You Take Me Over, You're the Magic in My Veins

chapter 8

Arousal pulses low in Louis' gut, fueled by the way Harry has wrapped one leg around the backs of his thighs, the way he's gone completely lax underneath him, happy to give whatever Louis wants to take. All Louis can think about as Harry sucks on his tongue is the redness of his lips and the way he fit nearly an entire banana in his mouth at breakfast the other day, and he grinds down against Harry without thinking, swallows Harry's gasping moan, and does it again. Getting Harry's mouth on him can wait. Right now he can feel Harry hard against his belly, so he wiggles around a bit, hisses when he manages to line them up, the friction on his cock through two layers of trousers just enough to have his eyelids fluttering closed.

When he rolls his hips this time, sparks flick down his spine and he bites off a groan, fingers tightening in Harry's hair without thinking. He can feel Harry's cock twitch in his trousers at that, body trembling and heat pouring off his body in waves, so he does it again. Harry's head falls back on a moan, neck bared for Louis' mouth, and when Louis latches on, works on sucking a mark into the base of his throat, he wraps his other leg around Louis' waist as well and ruts up against him urgently.

Louis' fingertips feel as if they are on fire, pulse thundering in his wrists, his belly, the base of his throat as he rocks against Harry steadily, desperately. The divan knocks against the wall with each thrust, timed perfectly with the noises Harry is making, little gasps and whimpers that have Louis' head spinning. He works his hips harder as he tries to drive Harry higher, wants to tip him over the edge, watch him fall apart. Louis slides one hand down so he can grip Harry's thigh and hitch his leg higher around his waist, changing the angle at which they're slotted together. He can feel Harry's body tensing underneath him, and he tugs on Harry's hair in counterpoint with the rhythm of his hips, lifts his head so that he can watch the way Harry's mouth falls open, lips bitten red and cheeks stained pink. Louis rocks against him, quick and rough, and he can feel the pulse of Harry's cock against his belly as he comes, can feel Harry's fingers digging into the small of his back hard enough to bruise as he holds on and rides out his orgasm.

Louis watches him come down, still rutting against him absently; tracks the bright flush of his cheeks, the haze in his eyes as he blinks them open, the slow curve of his mouth when he catches Louis watching him. Louis is still achingly hard and so, so close, but he starts to move away, to give Harry space. Harry just latches on, though, wraps his entire body around him and buries his face in Louis' neck, whispers, "Don't. Keep going, please."

Warmth and affection bubble up in Louis' chest, words threatening to spill over. But he manages to tamp down on them, buries his face in Harry's hair, and rocks against his belly with slow, even rolls of his hips that have pleasure building and building until he can barely breathe, can barely see, knows only Harry and the feel of Harry's body beneath him, around him, the cadence of his voice as he murmurs nonsense into his ear.

Louis comes with a muffled gasp, stars bursting behind his eyelids, every muscle, every nerve in his body straining toward Harry. The only thing he's conscious of for the next few moments are Harry's arms and legs around him, the scent of Harry's hair in his nose, the constant litany of HarryHarryHarry on his mind. They lay there for minutes, hours maybe, Louis can't be sure, while the world around them settles. Louis feels drained, damp with sweat, but the last thing he wants to do is move.

"Louis," Harry eventually whispers into the curve of his neck. Louis grunts in response, brain still too sluggish to form words. "It's raining."

Louis groans into Harry's hair, then, resigned to the fact that they'll have to move eventually, he slowly steels himself to get up. "I'll go close the windows."

"No," Harry says, voice still pitched low, as if he's trying not to disturb someone, but there's an underlying tone of hysteria. "It's raining inside."