Prompt: Filthy, rough, disgusting Larry smut, except both of them have ridiculous pain kinks, like they can’t get off unless they hurt each other (i.e. slapping, pinching, biting, etc.) Ummhmmmm. Enjoy.
He can lie to himself and blame every impulse he’s ever sated, but he knows he needs it when Harry collapses beneath him, shallow breaths fogging the bathroom mirror around the dark kiss of his lips against the glass. He drags his hands into Harry’s curls and hears him hiss when he tugs again like he had before, ripping a chunk of hair right from his scalp. It had been so stilling, but then Harry’d moaned. And in the mirror Louis watches his face as it tries to balance every sensation- Louis filling him slowly, the painful tearing beneath his abs, the roots of his hair, and the wild rush of pleasure coursing through his chest down to his groin.
Louis tugs again and Harry comes with his hips jerking out, grip tightening on the edge of the sink trying desperately to stay standing with everything around him crashing down.
He clenches around Louis’ cock, and Louis nearly stills his thrusts, angling lower and grinding in so slowly to savor every row with the new sensation. And Harry’s back as he heaves in low breaths, his cheeks clenching when Louis forces himself in to the hilt and comes just there with his eyes rolling back and muttered curses on his lips, under his breath.
It makes so much sense. The excruciating high that leaves him breathless when everything else dragged him down.
When he slips from Harry’s spent body and they clean and dress shakily, lazy content smiles on their faces.
“I didn’t know,” Louis says, and Harry shakes his head with a laugh.
“Yeah, and it’s even better the other way. Trust me.”
Louis jabs him in the ribs, “I could tell.”
Harry just shrugs, too fucked out to even be embarrassed.
“Doesn’t hurt that you’re massive, either.”
He can feel his cheeks heat up, and he makes a job of putting on his shoes so he can hide his face, retying the laces over and over as if his shaking hands can’t manage them.
The second time, he lets Harry spread him open slowly with two slick fingers. They start facing each other, Harry between Louis’ thighs, but it feels so wrong he turns to his stomach and, with Harry’s erection pressed into his leg, tries to convince himself this is a one-time only deal.
But then he feels it. Harry finally pressed against his opening, leeching calming whimpers from Harry’s lips when he starts to squirm away. It’s just too much. Not the pain but everything else.
And the only thing that relaxes him is when Harry’s nails sink into the sensitive skin at his hips. Harry comes so suddenly, all he can do is ride it out. He shivers and kisses Louis at the base of his spine, and when he can find his voice again, asks him if he wants it like that.
He nods and Harry lies beside him, dips a hand to his bum and cups his face with the other. He sinks his fingers into Louis while his thumb trails slowly over his cheek.
“Does she hold you?” he asks so suddenly, voice soft as Louis keens, rocking his hips back slowly onto Harry’s hand, “I could hold you, too, Louis.”
A kiss to his temple. He brushes his hair aside and kisses him again. Then again. Until Louis’ not sure where he finds release- in the press of his fingers or his lips.
The third time they’re both so angry, he’s amazed he manages to get his clothes off before Harry starts trying to leave bruises.
Harry’s not jealous- it’s deeper than that. He launches forward in only his boxers, pressing up against Louis’ naked chest, then steps back just enough to reel away and slap him across the face with a loud snap. A moment later, he grips Louis’ face in his big hand and forces his mouth open with his fingers, kisses him so roughly all Louis can do is try and take it.
He pulls away leaving them both gasping.
Then Louis chokes as Harry’s hand grips his cock. He gets so close so fast. Between each pump he feels the throbbing pain at his cheek, then Harry’s hand presses to his chest and he kneads his nipple and it’s raw, but not enough. Until he leans in and presses his mouth there, his wet lips pursed around it. He stammers, trying to push him away, not wanting to come just yet. But like always, Harry is in control. He licks at him a few times, then clamps down, biting on the sensitive skin so hard Louis jerks back, but it’s what he needs as Harry pumps him up slowly twice then Louis’ trembling, coming over them both while every part of him seems to never stop shaking.
Then it becomes habit and the number of times doesn’t matter because everything morphs into a slow trickle of bruises and hidden scars, concealed marks. It gets so bad, they’ll be doing an interview and all Harry has to do is make a loose fist above the table and Louis squirms, his pants tightening at merely the recollection of the sting of his knuckles, how strong he grips him between kisses.
Or the worst. The worst is when he’s with Eleanor and she’s so calm it makes him nauseous. He makes her lie on her stomach and he tries to remember not to grip, tries to remember that he was gentle once. Before Harry. Still sometimes he forgets, and Eleanor gasps as his teeth dig into her shoulder or her thigh or her waist. He pulls away quickly and mutters apologies but never slows.
Because Harry’s limbs are lean and pale. He looks like alabaster in the marbled light of his bedroom and burns in Louis’, an all-possessing gold. Like Eleanor. So it’s okay. He’s reasoned it enough to himself- dark curls, all straight lines, easy smile. They might as well be the same person.
So he drags his nails beneath Harry’s skin for claiming every wrong patch of flesh, and he begs Eleanor to stay for all the hope she leaves him in her ignorance.
“Not tonight,” Louis grumbles into the phone, voice the clipped hiss of a whisper- a secret.
Eleanor mutters beside him, shifting in her sleep with her arm draped over his chest.
“I won’t wait,” Harry says on the other line. A demand that Louis feels burning low in his gut, a proposal with no room for compromise. Louis hears his breath hitch and he can almost feel him there, from three doors down, the warm, wet puckered stretch of his own fingers, readying for something. Anything. Louis or the cool ridged purple plastic easing slowly between his pale thighs…
Her nails draw faint trails across his skin. Barely, they avoid the raised welts from Harry’s teeth the day before. A cramped closet and five minutes between shots. Red and sensitive still, a half moon tattooed below his nipple in the shape of Harry’s mouth.
“I can’t,” Louis sighs dragging his legs over the side of the bed, untangling himself from her long limbs.
“We really shouldn’t,” he says against the backdrop of Harry’s unsteady breathing in his ear, pulling on the jacket he’d tossed onto the floor before climbing into bed only a few hours ago. It smells like her- jasmine, lavender, honeysuckle. It’s like she grinds down every flower she can find, bleeds them dry, and bathes in their carcasses.
“Where,” she mumbles, smacking her lips, eyes squeezed shut, “Where ya’ going, babe?”
He pushes her hair off her forehead and offers a kiss so gentle, it makes him feel ill.
“To Harry’s,” he says, hanging up on him without a word, “I’ll be back.” Tomorrow.
“Mmkay,” she sighs and burrows deeper into the covers, snoring lightly again nearly right off.
Harry rears back and slams his fist into Louis’ jaw, then again when Louis hits the wall with a loud thud. Everything goes black for a second, but he finds his vision with Harry pressed up against him. Harry puts his hand in Louis’ hair and turns him, presses the side of his face into the wall.
“What do you want?”
Louis’ breath catches, trying to swallow past the metallic taste of blood filling his mouth, “Don’t you- Don’t you know?”
Harry presses him to the wall harder, and the pain is so excruciating for a moment he has to struggle to remember how to breathe. He exhales loudly and a wide fan of blood follows, coating the wall by his swollen lips.
“I know,” Harry says, voice chillingly calm, “I want you to say it. What do you want?”
“Harder,” because it’s still not enough. Harry’s fingers are gripping at his throat a moment later. A lax grip until he groans and they clamp so tightly he forgets to sanction a breath. He grasps desperately at Harry’s forearm, a quiet plea he hopes burns into his fingertips, the tears prickling in his eyes.
Harry glares at him and- this is ours, you don’t get to choose- grips the base of Louis’ erect cock in the fist of his other hand.
“More?” he breathes, then squeezes before he can reply, dragging a whimper from Louis’ wet lips. His grip on his neck tightens and he can feel every muscle screaming, the pain so blindingly intolerable. But surging up to lap at every exposed wound, every mutilated vein, is the intoxicating pleasure of Harry’s warm grip around him. He feels the floor sinking away from him and the pressure at his throat turns to agony when Harry lifts him so effortlessly, he struggles to find purchase but his toes dangle a foot above the floor and Harry’s jaw clenches, a hard line of harsh purple bruises.
He tries to moan, but his eyes burn and he can’t even choke out a sob. Then it sinks away to the pain again where it courses through his chest and down until there’s nothing separating him from Hell but Harry’s unforgiving carnage. How his eyes manage to be green and onyx at the same time. He blinks and they shatter before Louis’ eyes, every shade of purple he’s ever seen until he can’t feel his hand anymore. Not at his throat. Not on his dick. Everything is bathed in the lavenders and opals and calm hues of royal blue, midnight chrysanthemum like how it still feels better than any drug he’s ever taken, any press of his tongue between Eleanor’s trembling thighs.
Nothing makes sense but the hand at his side, then over until it’s at the curve of his spine, callused fingertips.
He wakes up slowly, one sense at a time, with the welcome rush of cool air into his lungs.
Harry’s breath at the back of his neck, tickling the hairs, “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.” Like it’s all he can do to keep from losing control.
Sweat and dirt, years of dust- he gags as something irritates his throat, spits a pair of curly brown hairs and a light pink tooth onto the mangled carpet.
His mouth tastes like blood. Harry chuckles and Louis feels him grind down inside him and it’s too much, like always, Harry stretching him past his limit until it’s all he can do not to cry out. But his cock hangs heavy and throbbing between his thighs. As Harry fills him and he whimpers, then sucks down on his shoulder as he eases out until just the head is nestled in Louis tight hole.
“You ruined the carpet,” Harry mumbles into his skin, stilling just long enough to lift up and put both of his hands on Louis’ wide hips, admire the round curve of his ass, before thrusting in again, irritatingly shallow.
Louis releases a shaky breath.
Harry moans, rubs at the dimples of Louis’ backside with the pads of his thumbs.
“Or,” he explains, “but blood, too,” with his finger slipping between Louis’ cheeks to ease into him, too, pressing beside his cock when he grinds in again, “You know how we play.”
“Is that what you call this?” He tries to be angry, but all that he can manage after the words is a quiet plea. Little quips of breath until Harry obliges, gripping his cock snugly, matching his thrusts to the steady pumps of his fist, covered in blood and come and saliva and whatever else.. Louis tries not to think about it.
It’s easy to forget. Especially when his legs turn to mush and he collapses, chasing release between each of Harry’s fingers. And he’s sure he can feel the rush of blood when Harry eases back gently, then leans forward so his chest is flush with Louis’ back and slams down into him so hard Louis cries out, jerking away then letting him again. And again. A pace so relentless all he can do is close his eyes and try not to pass out. He can feel the bile clawing at his throat, promising to escape with each new stab as Harry’s cock hits so deep inside him.
It fills every thought, claims every ounce of resolve- the breathtaking intertwining ease with which his entire body seems to unfold, leaving him a bundle of nerves with no mercy. He is a fiery chasm of numbing pain. Every breath burns in his throat and his lungs seem to take note of the damages, stinging in a new place with every ragged inhale.
“Harry, please-” Stop? Please, more?
He stills above him. For just a moment. Then his pace quickens when he seems to choose for them, and Louis bites down on his lip to stop it from quivering.
Harry’s hands find his throat and the comforting pressure of his chest is gone. He grips him like that, the back of his neck, slamming into him as if he’s trying to say with every thrust- You’re ruining everything. You’re making it more than it’s supposed to be.
But when Harry’s nails dig into his neck and when they break the skin, when he feels the warm blood starting to pool in the deep grooves, every word he’d meant to say is trapped in the pain. And how his hips betray him, sinking low to rut into the carpet, a desperate plea for any friction- even over stimulated to the point where everything he sees is tinged with red.
This was so simple.
“Shut up,” Harry growls when Louis hasn’t said a word, “Shut the fuck up.”
Fuck is the blinding shape of everything Louis tries to forget in Eleanor’s arms. Straight, no chaser. And he’s too young for bold, sweeping proclamations, but it’s all he’s ever wanted.
He looks down just long enough to see his fist and the head of his cock, his lowers abs and the carpet splayed out around his hips all coated in come and blood. A rosy pink that almost drags him down, but then Harry’s hand is covering his own and he lets his eyes slip shut. They take him there together, Harry’s grip just a bit rougher than what he’s use to on his own and so much more than Eleanor’s delicate fingers can manage.
“You can’t leave me,” Harry says, slow cool kisses to Louis’ jaw then his neck.
Louis nods, for everything. Not tonight. Not a year from now. It all seems so simple when he can breathe again and Harry’s curls tickle his skin.
He leans in for a kiss, but Harry pulls away.
“Your mouth is bleeding,” he says, dragging his thumb over Louis’ bottom lip and bringing it up to his eyes covered in blood.
“I don’t care.”
He has a moment to remember spitting out a tooth before, but only a moment, in another Harry’s warm breath coats him in a hazy caress. Harry’s tongue seems to melt into his own- Where do they stop? Why is this so difficult?
“That was…” Harry smiles and cocks his head to the side, pulling back a little to study Louis like he’s seeing him clearly for the first time tonight, “intimate?”
“We just had sex,” he quips, desperately hoping the heat he feels in his cheeks isn’t so obvious in the dark.
Harry huffs and crosses his arms across his chest, turning so he’s no longer facing Louis but lying flat on his back.
“What’s that mean?” he says, then sighs, “You want to cuddle or something?” like he can’t imagine why, but he would. If it’s what Louis wants.
“I just want to touch you,” Louis says, “Without losing my breath.”
Harry laughs then, that barking laugh Louis used to pan after. He slaps his chest.
“Yeah, well maybe if you weren’t such a pervert,” but it’s not what Louis meant. Not really.
And after they’ve done all they can for the carpet, Louis borrows Harry’s soap and scrubs at his skin until the scorching water of the shower turns it all a fiery red. When he twists his neck, he seethes through gritted teeth as it touches the wounds there. He knows what the boys will say when they see them tomorrow. Feeling at them gently with his fingertips, he sighs when the farthest one is still just under his jaw, still visible even if he wears a collared shirt.
Liam will pull him aside and prod him tentatively for answers. Probably ask him so many times if he’s okay Louis will be almost ready to admit everything.
Niall will laugh and make a few rude hand gestures to the sound of Eleanor’s name in what he always jokes Louis’ groans sound like through the thin hotel walls.
Zayn will somehow find the energy to lift his chin a little, raise his eyebrows, then sink back to whatever cathartic state he wallows in when the others aren’t prodding him back to life.
He opens his mouth and stares in the mirror at the slim gap after his canines on the right hand side where the tooth fell out. Was rammed out. Whatever.
There’s nothing to do for it, so he borrows Harry’s toothbrush and slips into the dirty sweats lying on the floor by the toilet. They’re cleaner than his own clothes right now, he reasons, and otherwise he’d have to walk out of the bathroom naked and with his impressive array of bruises, he’s sure it’ll only spur Harry on for another round and they’re already late as is.
Harry steps into the bathroom after him without a word. He slips into the shower, not even bothering, like Louis had, to close the bathroom door. Locking it. A desperate longing need to have some part concealed. The bruises dig so deep, he feels everyone around him staring straight through to whatever’s on the other side.
And, not the first time, he wonders if there’s even anything there to see.