it properly.
Louis’s eyebrows - his perfectly groomed, delicately arched eyebrows - shoot up, mouth falling open to reply, but Harry hurries to clarify. “Like, as mates. Not that we’re mates, I mean, definitely not like that, but not like - we’re not friends. Because we just met. Not that we can’t be! We totally should be. Let’s be mates - friends. Fuck, I’m not very good at this. I’m sorry.” Harry hangs his head, pressing palms into his eye sockets in a vain effort to slow his racing thoughts and calm his racing heart.
A soft, airy chuckle brings him out of his puddle of self-pity and embarrassment. “Okay. Sure, yeah, I’d be happy to take you out to lunch or something. It’s the least I could do since your trousers and shoes are probably fucked because of me. I’ve seen you around a few times, never got a chance to properly meet you, but you seem like an alright lad.”
Louis Tomlinson thinks I’m an alright lad, Harry is squealing on the inside. Visibly, his cheeks are still hot with embarrassment, but he raises his head and nods eagerly. “That sounds great! Lunch would be great. Do you, um - Could we exchange numbers?”
They pass each other their phones and enter their contact information, Harry adding a green heart emoji next to his name before he hands it back because his eyes are green and something about subliminal messages and also he thinks he’s very clever. When he looks, he sees that Louis’s name is just the wineglass emoji and nothing else. Touché.
“Well, I’ll text you later to figure out a time and such for our little date.” Be still, my heart - he’s called it a date. Louis shoots Harry a crinkly-eyed smile that temporarily renders him blind before giving this scrunchy, apologetic little face. “I’m sorry again for your clothes. Really, if you need me to buy you a new pair of trousers or - um, fuzzy heels, you have my number.”
Harry offers Louis a bashful grin, a little in disbelief that he’s been given Louis’s attention for so long. Surely, he must have done something absolutely amazing in another life to be this blessed. “Oh, it’s fine, really!” he insists, rocking on his heels a bit. “And they’re Yves Saint Laurent chelsea boots, not ‘fuzzy heels.’ But thank you.”
“Yves Saint Laurent, honestly,” Louis huffs under his breath jokingly. “You give me a run for my money, mate. Anyway, I should probably get back to trying to find my sister somewhere in here. She’s been left alone for too long, there’s no telling how many people she’s told embarrassing stories about me by now.” He shakes his head in mock annoyance, but the look in his eyes makes it clear that he loves her.
“Uh oh, better stop her before she gets to David Beckham,” Harry teases, a bit amazed by himself for being composed enough to banter with Louis Tomlinson. To be fair, the first step to seeing a celebrity as a real person is probably to stop referring to them by their full name in your head.
Louis’s eyes widen, his body tensing a little. “David Beckham is here?”
A giggle slips out of Harry’s mouth before he can stop it. Really, Louis is so endearing. “Um, he might be. Not sure. Last time I came to one of Liam’s parties, I got to meet and chat with David for like, twenty minutes. Really nice bloke.”
“You met David Beckham,” Louis repeats in disbelief. “Unbelievable. I feel betrayed by Liam. Next time he throws a party, I will refuse to grace him with my presence unless I am guaranteed at least one chat with David Beckham throughout the night.”
“Good luck with that,” Harry says, beaming uncontrollably. He’s pretty sure his pupils are actual hearts right now. Who gives a shit anymore, honestly. Greater men have fallen victim to the beauty and charm of Louis Tomlinson, he’s sure.
“Anyway, it was really great getting to finally meet you,” Louis tells him, his grin turning into something a bit softer. “I look forward to that lunch.”
Those are the words that Louis parts with, heading off through the doorway with his half-empty wineglass and Harry’s heart in the palm of his hand, and they leave Harry flushed and clutching his phone like a vice.
Someone clears their throat behind him. He whirls around in surprise, a bit startled to find that Cara has been standing there the entire time, watching the interaction unfold with a bemused expression on her face. “You were totally staring at his bum,” she casually states, taking a leisurely sip of her cocktail.
Harry can’t find it in himself to even deny it.
November 17, New York City
It’s been a good two months since Harry first met Louis by some cosmic stroke of luck. Since then, it’s been a whirlwind of lunch dates and hanging out at each other’s London flats and Snapchatting silly things when one or both of them is out of the country and sappy good luck texts whenever one of them is about to step onto set, whether it’s for a modeling shoot or to film a scene.
Harry went into this in September with rather low hopes of just being Louis’s acquaintance and has come out of it with a friendship much stronger than he’s experienced in years. In less than three months, Louis has quickly become one of the most important people in Harry’s life. He’s almost always there, even if it’s just as a supportive text or a five-hour phone call across the ocean or to watch shitty telly on the couch with a box of takeout. He’s a part of Harry’s daily routine now, filling in all the empty spaces. He’s a constant.
If you had told Harry three months ago that he’d be in a shoddy NYC studio with an assistant contorting his body for a shoot and Louis Tomlinson watching him intently from the sidelines, he’d have called you a bloody liar. And yet, here he is.
It’s an advertisement for Calvin Klein that requires him to be shirtless and with his hair down and splayed loose and wavy over his shoulders. His feet are clad in clunky black boots and he has ripped jeans on, but they’re tugged low on his hips, the waistband of his Calvin Klein boxers clearly exposed.
The assistant tucks his hands into the pockets of his jeans and forces his posture to straighten, having the effect of elongating his torso. His somewhat tense eye contact with Louis is broken when she grasps his chin and carefully tilts his head back to face the ceiling, her other hand keeping his figure frozen in place.
It’s literally his career to pose for a camera in anything from winter clothes to nothing at all, but with Louis watching, he feels more exposed than ever, nipples hard and muscles taut with hyper-awareness. He can feel his friend’s eyes on every inch of his body; it’s making him feel more than he’d like to admit.
They do a few different positions and angles, one of which Harry fucks up by giggling at how silly he must look, but it’s fine because this photographer is quite used to him and just rolls his eyes fondly until he composes himself. He catches the warm look on Louis’s face briefly, but is mostly avoiding eye contact with him until the very end.
“Hey,” Louis greets him once Harry steps off to the side, still naked from the waist up. His blue eyes dart down to Harry’s stomach as his abs tense, but it’s so quick that Harry would’ve missed it if he’d blinked.
“Hi, Lou,” Harry returns, feeling a bit shy all of a sudden. He knows he’s objectively attractive, it’s kind of a given when you’re literally paid to dress up (or down) and look pretty, but it’s different with Louis. Everything is. Especially when Louis is one of the most eligible unmated alphas in modern society and Harry is still just a closeted omega, known to the majority of the world as a beta who’s apparently dating or shagging every person he so much as says hello to.
“Who knew Harry Styles, certified baby fawn with two left feet, could be so graceful when he’s in front of a camera,” Louis teases, mirth dancing in his eyes as amusement pulled at the corners of his mouth.
“Heeeey,” Harry protests, bottom lip pushing out in a pout. “You’re one to talk. You’re the one who tripped and spilled red wine on me the first time we met.”
“In my defence, I was already quite buzzed. I can’t be held accountable for that night,” Louis says.
Rolling his eyes fondly, Harry leads Louis over to his dressing room where he takes a quick shower and changes while Louis relaxes on the sofa with his phone. Harry can feel eyes burning on his skin as he drops his towel in front of the wardrobe and tugs on a new outfit. He thinks he does a stellar job of ignoring it and willing his arse to stay dry, but his skin still prickles with awareness.
That night, as the two of them share giggles over pasta and drinks (a whiskey sour for Louis and an apple martini for Harry) in a dimly-lit restaurant, flashes alerting them to paparazzi documenting their outing, Harry thinks about it. Forkful of penne halfway to his mouth, Harry pauses and considers telling Louis that he’s an omega.
Then a fan bumbles up nervously to their table and asks for an autograph, saying she’s a big fan of Louis with two equally excited friends flocking her, and the moment passes. The timing is all wrong and Louis is smiling tightly at the girls and Harry can’t do anything but chew and wish he was a braver person.
The next day, Louis makes headlines when he arrives at the fashion show, posing in a handsome outfit (picked out carefully by Harry himself, much to his delight) for the cameras. An entertainment news reporter asks him why he’s there and he answers, with that sweet smile that seems to be reserved only for Harry, “Here to support a close mate of mine.”
He claps the loudest and smiles the brightest every time Harry does his walk, and Harry loves him, he really does, but he doesn’t say a single word about his secret the whole day.
Before he knows it, Louis is jetting back off to Los Angeles with a lingering goodbye kiss on the cheek and a fond, “See you soon, Hazza.” It’s the first time in a few years that Harry has a strong desire to risk everything for something he loves.
The last time, it was being a fashion model. This time, it’s Louis.
This time, instead of going through with it and risking everything, he forces himself to board his own plane back to London and settle for late night Skype calls and shipping boxes of souvenirs across countries and oceans.
February 2, Los Angeles
It only takes until about an hour into the awards show for Harry to realise that something is very, very wrong.
Yesterday was his twenty-second birthday, and he feels like he can still taste the alcohol from his one-too-many drinks last night. Originally, he’d just stayed in for a sweet little birthday dinner with Louis at his LA house, cuddled together on his leather sofa. Louis had apparently custom-ordered a Disney princess cake with a flowery representation of Harry as Snow White done in frosting, which was both amusing and flattering that he’d gone to so much trouble. Then again, Harry had given Louis a brand new Rolex with a custom engraving, and that was only for his birthday, not even counting the presents he got for Christmas.
Louis had loudly sung Happy Birthday to a reluctant, blushing Harry, then secured pointy birthday hats on both of their heads before they dug into the Hawaiian pizza (Harry’s favourite) and dessert, followed by a solid two hours spent watching Friends reruns together, bodies pressed close to each other on the sofa. Eventually, once Harry had just started dozing off against Louis’s shoulder, Louis had gently shaken him to full awareness and reminded him of their plans with Harry’s friends at the club downtown.
First, though, he’d insisted upon giving Harry his actual birthday present.
Initially, Harry had been in a bit of disbelief, eyes rounded and unable to look away from the soft, flowy fabric lying inside the long rectangular box Louis held. It was a crisp white with a pattern of small pink and red roses with green stems dotted all around.
“You — You remembered?” he’d asked, feeling a bit shaky as he looked up at Louis’s face to meet his eyes.
About a month and a half ago, while the two of them were doing some last minute shopping for friends, Harry had come across the scarf in a sleek designer store. He’d touched it almost reverently, always having a weakness for pretty clothing, but had blushed when Louis caught him staring at it longingly.
When he’d asked why he wouldn’t just buy it — after all, it was quite expensive, but still well within Harry’s price range — Harry had mumbled that it’s easier when people aren’t constantly questioning his gender status just because he sometimes tended to be more flamboyant than other famous male betas and alphas. Really, his self-confidence had waned a bit in the past couple years from people constantly calling him rude names and derogatory terms just because he’s a bit feminine by nature.
“Of course,” Louis answered, looking uncharacteristically shy. He thrusted the box into Harry’s hands jerkily, letting him read the small plain card lying on top of the Alexander McQueen scarf.
“Be yourself. Go wild.”
Harry is not ashamed to admit that he got a bit misty-eyed at that. He is a little embarrassed that he came horribly close to shouting his love for Louis from the rooftops. Inspired, he’d gone and fished out an old favourite top of his, a sheer black button-up that he used to love wearing before he got a bit too self-conscious, and then wound the scarf around his curls the way he used to.
Needless to say, they’d gotten completely smashed at the club and ended up coming back to Louis’s house on wobbly legs and passed out on top of the sheets in all their clothes. Harry is still recovering from the pounding headache he’d woken up with, having downed some paracetamol right away, and is still feeling a bit achey from it. It doesn’t explain the heat prickling at his skin, though, or the deep, unusual ache resonating in his bones.
It isn’t until the host has just finished her spiel about how great it is to be chosen as this year’s host that he begins to actually piece it together. He’s squirming in his seat, only a few inches away from Louis, and feels a massive jolt go through his system when Louis places a reassuring hand on his knee, ducking closer to ask quietly if he’s okay.
“You look a bit peaky, mate,” he whispers.
Harry swallows, feeling his cock twitch in his pants just from the close proximity of Louis’s hand. It’s then that it hits him. “Fuck,” he breathes, just loud enough that Louis picks up on his voice.
“What was that?” Louis asks, still sounding concerned. There are tiny lines of worry crinkling his brow, blue eyes so light and sweet. In his peripheral vision, Harry can see the first performer prancing around on stage. Vaguely, some part of his brain remembers that they’re being filmed for the live awards show, and he’s currently now sporting a semi with flushed cheeks and a light sheen of sweat starting to bead at his temples.
“Fuck, I think I--” He cuts himself off as his brain catches up with his mouth; he still hasn’t told Louis about his actual status. Dropping the bomb now would just come as too much of a shock, especially when Louis was nominated for three awards tonight and deserves to have this night be all about him and his success. Harry wants it to be all about him and his success. It’s just - fuck, he’s pretty sure he’s just started his heat early. He racks his brain to remember if he took his daily suppressant yesterday, but draws blanks. All he comes up with is memories of giggling against Louis’s shoulder along to the laugh tracks on TV and knocking back colorful shots later on with music pounding through his bones. After that, it’s a bit of a blur.
All he can do is lean into Louis’s shoulder now wordlessly, whimpering softly into the material of his blazer and hoping Louis won’t pry for an explanation. There’s a faint tremble shivering through the meat of his thighs, his arse starting to dampen with his slick. His briefs are growing more uncomfortable by the minute, his skin feeling tight and oversensitive and his senses narrowing to nothing but LouisLouisLouis.
“Babe, you’re burning up,” Louis murmurs, the back of his hand pressing gently against Harry’s forehead. A few of the other celebrities sitting around the table with them give Harry some strange, inquisitive looks. “Do you need to leave?”
“No,” Harry murmurs. Lust is starting to swirl around his head, filling up his veins, and his normal inhibitions slowly slip away. Legs pressed tightly together with slick making his briefs cling to the wet crack of his arse, he leans more firmly into Louis’s side and whimpers again. “N-No, need you. Need you.”
“You… What?” Louis says, sounding more than a bit startled. His hand falls away from Harry’s face, gently skimming his sweaty cheekbone as it goes. He grabs one of Harry’s hands and holds on securely, surely able to feel Harry’s rapid pulse fluttering under the delicate skin of his wrist as he rubs a thumb over it. “Harry, what do you mean?”
“I need you, Lou, so much,” Harry whines, his voice getting just a bit too loud.
“Harry, you’re acting like - like…” Louis’s voice trails off. His eyes widen a bit with disbelief, his Adam’s apple bobbing slightly as he swallows. His eyes flicker nervously to the stage and back, making Harry realise that the host has just started announcing the nominees for one of the awards Louis is up for. A short clip of him from his latest film shows up on screen and plays to the cheer of the audience. This is not the time or place to be overcome with lust, but Harry’s body has not seemed to have gotten the memo.
“You’re acting like - like you’re…” Louis repeats, but he still doesn’t seem to be able to finish the sentence. “Are you?” His voice is so soft and shaky, breath fanning over the heated, flushed skin of Harry’s cheeks.
Harry doesn’t answer the question. Can’t. “Need you,” he murmurs again, still so needy and growing more desperate by the second. Fuck, he can’t believe he forgot his suppressant. He’s always so careful, always so meticulous to make sure his heat hits him at scheduled times that he’s prepared for. He was not fucking prepared for this, for going into heat abruptly at an awards show he’s attending for Louis. When he’s fucking staying at Louis’s house.
As the last nominee’s short clip starts playing, Louis pulls his phone out of his pocket with unsteady fingers and starts typing quickly, eyes unable to leave Harry for more than a second at a time. “I’m having Alberto come and pick you up. Be outside in five.”
“And the winner of Best Actor in a Drama is,” the host calls out, drawing out the suspense as the room falls silent with random wayward cheers every other second.
“I’ll see you at home, babe, please just wait for me,” Louis rushes out, nudging closer to press a firm, chaste kiss against Harry’s rosy cheekbone, lips brushing against Harry’s lowered lashes.
“Louis Tomlinson in ‘Drag Me Down’!” the host finally finishes, met with boisterous applause scattered around, a few shrill whistles mixed in.
Normally, Harry would be right there with clapping furiously and whistling with two fingers stuck in his mouth, but tonight, all he can do is try not to cry from the loss as Louis finally pulls away from him and pastes on an appropriately ecstatic grin, reaching back to blindly nudge Harry’s shoulder encouragingly. The brief touch is gone quickly and Louis starts over to the stage where his award awaits him.
Rising on shaky legs, Harry tries his best to ignore the slick making his underwear cling to his skin, hopefully not showing through his black jeans, and remorsefully makes his way past the floor filled with pretty tables and pretty celebrities that mostly seem to be torn between watching him leave and watching Louis accept his award. He pretends not to notice.
The moment he steps out of the side exit, he feels immediately grateful for the waft of cool air temporarily relieving him of the heat boiling under his skin. He’s still flushed, but the nip of the evening breeze sobers him up just a little. Always reliable, Alberto is waiting for him by the car pulled up, swiftly ushering him into the backseat as he gets in and lets the driver take them to Louis’s house.
“Harry, are you with us?” Alberto asks, turning around in his seat to face Harry. “Are you alright?”
“Want Lou,” he mumbles, pushing a hand through his sweat-damp hair and trying to will his erection away. It doesn’t work.
An hour and a half later, Harry is losing his bloody mind in Louis’s guest room, naked and leaking against the insides of his thighs. His hair is sticking to his temples with sweat, lips bitten red and dropping moans left and right, with a now come-streaked pillow tucked under his crotch. He’s so caught up in rutting his hard cock against the soft, pliant object and fingering his slick hole desperately, chasing his second orgasm, that he doesn’t hear Louis’s voice calling his name until the door creaks open and a soft gasp breaks him out of his sex haze.
Twisted his head to the side to see Louis standing slack-jawed in the doorway, Harry lets out a broken moan, jostles his fingers in his arse sporadically, and comes for the second time of the night against the poor pillow, triggered just by the sight of his gorgeous, gorgeous Louis watching him get off with the outline of his erection bulging against the front of his trousers. He bucks his hips once, twice, riding out his climax, before going limp and rolling off the pillow and onto his back. There’s a giant smear of spunk on his tummy, his cock still hard and streaked with it. Harry’s mind is so fuzzy that he can’t do anything but pinch at a sensitive nipple and whine Louis’s name desperately.
“F-Fuck, Harry,” Louis finally says, his voice shocked and quiet. “Babe, how — how long have you been at it?”
“Dunno,” Harry pants, his eyes falling shut as he slips a hand down his dirty torso to palm at his erection, already ready to go again. “Ever since I got here. Can’t do it, Lou, need you. Always need you.” His fingers curl around his wet shaft, slowly starting to pump again, thumbing over his head on every upstroke. His other hand, slippery with his own slick, lifts to tweak his other neglected nipple.
Louis steps further into the room, not daring to do more than shed his blazer and cling to the fabric like a lifeline. “Is there anyone I should call? Like, to help you…” He trails off, the flush on his cheekbones deepening with every second he stands there, staring at Harry’s hand on his cock.
“No, no,” Harry whines. “I need you inside me. Now, please.”
“Harry, I couldn’t possibly…” Louis’s eyes are still glued to Harry’s body, the bulge in his trousers getting more difficult for him to hide and ignore. “You don’t really want me, Harry, it’s just the heat talking--”
“No,” he insists, breathing out a weak moan as his thumb swirls over his drooling slit. “It’s always been you, Louis, always. I’ve wanted you since - since the moment you spilled your drink all over my shoes. Since before, even. You’re so gorgeous and sweet and - God, please, I just…” Harry cuts himself off with another moan, this one even needier as he’s beginning to near his third orgasm, each climax easier to reach than the last. His palm is slick against his prick, jerking furiously as his toes curl on the bedsheets. He’s so deep in the orgasmic pleasure that whatever filter he had between his brain and his mouth is lost, his voice carrying words that he didn’t intend to say. The truth of them is all the same, though. “I love you, Lou, I fucking love you, need you inside me, please. Fuck.”
Louis’s eyes are as wide as Harry’s ever seen them. It’s almost absent-minded, how his hands slowly start to remove his shirt, revealing inch after inch of taut, golden skin, a trail of hair leading down from his navel into the waistband of his bottoms. “Shit, Harry, I never - I never thought you could feel the same way.” The look in his eyes is soft, so unbearably fond that Harry has to look away for a moment. “If I had known you were an omega, there’s no fucking way I would have waited this long. I’ve wanted you for so long. But…”
“No but’s, please,” Harry murmurs, a small wave of lethargy coursing through him before the ever-present lust threatens to take over again. “Just want you.”
“Are you sure, though? I don’t want this to just be a one-night stand, or a mistake. I really love you, Harry,” Louis admits quietly, his voice nearly breaking on the tender words. He kicks off his polished black shoes without a care for where they land, his hands hesitating at the button of his trousers. “I want more with you than just heat sex. I want to give us a shot.”
“I want that too, Louis,” Harry answers fondly, his stomach heaving lightly with his quick breathing. It’s one of the things he hates the most about his heats, that he never gets the chance to really catch his breath between orgasms, the need to come again always rearing back up too quickly for him to recover from the last time. “Not gonna give anything a shot unless you get your cock in me now, please,” he teases a bit breathlessly.
“Cheeky,” Louis says with a sweet grin. As Harry scoots his body up the bed a bit to give Louis room at the foot of it, Louis finally undoes the button and zip of his trousers, pushing them down along with his pants. His cock slaps against his navel, thick and hard with the head already dripping precome. A needy whine slips from Harry’s mouth at just the sight of it.
Louis tugs off his socks on his way towards the bed, his body finally completely bare when he kneels at the end of it. He shuffles up to rest between Harry’s splayed knees, hands coming down to stroke almost reverently at the soft skin of Harry’s thighs. He thumbs at the sensitive insides of them, brushing over the mess of slick left there.
Harry’s body absolutely lights up with the simple touch, the need pulsing renewed through his veins from the mere contact with an alpha. It makes it so much better that it’s Louis, not just any alpha. His thighs tense and flex under Louis’s fingers, head tilted up to keep his eyes locked on his alpha’s face. It takes his foggy mind a second to realise that it’s slowly approaching his. Eyes fluttering closed, he waits to feel lips against his, but it never comes.
“Are you sure you--”
Half-opening his eyes to see Louis merely hovering in hesitation, Harry groans in frustration and brings a hand up to curl around the back of Louis’s neck and yank him down the last inch or so. The moment their mouths connect sends a jolt of pleasure straight through Harry’s body, his cock drooling heavily against his come-splattered tummy in anticipation. Louis’s lips are thinner than Harry’s, but so soft and smooth when Harry licks out against them. Louis’s mouth opens for Harry’s tongue, meeting it with his own, and Harry’s fingers shift to scratch gently through Louis’s hair. Louis tastes like vanilla and red wine and Harry wishes he could kiss him forever.
One of Louis’s arms shifts to plant his hand on the mattress next to Harry’s head, leaning against it for support as his other hand trails his short, blunt nails along the sensitive crease between Harry’s thigh and groin. His cock twitches in response, bucking his hips up towards Louis.
The second Louis gets his hand around Harry’s cock, it becomes a flurry of furious pumping and squeezing, his grip tight and made easier with the lubrication of Harry’s own spunk smeared over his shaft. Harry’s already come three times in the span of two hours, but the fourth turns out to be the most satisfying. Somehow, Louis knows immediately how to read Harry and his body language, flicking his fingers perfectly over his slit and squeezing just right under the head and smoothing over his sensitive balls every few strokes. Before he knows it, he’s gasping wetly under the pressure of Louis’s mouth and releasing a few weak spurts of come over Louis’s fist. He continues to jerk him through the fourth climax, waiting until his body is no longer tensed up before slowing his pumps and slipping his hand off.
“You’re so beautiful when you come,” Louis whispers against the plush cushion of Harry’s lips. He gives him a soft peck before beginning to trail kisses down Harry’s jaw, throat, chest. Harry jolts in pleasant surprise at the feeling of a hot tongue laving over the stiff peaks of his nipples, sharp little teeth nipping at one of them before Louis continues down his torso.
Harry finds himself a bit confused at first when he feels the same tongue dragging against random spots of his torso, warm and insistent but not moving below his waist yet. When he opens his eyes fully to look down at Louis curiously, he’s a bit surprised to see what awaits him. Louis’s eyes, half-lidded and so bright, fixed on Harry’s as he slowly licks the remnants of Harry’s previous orgasms off of his stomach. His tongue dips into the divots by Harry’s hips before finally moving down towards Harry’s cock. Harry’s back arches in shock when Louis immediately takes his entire cock into his mouth in one go, tongue pressing against the underside as he bobs his head a few times, his throat tight around Harry’s dick. The wet suction on Harry’s oversensitive member sends little shocks of electricity through his tensing muscles, legs squirming restlessly beside Louis’s body. When Louis pulls off less than a minute later with one final slow suck, Harry’s cock is clean of any leftover come, though a spot of it lingers on the corner of Louis’s mouth as he swallows.
Harry tightens his fingers in Louis’s hair and brings the other hand down to swipe the come off the edge of Louis’s lips. To his pleasure, Louis sucks the digit into his mouth and licks the drop of come, slipping off with a pop.
“Need to come again first?” Louis asks, one hand now clutching at Harry’s hip as the other starts stroking soothingly over his milky thigh. The touch is so close to where Harry needs it, wants it, that he nearly cries out in frustration.
“No, need your knot, please.” Harry’s voice comes out shaky, weak from the onslaught of stimulation he’s been receiving. Part of him is still in denial that this is even happening, that the person he’s been wanting and craving and loving for months is really sat between his thighs with the taste of Harry’s come likely in his mouth.
“I can’t, babe,” Louis murmurs, ducking down to press gentle kisses over Harry’s other thigh. His lips move feverishly over the skin there, licking at the crease of his thigh. “Don’t want to get you pregnant right now.”
“You sure about that?” Harry half-heartedly teases, secretly wanting to cry at the mere thought of being pregnant with Louis’s babies. God, he wants that so bad - not right now, though. Now isn’t the time. “It’ll be okay, I’m - I’m on the pill.”
“You didn’t forget to take that one too yesterday?” Louis asks, trailing kisses over to Harry’s groin, licking over one of his sensitive balls and drawing a soft, needy whine from him.
“N-No, I took that one at lunch yesterday and today,” Harry answers, impressed by how coherent he’s managed to stay, considering he has Louis fucking Tomlinson nuzzling his crotch right now. “Just forgot to take the heat suppressant last night before bed. And before you ask, yes, I’m sure.”
“How did I ever get stuck with someone so rude?” Louis teases, lips quirked in a fond smile.
“Not stuck yet,” Harry murmurs in reply, thumbing at the soft hair on the base of Louis’s neck. As he hints at just the idea of mating, the spot on Harry’s neck reserved for his mate to mark him tingles in anticipation.
“We’ll get there.” Louis breathes the promise over the meat of Harry’s thigh before biting gently, sucking a light mark into the flesh there.
“Just fuck me,” Harry begs, any shame or embarrassment long gone. He just wants. “Please, fuck me.”
“I will, baby, just wait,” Louis murmurs, his face nudging deeper between his thighs and closer to where Harry wants him most.
“What are you--” Harry’s voice abruptly cuts off into a high-pitched gasp, body twisting at the sudden sensation of a tongue nudging between his arse cheeks. Fingers reach under Harry’s thighs to gently part his cheeks, exposing his leaking hole to Louis’s warm breath. “Fuck, please - yes, oh God,” Harry whines, long and loud.
Louis’s tongue drags flat over Harry’s hole, lapping up the slick making a mess there. The muscle tenses under the wet contact before Harry forces himself to relax, losing himself in the gentle, constant licking over his hole. The tip of Louis’s tongue slowly eases past the slight resistance, licking into Harry’s arse with a type of eagerness that makes Harry throw his head back against the pillow and moan high in his throat. His fingers drop away from Louis and grip tightly at the bedding, toes curling against the fabric when Louis gently nudges at his hole with an index finger. He doesn’t need any lube with how much slick is smeared over Harry’s thighs and arse, just prodding for a moment at his entrance before slowly sinking in.
“Fuck, yeah,” Harry breathes, finally getting a hint of the penetration he’s been dying for. Just having Louis, an alpha, finger him is bringing him close to his next orgasm, but something tells him that it’ll be so much better to come with Louis’s cock inside him, so he uses every fibre of his being to refrain from coming again. A second finger joins the first, squeezing in beside Louis’s tongue, and he starts pumping them in and out gently. Louis scissors his two digits to help loosen Harry’s hole, not waiting very long before he adds a third finger into the mix. Harry’s already loose enough from his own fingering session that there’s no burn or sting, just the blissful stretch of having Louis three fingers deep in his arse with his tongue now licking at his rim.
It’s when Louis finds his prostate and strokes over it that Harry shouts in surprise and one of his hands fly down to clutch desperately at Louis’s shoulder, nails digging in thoughtlessly. “I’m ready, Lou, I’m ready,” he says, panting heavily from the effort of holding off his orgasm. “Just fuck me, please.”
Louis’s head eases away from Harry’s arse, his fingers giving a few more slow, deep pumps as he leans back on his haunches and meets Harry’s eyes again. He’s breathing almost just as heavily as Harry is, and the sight of his hair a complete mess from Harry’s fingers and his face smeared with Harry’s slick is one that Harry never wants to forget. He reaches over to wipe his face with a corner of the sheets, but only gets about half of it off, his lips and a bit of his chin still shining with it. “God, do you have any idea how fucking good you taste?” he asks.
It takes Harry a second to respond, still focused on Louis’s fingers in his arse and neglected cock throbbing against his stomach. “Tell me,” he says quietly, reaching down to trail his fingertips in a featherlight tease over the underside of Louis’s cock.
Louis’s eyes flutter at the touch, his lips falling open on a pleased sigh. “You taste delicious. So fucking sweet, but just a touch of something spicy. Like cinnamon sugar.” With one last brush over Harry’s prostate, Louis drags his fingers out of his arse and immediately brings them up towards Harry’s face, poised in front of his lips. “Try.”
The omega in Harry preens at the command from a beautiful alpha, sucking the fingers into his mouth without hesitation and tasting his own slick for the first time. He’s rather pleased to find that it tastes exactly as Louis described. He’s more interested in the almost dazed look on Louis’s face, though, as he watches Harry taste himself. He nips at the pad of Louis’s index finger before releasing the digits.
“Fuck, you’re so hot,” Louis murmurs, his voice low and husky, shifting into a better position between Harry’s thighs. One hand comes back up next to Harry’s head to support himself while the other drops lower to his own groin. Harry startles a bit when he feels the head of Louis’s cock nudge at his arse cheeks, pushing between them to press lightly against his prepped hole. As Louis slowly pushes inside with a hand holding his dick steady, Harry lets out a deep, satisfied groan, finally getting the relief of having Louis’s alpha cock slowly filling him up.
Clearly taking the sound as a cue to continue, Louis keeps sliding into Harry’s heat until he’s fully sheathed inside him. He thumbs at Harry’s stretched rim where the two of them are connected so intimately, drawing a whimper from Harry’s throat. He strokes down Harry’s thigh and grips his leg, pushing it up towards Harry’s torso to bend at the knee and give Louis an easier angle to fuck him. Slowly, he draws his hips back, slipping almost all the way out of Harry’s body, and snaps them forward, plunging back inside roughly. The impact punches another strangled moan out of Harry, Louis’s shaft grazing his prostate on each thrust as he builds up a rhythm.
“Fuck,” he cries out when Louis thrusts against his prostate dead-on. “There, there,” he pleads, fingers digging into the meat of Louis’s shoulders as Louis continues to aim towards his sweet spot and hits it more often than not. “Not gonna last, Lou.”
“Me neither, fuck, you’re so tight,” Louis groans, breath falling from his mouth in quick pants. He dips down to press a feverish kiss to Harry’s slick mouth, licking inside and nipping at his lip. “You feel so good.”
“M’so full,” Harry breathes against his mouth, tremors rippling through his muscles as he edges closer and closer to his fifth (and hopefully final) orgasm of the night. He’s still holding off the best he can, hoping to come with Louis’s cock pulsing in his arse.
“Fuckfuckfuck,” Louis chants, his voice tense and his hips starting to jerk more erratically, grinding his cock against Harry’s spot. One of his hands drops down to grasp Harry’s cock and pump him swiftly in time with his rough thrusts. “I’m gonna come, fuck.” He ducks down to kiss a bit messily over Harry’s throat, licking over the spot where his mating mark would be. It makes Harry’s heart jump into his throat, a silly sense of hope surging in his veins, even though he knows that they have so much more to talk about before even thinking about mating. Still, the excitement and anticipation is there, simmering under his skin.
It only takes a few more unsteady thrusts before Louis finally pushes deeper into Harry than before, somehow fitting his swollen knot past the tight rim, and locks their bodies together as he comes. It’s something Harry’s never experienced before, the slick warmth of an alpha’s come filling his arse, and the intimacy of it all is what finally sends him over the edge. Harry squirms, bucking into Louis’s fist once, twice, before the bliss washes over him in a tidal wave, soaking all of his senses and lighting up every nerve ending. It’s his fifth orgasm, so all that comes out is a couple of weak spurts over Louis’s fingers, dripping down onto his stomach, but it hits him harder than all of the previous ones, seizing his body for at least a minute. The relief that comes afterwards is nothing short of glorious, finally getting what he’s been craving all afternoon - for the past several months, really. There’s the kind of satisfaction settling in his bones that he can’t get from anything else, and he’s sure the itch is still there, waiting to jump out again in a few hours, but for now, it’s satiated and all Harry wants to do is sleep.
Breathing heavily against the sweaty crook of Harry’s neck, Louis slowly turns them over, maneuvering them into a more comfortable position on their sides facing each other, Harry’s leg hooked over Louis’s hip to allow them to stay connected until Louis’s orgasm subsides. His cheeks are flushed and his hair is an absolute mess and he’s the most beautiful thing Harry’s ever seen.
“Get some sleep, love,” Louis murmurs, brushing gentle fingers through Harry’s sweaty hair and tucking the wavy strands behind his ear, thumb stroking over the shell of it. He trails his hand over the line of Harry’s slim, long body, finally curling it over the soft dip in his waist and holding him closely. “I’ll clean us up when it’s over. You need to rest for now.”
Harry finds himself drifting off before Louis even finishes speaking, the exhaustion of five fucking orgasms catching up to him. The last thing he’s aware of is the soft press of lips against his forehead.
August 15, London
Harry’s never been the kind of person to brag. He’s a humble, modest person who is always grateful for the good things that come his way. He doesn’t take things for granted, he doesn’t rub his successes in people’s faces, and he doesn’t think any of his achievements make him better than anyone else. This, though - this, he wears like a badge of honour. He wears it like it’s his proudest achievement to date (it truly is, impressive awards be damned), like it brands him as officially the luckiest and happiest man on Earth. Today, he really feels like it, and he wants the whole world to know. Look at me, it says, Louis Tomlinson loves me and he always will.
The mark left from where Louis sunk his teeth in just two nights ago, right at the height of their intimacy and bonding them together permanently, is still a bit tender and sore. It sits at the base of his neck above the sharp jut of his collarbone, the skin around it reddened and sensitive, but the mark itself is healing. It doesn’t look right now how it’s going to look once it heals, but when he steps out of his car and is met with the camera flashes of hired paps, he knows that it’s obvious what the mark means anyway. He knows that this will be all over the headlines for weeks to come.
Ever since that night in February, Harry and Louis have been steadily dating, getting to know each other as lovers while they already knew each other as best friends. Their decision to mate has come as no surprise to anyone who is close to the sickening lovebirds and privy to their romantic relationship, but it sure will come as a shock to everyone who still doesn’t know for sure that they’re serious about each other or that Harry is an omega. They’ve been openly photographed together plenty of times in the past several months, out on casual dates or leaving and entering each other’s homes, but there hasn’t been any official confirmation yet. The two of them talked it out and figured that coming out like this, both as being in a serious, permanent relationship and also as Harry being an omega, would be the best choice for them. Kill two birds with one stone and whatnot.
He knows what his management warned him about coming out as an omega. He knows the risks, the potential dangers. He also knows that he loves Louis more than anything and all he wants is to be with him in every way and now - now he’s ready.
Harry walks on steady, sure feet that do not stumble, smiles slyly at the pap who pointedly asks him if this means that he’s Louis Tomlinson’s omega, and keeps walking to meet his mate waiting for him in the restaurant.
The next day, there’s a clear photo splashed across the front pages of most entertainment news sites, taken through the restaurant window. Louis is touching gentle fingers to Harry’s mark as they talk and wait for their food, their hands are locked together on the table, and they’re looking at each other like they’re so, so in love.
Coming out is always scary, terrifying when you’re constantly under a thousand-watt spotlight, but with Louis by his side, always and forever and made permanent by a mark that will never fade from Harry’s skin, it’s one of the easiest things he’s done.