Work Text:
Monaco is wasted on most of them. The guests, the influencers, the old money in starched linens and the new money in purchased faces, none of them see it. Not the sea, that’s blue enough to make a cynic look twice, or the way the cypress trees stay perfectly green even in this glass-melting heat. They see only the perimeter of branded awnings, the line of valets, and the hint of exclusivity that makes their insides light up like a Christmas tree.
Louis, on the other hand, sees everything.
He clocks every dried chlorine stain on the pool deck before his morning espresso. He sees the line of lipstick on the rim of a Bellini at eleven AM and knows it’s the brunette from room 609. He sees every fine-thread tension in the smiles of the servers, every tremor of hunger and thirst and fuck-it in the eyes of the staff. He notices how the wind shoves against the glass doors, testing the integrity of the million-euro renovations, and how every single banana leaf is kept combed and upright by an invisible army of workers who all, every one, want to be somewhere else.
Louis has been here for three years. He’s learned to keep his irritation hidden. He’s always in pressed navy, always with a clean white tee underneath, and always on time, which is more than he can say for any of his guests.
Today, his shift starts with a limoncello sunrise and ends (he hopes) with a bottle of leftover Prosecco and the world’s dumbest game of Uno. In between, he is a caretaker for the rich and famous, or essentially a dog walker for human Pomeranians, also known as the VIP guest liaison at Palais Solstice, one of the most expensive stays in Monte Carlo.
He cuts across the pool terrace to one of the outdoor bars, squinting through the sunlight, and slides onto the first empty stool. The metal is hot enough to sting through his slacks. The only thing more brutal than the heat is the thrum of Euro house music bleeding from the speakers, desperate and constant.
The bartender, Liam, looks up and grins, his face already shining with sweat. “You look like you want to die.”
Louis squints at him. “I’d like to die in air conditioning, if it’s all the same.”
Liam drags a rag across the bar, then wipes his forehead with the back of his hand. “You’re early, mate. You lose a bet?”
“Or maybe I like the company,” Louis says. He leans his elbows on the bar. “What’s the special today?”
Liam gestures at the blenders, which are already roaring. “Something frozen, something blue. Maybe even both.”
“Perfect,” Louis says. “Make it nuclear.”
He watches Liam work; a scoop of ice, the pour of triple sec, the twist of his hand as he snaps the cap on the shaker. Liam always moves with purpose, but there’s a calm to him Louis can never quite mirror, no matter how many shifts he works or how many times he tells himself to relax.
“So,” Liam says, “who are you babysitting today?”
Louis grimaces. “Some trust fund omega. Harry Styles.”
Liam pauses, then laughs. “You’re kidding, his real name?”
“Yeah, I wish I was.” Louis drums his fingers on the bar, impatient. “Apparently he’s a regular at every club between here and Milan, but I’ve never seen him. Probably too pretty to exist outside of Instagram.”
“Sounds like your type,” Liam says, and the look he gives is ridiculous.
Louis doesn’t dignify that with a response. He sips his drink, which is so cold he shivers, and stares out at the row of parasols lining the infinity pool. A model in a see-through cover-up is posing by the edge, her photographer crawling on his knees for the shot. Someone’s drone buzzes overhead, hunting for scandal. The pool boy, a slip of a kid from the countryside, skims the surface with his head down, studiously ignoring the chaos around him.
Louis’ phone vibrates. He checks the screen; 10:44. Incoming, Cecily, the other guest liaison.
“They’re here,” he mutters. He drains half the margarita, then stands and straightens his collar. “Pray for me, will you?”
Liam gives him a sloppy salute. “If you die, can I have your staff discount?”
“Fuck off,” Louis says, but he’s already walking, his footsteps crisp and controlled, each stride shaving seconds off the distance between him and his doom.
The entrance to the resort is a long, shaded arcade, glossy with marble and luxury hospitality. Cecily is waiting by the front desk, her hair shining and wound into a rope down her back. She’s a striking blend of French elegance and Ghanaian warmth, her brown skin glowing like polished bronze under the Monaco sun.
Louis likes her. She’s never flustered, never off her game, and never without a Plan B and a Plan C. If she’s nervous now, it doesn’t show.
“You ready?” she asks, low-voiced.
Louis shrugs. “It’s not my first rodeo.”
“You say that, but you haven’t met this one.”
The car, a glossy black Mercedes, glides to a stop, then the driver hops out in a gray suit, and circles to the backseat. He opens the door, and a foot appears. Not just any foot, but long, slim, lacquered in red polish, and attached to a leg that is miles and miles of tan. The leg swings out dramatically, then the rest of the passenger unfolds after it.
Harry Styles is every inch the disaster Louis was promised.
He’s taller than Louis expected. His hair is a tumble of brown curls, parted down the center and spilling over his ears in a way that’s somehow both planned and impossible to recreate. He’s in an undeniably expensive top that is functionally transparent, designer shorts, and a pair of silver earrings that shimmer when he moves. Dark sunglasses cover half his face, but the mouth; full, pink, and slightly open, is pure tabloid material.
He stops at the curb, looks up at the facade of the resort, and lets out a sound somewhere between a sigh and a yawn.
“Is it always this bright here?” Harry says, his voice low and a little stunned. He’s not talking to anyone in particular.
Cecily steps forward, her smile perfected and kind. “Mr. Styles. Welcome to Palais Solstice. My name is Cecily, and this is Louis. We’ll be your guest liaisons during your stay. If you need anything, like restaurant reservations, private pool hours, anything at all, we’re here to help.”
Harry peels his sunglasses down to the end of his nose, revealing eyes so green they radiate pure spring. He stares at Louis for a full second, then blinks prettily.
“What’s a liaison?” he says.
Louis tries to keep his voice neutral. “We’re here to make sure you have everything you need.”
“Oh,” Harry says. He looks at Louis like he’s inspecting a particularly interesting plant. “Okay! Cool.”
The omega scent hits Louis next, and nothing could’ve prepared him for the force of it. It’s sweet, like melting vanilla gelato in summer, but there’s an edge underneath, something warm and fucked-up and raw. It makes Louis slightly woozy, but he keeps himself together. Christ.
Harry slides the sunglasses back up and beams. “Is there, like, a cold towel situation? Sweat’s killing my pores.”
Louis glances at Cecily, who’s already on it. She gestures to a bellman, who produces a chilled towel on a silver tray. Harry presses it to his forehead with a groan that is entirely too sexual for a resort lobby.
Cecily turns to Louis, her voice lowered so only he can hear. “He’s not that bad.”
Louis shakes his head. “You just met him.”
They escort Harry into the lobby, which is made of sweeping white marble and glass, a minimalist luxury that’s supposed to say “we don’t even need to try.” Harry lingers on every surface, his fingertips trailing across the banisters, his eyes darting from the chandeliers to the marble floors.
“Anything super Instagram worthy in here?” he asks.
Louis gestures at the art installation in the center of the atrium, a looping silver sculpture that looks like a Möbius strip and cost more than Louis’ university education. “That’s usually the favorite.”
Harry circles it, then stops, squints at his own reflection in the polished metal, and sighs. “It’s kind of boring.”
“We have other walls,” Louis offers.
Harry laughs. It’s a soft, startled sound. “You’re funny.”
He’s not. Or at least, he’s not trying to be.
At the check-in desk, the manager appears from nowhere and slides a key card into Louis’ hand. “Penthouse suite,” she says. “And the catering team wants a word about the vegan gluten-free raw thing.”
Louis nods. “I’ll take care of it.”
They lead Harry to the elevators, flanked by Cecily and a bellman with the luggage. Harry’s bag is a black Chanel weekender, tiny but flashy, probably worth three months of Louis’ rent.
Inside the elevator, Harry leans back against the mirrored wall and stretches with his arms up, his shirt riding even higher. Louis pointedly doesn’t look, but he feels the heat flare at his collar. The omega scent is stifling in the small space, and Louis exhales through his nose steadily.
“Is this your first time in Monaco?” Cecily asks.
Harry lets his head loll to the side. “No,” he says, “but I never remember anything about it. The last time, someone tried to take me parasailing, but I just cried and went home. I’m, like, terrified of open water.”
Louis nods. “Noted. No water sports.”
They reach the penthouse floor. The doors open onto a marble hallway so shiny you could eat off it, which Harry seems tempted to do. He practically floats down the hall, opening doors at random, peering into empty salons and powder rooms with the delight of a toddler in a model home.
The suite itself is vast; three bedrooms, a view of the bay, a terrace big enough to land a helicopter. Harry goes straight for the windows and presses his hands to the glass.
“It’s so pretty,” he says.
Louis hangs back while Cecily walks Harry through the amenities, the minibar, and the room service options. He listens with half an ear, mind already churning through the itinerary; meet-and-greet at the pool, private dinner tonight, some kind of exclusive yacht party tomorrow.
Harry turns from the window, his expression suddenly blank. “Got any Valium?”
Louis blinks. “I can call the pharmacy.”
Harry giggles. “No, I’m okay. Just checking.”
The first moment alone with him comes when Cecily steps out to coordinate with the kitchen, leaving Louis and Harry in the suite’s main room. Harry moves closer, inspecting Louis with those impossible eyes.
“You’re very professional, you know.” He lifts a hand, gesturing vaguely at Louis’ chest. “That’s not easy for alphas, I think. Most of them get all—” he sighs. “Did they train you to be like that?”
Louis resists the urge to roll his eyes. “Yes, they beat it out of us in orientation.”
Harry grins, two dimples popping deep. He hops up and flops onto the sofa, shoes still on, and lets his head fall back. “What’s the WiFi password?”
Louis gives it to him, watching as Harry fumbles with his phone with his tongue poked out in concentration. He’s infuriatingly cute. And probably the dumbest person Louis has ever met.
Louis’ phone buzzes again. The schedule for tomorrow just got more complicated.
He sighs. “If you need anything, just call the front desk. Or me. I’ll be around.”
Harry looks up at him, and his eyes are soft. “Thank you, Louis.”
Louis nods and slips out, letting the door click shut behind him. He leans against the wall and breathes.
It’s going to be a long week.
··•🍹•··
There’s barely time to blink before Louis’ phone lights up, the screen blaring HARRY STYLES in full caps, obnoxiously, as if the universe is physically incapable of letting him have five minutes without the omega’s name burned into his retinas.
He answers on the fourth ring, not a second earlier. “Louis Tomlinson,” he says, clipped.
There’s a squeak on the other end. “Hi! Um. I have a question.”
Louis grinds his teeth. “Mhmm?”
“You’re not busy already are you?”
He checks the time. It’s been exactly seven minutes since he left Harry’s suite. “What do you need, Mr. Styles?”
There’s a long, dreamy pause. Louis can actually picture him sprawled diagonally across the hotel bed with his phone balanced on his cheek, staring into the Venetian plaster with eyes that never quite focus.
“So, me and my friends want to lay out at the pool, one of them? But they’re not open to the public, right? We can have one of those big tents?”
Louis closes his eyes and massages the bridge of his nose. “I can arrange a private cabana for you and your guests, Mr. Styles. If you’d like an escort to the pool, I can meet you in your tower’s lobby.”
“Oh,” Harry says, “I’m still in my room, and I don’t super know the way to the elevator. It’s the east suite but, who knows where east is? I keep ending up at the broom closet. So if you could just come up?”
Louis lets the silence hang for a beat, hoping Harry will notice and wilt, but Harry doesn’t. The omega hums softly to himself, waiting.
“Alright,” Louis says. “I’ll be up in a minute.”
He hears Harry’s delighted gasp; saccharine, bright, and utterly unearned, and then the line goes dead.
The east suite’s double doors are still cracked from before, a slim spill of buttery light pooling into the carpet. Louis knocks once out of decency. There’s an instant scramble, the sound of bare feet on polished stone, and then Harry flings the door open.
He’s shirtless. He’s in tiny, tiny pink swim shorts. He’s wearing a pearl necklace and nothing else, except the faintest glimmer of body oil slicked over his chest and shoulders, catching the light and making him look—fuck, it’s unfair—like a soaking wet dream poured into human form. He’s so utterly spoiled, clueless, from another planet entirely, but nonetheless absurdly pretty.
“Hi,” Harry beams, one hand on the doorframe, the other fussing with his hair. “You came!”
Louis schools his features into neutral. “You asked for a guide.”
“Oh, yeah, sorry.” Harry leans forward as if to confide something, his voice dropping to a secretive whisper. “I get lost crazy fast in these resorts. They all look the same. Not in a bad way, but it’s like, what’s the word? When everything is copy and paste?”
Louis considers. “Generic?”
Harry’s face lights up, delighted. “Yeah! Exactly.”
Louis gestures into the suite, watching as Harry skips ahead, unburdened by any sense of urgency or shame. “Your friends will be meeting you at the pool?”
“They’re down in the lobby,” Harry says, sighing extravagantly, “Impatient, they are. I think it’s a Scorpio thing? I don’t know about zodiac stuff.”
Louis is sure Harry doesn’t know about most things, so he doesn’t reply. He falls into step beside Harry, resisting the urge to stare at his hips, which are dusted with a fresh tan and punctuated by the starburst of a regrettable but strangely endearing tattoo of two laurels.
They reach the elevator bank and Louis presses the button. The elevator arrives immediately, its doors gliding open to reveal a mirrored interior that’s been wiped so many times it practically screams sterile. Harry steps in first, glancing up at the ceiling like he expects it to play music.
They stand in silence as the doors slide shut. The omega’s scent again, sweet and spiky, lances through the small space, clinging to the air. Louis keeps his hands clasped behind his back, like if he lets go his alpha will do something stupid and feral. He silently questions the universe for why Harry is obviously not on suppressants, but he supposes someone this out of touch doesn’t necessarily care.
Harry glances over, his lips wet with gloss. “Do you think the sun is good here for tanning?”
Louis doesn’t even blink. “Depends on the UV index, really.”
“UV index?” Harry repeats. “Someone’s mentioned that to me before, I think.”
Louis turns his gaze to the elevator panel, mostly so he won’t have to look at Harry’s mouth. “It just measures how intense the sun’s rays are. You want it at a five, ideally.”
Harry blinks. “Is that… good? Or bad?”
“It’s good if you want a tan,” Louis says. “Potentially bad if you want to avoid skin cancer, but I assume you’ve got people for that.”
Harry grins. “Yeah I don’t really worry about that stuff. I just like how it feels.”
Louis does not respond, because the alternative is biting down hard enough to taste iron.
The doors slide open on the ground floor. Louis is halfway out when Harry’s phone chimes, and he comes to an abrupt halt, squinting at the screen.
“Hi babe, I’m coming down now,” There’s a pause, then, “Of course I brought the sunscreen, but I only have the cream one, is that okay? I promise there’s no white cast.”
Louis stares straight ahead, refusing to be drawn in.
“No, it’s fine, Z. If you burn, you’ll just look more modelly.” He lowers his voice to a comical whisper, his hand shielding the phone like Louis can’t hear him. “Gonna get a hot, alpha waiter to do my back for sure—or maybe this delicious alpha escort of mine…” He giggles quietly.
Louis’ eyes widen, and he blinks and pretends to check his watch, but he doesn’t wear one.
When Harry finally hangs up, he seems lighter, almost buoyant. “Okay, let’s go,” He practically struts those long legs across the lobby, ignoring the looks he gathers from every direction; men, women, staff, tourists, all of them devoured and dismissed in a single swipe.
Louis watches his ass for a fraction of a second before remembering himself. He follows at a measured pace, reciting his work policies in his head until they’re burned there.
Harry’s friends are waiting by the fountain, positioned for maximum effect. The first is a stunning ginger Louis doesn’t know, skin dusted with freckles, a micro bikini barely containing anything. The second is a model, Zayn Malik, even more beautiful in person than in the glossy mags, his cheekbones sharp enough to cut marble, and his dark eyes lined in something matte and impenetrable.
They all shriek when Harry appears. There are air kisses and squeals, limbs flung over shoulders in the careful art of socialite reunion performed with absolute commitment.
Harry turns, his hair bouncing. “Louis, these are my best friends! This is Zayn, and Claudia.”
“Pleasure,” Louis says, nodding, like he’s supposed to.
Harry rocks on his heels. “Anyway, can we have three lychee martinis and a round of French 75s? Wait, actually, make it six. I want one for each vibe of mine today.”
Louis bows his head, suppressing both a snort and a sneer. “Of course. I’ll have the bar prepare your order and arrange transport from here.”
Zayn gives him a slow, appreciative look. “Thank you, man. I know we’re a handful.”
“I’ve noticed,” Louis says, and it lands right where it should; half-joke, half warning.
He turns on his heel and leaves them to their chaos, already dialing the bar manager with one hand, the other brushing Harry’s scent from his lapel.
He doesn’t let himself look back. He’s got professional standards, and at this point, Harry Styles is the only thing keeping them from shattering.
··•🍹•··
It’s hours since the last Styles incident, and Louis is running a ship tighter than the last five years of his life. The office is a freeze-dried, scentless block of order including filtered air, a silent phone, and the gentle throb of a laptop’s sleep light. He’s scheduled three sets of caviar tastings, gotten a Russian oligarch’s mistress into a three-week-booked hairdresser, and drafted a polite but crushing email to the American footballer whose “lads’ retreat” has gotten a little out of hand with the minibar pornography.
He’s typing with one hand and picking at a nicotine gum blister pack with the other when a call comes through. It’s the concierge desk, a kid on the night shift who stammers through his first two sentences and then just blurts it out.
“Sir, we, uh, have a guest who needs immediate assistance. The, um, Mr. Styles. Poolside cabana.”
Louis lets the call linger just long enough to communicate what a personal affront this is, then closes the laptop with a click that could’ve shattered the screen.
He’s not surprised to find Harry precisely where trouble would occur, in the soft blue glow of the infinity pool, splayed out across three lounges, sticky with chlorine and watermelon juice and god knows what else, surrounded by the detritus of a small, failed party. There are half a dozen empty cocktail glasses, a pair of Versace sunglasses soaking in a mojito, and an inflatable flamingo so overinflated it’s begun to split at the seam. The pool staff keep a nervous orbit, not daring to intervene.
The dim omega himself is so spectacularly drunk he looks right through Louis on first approach, squinting as if he’s seeing a mirage.
“Louis!” he shrieks. “You came! God, you’re such a workaholic, it’s so—what’s the word—wait, no, don’t tell me.” He licks the sugar-salt rim of a forgotten margarita, pensive, then grins. “Sexy. It’s so sexy.”
Louis resists rolling his eyes, or sighing, or glancing at the staff to see if they’re laughing at him. Instead he takes Harry by the elbow and hauls him upright, biting back the urge to comment on how Harry’s skin is always glistening.
“Time to return to your suite. Your presence is…” Louis checks the inner resources of his mind for a diplomatic word and comes up dry. “Required elsewhere.”
Harry stumbles against him, overbalanced by his own bone structure, and lets his head fall onto Louis’ shoulder as if it’s a pillow purchased for that purpose.
“You’re so… warm,” Harry murmurs, mouth pressed against Louis’ collarbone, which is somehow bare despite the fact that he is still, technically, in uniform. “Are you, like, running a fever, or is that just because you’re an alpha? I read about that on the plane. Alphas run, like, two degrees hotter. It’s nature’s way of…” he trails off, does a small spiral in the air with his index finger, then laughs breathily. “Can’t remember what it’s for. God, your hair is so soft.”
Louis keeps his hand locked around Harry’s wrist and propels him toward the elevator. He can smell it now, rolling off Harry in a dense, sugary wave. Pure, sweating omega, fresh and unconcealed and invasive as an open wound. It seeps into the tiles, into the elevator’s brushed steel walls, into Louis’ bloodstream. Beneath it is a sour, high note of slick, the tell-tale marker of someone who’s lost control so thoroughly that even strangers in the lobby can clock what’s happening.
The elevator ride is a battle of attrition. Harry leans against the wall and slides slowly downward, ending up on the floor with his head lolled to the side and his knees drawn up. “It’s so far, why’s everything so far here… Can’t they helicopter me?” He tries to bite his own knee and then giggles when he misses. “You’re pretty much my bodyguard, yeah? Can you carry me? I don’t mind, I’m not heavy at all. You could probably bench press me. Are you strong? You look strong.”
“Stand up,” Louis says, his voice so neutral it’s almost vacuum-sealed. “We’re nearly there.”
The elevator doors open on the penthouse floor. Louis gets Harry on his feet and half-drags, half-carries him down the silent, echoing corridor. Every step leaves a little wet print on the marble from Harry’s bare, damp feet. By the time they reach the suite, Harry is clinging to Louis with both arms around his neck.
Inside the suite, the air conditioning hits Louis cold, icy and disinfected. Harry immediately lets go and tumbles onto the nearest sofa, sprawling out like he’s attempting to achieve maximum surface area. His swim shorts, which are somehow even smaller when wet, have worked their way up so high that Louis has to forcibly not look at the shadowed, damp junction where they meet Harry’s thigh.
Harry stretches both arms overhead, his long fingers splaying against the armrest, and lets out a moan so borderline obscene it makes Louis’ entire body clench.
“‘M so thirsty,” Harry says, his voice gone husky. “Want some water. Got any glacial? From Iceland is preferred of course.”
Louis inhales, leaves him there, and steps into the kitchen, which is more of a wet bar with a juicer and gigantic fridge. He finds a bottle of Cristalo, Harry’s lucky day, and a banana.
When he returns, Harry is upside-down on the sofa, his hair trailing on the floor, one arm dangling and the other clutching at his own thigh. He takes the banana first, cradling it in both hands and staring at it with an expression of deep, contemplative sadness.
“Did you know,” Harry says, peeling the banana in one long, unbroken motion, “that they can’t actually reproduce without people? Bananas? They’re all clones.” He eats half the banana in one bite, lips shiny and slow. “Weird, right?”
“Unsettling,” Louis agrees. He sets the water on the coffee table and perches on the edge of an armchair, watching Harry from beneath half-lowered lashes. He should leave. There is nothing in his contract that says he has to babysit this man past the boundaries of public decency, and yet—
“Do you ever get lonely?” Harry asks suddenly, dropping the banana on the coffee table and rolling onto his side to face Louis. “You’re always working. I bet you don’t even know what you look like when you’re not working. I bet it’s, like, freaky to see yourself in a mirror after hours.” He rubs his face, then sits up, legs crossed at the ankles. “I bet you’re really hot when you’re not being paid to be nice.”
Louis pinches the bridge of his nose. The scent in the room is impossibly thick now, a damp, animal sweetness that clings to the back of his throat and makes it impossible to think about anything but the omega on the sofa and the way his skin is flushed and gleaming with need.
“I think it’s time for you to get some sleep,” Louis says. He stands, straightens his jacket, and moves toward the hallway that leads to the bedrooms.
Harry follows, slinking after him on bare feet, banana in hand. “You can’t put me in bed, turn off the light?” he asks, syrupy and innocent. “Or is that against the rules?”
Louis doesn’t answer. He opens the door to the master bedroom and gestures Harry inside. The room is as violently white as a hospital room, but Harry sits on the edge of the bed and looks up at Louis with half-lidded eyes.
“Can you help me out of these?” Harry tugs at his swim shorts, then, without waiting for a response, just yanks them down in one motion, kicking them across the room. For a fraction of a second, Louis sees the smearing slick between Harry’s legs, the way he’s marked himself with nail crescents, the mottled pink of his thighs and the entirety of his thick cock, half chubbed.
Louis spins on his heel so quickly he nearly loses balance, his alpha almost ripping a growl from his throat.
“Oh shit, oops,” Harry says, delighted. “You’re blushing, aren’t you?” Louis hears him crawl onto the bed. “You can look, if you want. I don’t mind. I’ve done nude shoots before.”
Louis takes three desperate breaths. “Are you decent?”
“Sadly,” Harry mumbles, pulling the duvet up to his chin.
Louis circles the bed and deposits the bottle of water on the nightstand. “You’ll thank yourself in the morning if you drink this before sleeping.”
“Will you be here in the morning?” Harry asks, eyelids fluttering.
“Regrettably, no.”
Harry pouts. “Will you at least stay until I fall asleep?”
Louis does not want to stay, but he does, sitting on the edge of the mattress as far from Harry as possible. He checks the in-suite iPad and books a full spa day for Harry starting at nine, with a hangover IV, deep tissue massage, and a double facial. He leaves a request for a hypoallergenic breakfast and extra electrolyte drinks.
Harry is quiet for a long moment, then asks, in a small, slurred voice, “Do you hate me? You can say if you do.”
Louis turns to look at him. Harry is blinking sleepily, his lips parted, and his eyes huge and vulnerable.
“No,” Louis says, and means it, in the oddest, worst way. “I do not hate you.”
Harry grins, pulls a pink sleep mask over his eyes, and in two seconds he’s snoring. Louis watches him breathe for a moment, then stands and leaves, closing the bedroom door with a final, gentle click.
In the corridor, he leans against the wall and presses the heels of his hands to his eyes, until the world goes starry and dark and empty of everything except the impossible taste of Harry Styles.
It takes Louis four minutes and three phone calls to restore every scrap of order to the penthouse level. None of it helps. The scent is still on his skin, clinging inside his lungs, and all the way down the elevator he can feel himself going fever-hot and desperate for an orgasm.
He’s still burning when he gets back to his flat. He’s still burning when he dreams.
··•🍹•··
Louis wakes to sunlight bleeding through the too-thin curtains and invading his skull. His mouth tastes like sleep and the ghost of Harry’s sweat. For a minute he can’t move his right leg, probably because it’s tangled in a twisted sheet, not a muscle cramp, but the distinction is crucial. He’s slept through his alarm. This never happens.
He smacks at the phone and finds, through the haze, a string of texts from Cecily, three from Lottie, and one from a number he doesn’t recognize, all in the hour since dawn. He ignores all of them in favor of shoving his face under the pillow and trying, uselessly, to recapture the tail end of the dream where Harry is bent in half over the concierge’s desk for Louis’ knot and every god in Monaco is weeping with jealousy.
After last night, Harry’s body and slick and voice, he should be empty and done. But the sheets are still a rumpled mess from several wanks last night. His cock still stirs between his legs. There’s a burn under his skin that didn’t get scratched all the way.
Louis showers with the water too hot, like he can melt the last twenty-four hours off himself. He towels off, scrubs his teeth, and catches his reflection in the mirror, finding high color and his lips bitten. He puts on a white shirt, the collar crisp, and the sleeves rolled twice. Expensive slacks, no tie. He’s not fucking around today.
In the kitchen he cracks two eggs and slides them into a pan, one-handed, because he’s better than everyone and needs to remind himself of it. While the eggs sizzle he calls Lottie back, the speakerphone propped against a bottle of olive oil.
“You’re alive,” she says, barely awake.
“Regrettably,” Louis says, folding a slice of gouda over the eggs.“What’s up?”
“Just checking if you drowned yourself in the infinity pool yet. Also, Mum says hi.”
He hmm’s, stabs at the eggs with a spatula, and hears Lottie’s yawn on the other end. She’s probably calling from her bed, surrounded by textbooks, hair in a pineapple bun. He misses her. She says, “You sound like shit. Is it the job?”
“Probably.” He flips the eggs onto a plate and wishes he had a cigarette. “Looking after a socialite omega this week. I genuinely think he’s got glitter for brains. No connection with reality, at all.”
Lottie snorts. “Does he know what a job is?”
“Not unless the job involves sparkly nail polish and giggling at the moon.” Louis shoves a forkful of egg into his mouth. “I have to go. Yacht party today.”
Lottie sighs softly. “You’ll kill it. Don’t let the posh twats get to you.”
He hangs up before the sentiment can spread.
On the drive to the resort he fields two calls; one from the liquor distributor, one from Cecily. Both want details he’s already handled. He gets to the staff entrance at 10:13, three minutes past his self-imposed lateness threshold, and takes the stairs two at a time up to the second floor. Cecily is already at her desk, and she hands him a coffee before he can sit.
“God, you look like someone’s morning-after.” She sniffs the air. “You sure you don’t need a nap?”
“If I nap, I’ll never wake up.” Louis sips the coffee and winces. “What’s the damage?”
She points at the schedule, perfectly color-coded. “Two tastings, three calls with brands. Yacht at fifteen. The spa called, Harry’s in there until at least thirteen.”
“Thank Christ for spa days.”
Cecily glances at him, then at the schedule, then at him again. “Should I be worried? You’ve got that look.”
Louis flattens the paper schedule with one palm, lines up his pen, and does not make eye contact. “If I vanish, avenge me.”
She laughs, too loud for the room. “I’ll have them carve your name into the marble.”
They work through the morning in productive silence. Louis double-checks the alcohol order, books the one DJ in Monaco who doesn’t play remixes of “Despacito,” and composes a string of emails to three separate PR teams, all of whom want Harry’s face attached to their brand. He’s about to throw his phone at the window when it vibrates with a new message. Harry, using excessive emojis and ellipses, requesting “wardrobe emergencies assistance.”
Louis writes back, “On my way.”
He finds Harry in the penthouse suite, door already unlocked, as if he has never heard of things like security or boundaries. Harry is not in the living room, not at the terrace bar, not even splayed across the velvet fainting couch. Louis follows the trail of scent, citrus and expensive, into the bedroom.
Harry is standing in front of the full-length mirror, back to the door. He is wearing lace panties and nothing else. They’re black, with an opalescent shimmer when Harry shifts his weight, like he’s doing it to catch the light on purpose. There’s a pile of clothing scattered across the bed: tiny shorts, tank tops, a crocheted pullover, several pairs of sunglasses.
Harry sees Louis in the mirror and waves, lazy, fingers splayed. “Can you help me? None of these look yacht enough.”
Louis considers quitting on the spot, just to pull those panties aside and fuck him without guilt. He clears his throat. “Are you expecting paparazzi or just trying to scandalize the entire coastline?”
Harry bites his lip. “I mean, they said dress ‘fun’ but, what does that mean? Do I do classic Monaco? Or, like, slutty Riviera?” Harry looks thoughtful, then glances over his shoulder, ass sticking out. “Which shorts? I can’t tell if they’ll make my hips look weird.”
Louis’ jaw tightens. He picks a pair of white denim cut-offs and holds them out. “Try these.”
Harry turns, drops the panties without fanfare, and steps into the shorts. His cock bounces as he does, heavy and uncut and already burned into Louis’ brain.
“These feel weird,” Harry says, tugging the waistband and twisting. “Should I wear panties with for once?”
“They’re tailored. They won’t ride up.”
Harry blinks at him, clearly not understanding. “They’re, like, really small.”
Louis pinches the bridge of his nose. “Thought you liked them that way…”
Harry pouts, then pivots to the bed and drapes a knitted cover-up over his shoulders. “Do you think I need to do more chest?”
Louis stares at the material, at the tattoos peeking through, Harry’s round tits, the softness everywhere. He wants to rip the cover-up off and pound Harry into the mattress until neither of them can breathe.
He says, “No. You’re distracting enough.”
Harry beams. “Can you help with the necklace? I can’t get it clipped.”
Louis takes the chain; delicate gold, gaudy with tiny charms, and stands behind Harry, fixing the clasp. He lets the backs of his fingers brush Harry’s neck, just once. Harry shivers.
“Thanks,” Harry says, voice softer than usual. He looks at Louis in the mirror, eyes wide, lips parted.
Louis drops his hands and steps back. “You’re due on the yacht in fifteen.”
Harry spins, flops onto the bed, and sighs. “My life is so much work.”
“Right, truly exhausting,” Louis says, gathering the discarded clothing into a pile.
Harry giggles. “You don’t think I’m, like, hard to handle right?”
Louis meets his gaze. “I think you’re very good at being exactly what everyone expects.”
Harry seems to take this as a compliment. He rolls onto his stomach, legs kicking behind him. “You’re good at your job, too. I’ve never had a handler who was so…” He trails off, tongue flicking over his bottom lip. “Delicious.”
Louis ignores this. “I’ll walk you down.”
He gets Harry to the elevator with minimal incident, though Harry can’t go ten feet without adjusting his sunglasses or smoothing his hair. There’s a nervous energy radiating off him, even though he pretends not to care. In the mirrored elevator walls, their reflections multiply. Harry lounges against the back, a vision of synthetic fabrics and engineered beauty, while Louis stands at attention, knuckles white on the handle of the wardrobe case.
They step out onto the marina deck. Sun, wind, photographers. Louis signals the crew, checks the seating arrangements, and makes sure the first bottle of champagne is open before Harry even boards.
He watches, from a safe distance, as Harry climbs onto the yacht, cameras firing, every angle perfect.
The yacht is white enough to burn holes in retinas and loud enough to cure the deaf. By the time the party clears port, Louis’ shirt is already clinging with sweat. He paces the deck perimeter, invisible until needed, though his name is never not in the air: “Louis, do you know where my lip oil is?” “Louis, can you tell them not to cut the tuna so thick?” “Louis, I want to pet a turtle, can you get one?” He handles the trivialities with professional warmth, never a single one betraying his baseline urge to walk off the gangway and into the drink.
Harry is everywhere. He starts at the bow, glass in hand, knit cover-up clinging to his chest, already posing with a spontaneous sense of drama. The photographers track his every movement, but it’s not enough; Harry spots Louis by the stairs, waves him over with a trill of, “Louis! Over here! I need you!”
Harry tugs him to the railing, half-empty champagne bottle dangling from one hand, the other smoothing a curl behind his ear. “Can you take pictures of me?” he asks. He shoves his own phone at Louis, then leans with exaggerated care against the banister, angling his hips to perfection. There’s a science to it: one leg forward, chin dipped, the faintest shimmer of gloss on his lips. “But get the water behind me,” Harry instructs. “Otherwise it’s just, like, another yacht shot and that’s boring.”
He doesn’t notice the way the wind shoves his shirt up and exposes half his abs. Or maybe he does, and this is just how he feeds. Louis frames the shot, taps twice to focus, and says, “Smile.” Harry’s smile is blinding.
He poses for four more, each less dignified, and then grabs the phone. He thumbs through, nodding. “Oooh, I look amazing.” The champagne sloshes over his wrist and drips down to the deck. “You’re really good at this,” he says. “You should take more of me later. But with the sunset. Golden hour, right?”
“Right,” Louis says, “golden hour.”
A trio of influencers, their faces already sliding into a midday gloss, call Harry over. He goes willingly, almost skipping, but not before glancing back at Louis like he’s left something important behind.
Louis breathes out, feels himself loosen slightly. He wipes a stray drop of champagne from his knuckles, then heads below deck to the main salon. The party here is less frantic but no less grotesque. Liam, at least, is behind the bar, sleeves up, arms already sticky with syrup and sweat.
“Rough day?” Liam asks as Louis slides onto a barstool. The yacht shudders; someone has convinced the captain to punch the throttle.
“Please,” Louis says, “can I get a glass of whatever makes me legally blind for an hour?”
Liam grins, pours something brown and dangerous, and slides it across. “I saw your personal sidekick outside,” he says, voice pitched just under the music. “You two coordinating outfits now?”
Louis drinks. “Wouldn’t be surprised if he made me.”
They only get in thirty minutes of conversation before a squeal comes from the upper deck, followed by a chorus of “Shots! Shots!” and Harry’s distinct giggle, bright as the Golden Gates. Louis tilts his head back, eyes closed, counting slowly in French. When he opens them, Harry is standing in the stairwell, lips pink and parted, bottle of tequila in one hand, clutching a glass of orange juice in the other.
“Louis!” he shouts. “Come up! You promised golden hour!” He says it like they’re best friends, lovers, children raised in the same cradle. Like Louis has ever promised him anything.
Liam looks at Louis over the top of a cocktail shaker, eyebrows arched. “Obligations,” he says.
Louis stands, smooths the front of his shirt, and follows Harry up the stairs. The light at the top is blinding, and for a moment Louis is genuinely disoriented. There are bodies everywhere, skin everywhere, the smell of sunblock and sweat and the undertone of heat-sharp pheromones that make the inside of Louis’ nose prickle.
Harry is already at the rail, perched like a seabird, leaning into the sun. There’s a ring of admirers, all too pretty, all too loud, and Harry at the center, glass in hand, talking to a guy who is not listening but nodding anyway. The guy, to Louis’ instant and irrational irritation, is built like a magazine ad for protein shakes. He’s taller than Harry; dark hair, perfect teeth. He is touching Harry’s bare waist, just above the shorts.
Louis’ hands curl into themselves. He moves to the edge of the crowd, as unobtrusive as possible, and watches.
Harry is saying: “You have really big arms,” He leans closer, presses his shoulder into the protein guy’s arm. “Do you think that’s because of gravity, or, like… your diet?”
Protein guy laughs, squeezes Harry’s waist. “You’re real lucky you’re so pretty.”
Harry beams, then spots Louis over the man’s shoulder and waves, wild. “Louis! C’mere!” He doesn’t wait for Louis to approach; he wriggles free of the man’s grip and nearly skips across the teak, tequila sloshing in his cup.
He stops too close, breathing hard. The air between them is sweet with fruit and sea. “Can you help me with something?” Harry asks, and Louis nods, because it’s always yes, always fucking yes.
“Anything,” he says, and immediately regrets the word. Harry’s eyes widen with delight. He thrusts the tequila bottle at Louis. “Open this? My hands are all slippery.”
Louis takes the bottle, cracks the seal, and hands it back. Harry drinks straight from the mouth, then wipes his lips with the back of his hand. He looks up at Louis with glazed, unfocused affection.
“Can you take a picture of me with Markus?” he asks. “He’s a friend, and he’s super famous in Finland.” He giggles. “He’s also an Olympic swimmer, so you should definitely get his legs in it. Isn’t that crazy?”
Louis suppresses a huff. He says, “So crazy,” and follows Harry back to the crowd.
Harry slips under Markus’ arm, snuggles close, and Louis feels his teeth grit, an unreasonable heat rolling through him. He frames the shot, holds the phone steady, and watches the way Markus’ hand lands just at the small of Harry’s back. There’s a moment, half a second, when Harry tips his head onto Markus’ shoulder, and it’s so perfectly staged that Louis feels like he might crack his molars grinding them together.
“How perfect,” Louis says, voice flat. He taps the shutter, hands the phone back, and turns to leave. But Harry catches his wrist, long fingers winding around Louis’ pulse point, and tugs him closer.
He tucks his hair behind his ear, suddenly shy, and says, “Thanks for being a good sport. I know you’re busy.”
Louis looks at him, sees the way the sun turns the tips of his curls gold, the way his lips are parted and wet, the faintest flush on his cheeks. He wants, for just a second, to do something profoundly stupid in front of all these rich people.
“Someone’s gotta keep you out of trouble,” Louis says.
Harry laughs, then cocks his head. “You really think I’m trouble?”
Louis considers this. “I think you’re the reason my job exists in the first place.”
Harry stares at him for a long beat, then laughs again, softer, and spins away, already headed back to the crowd.
It only gets worse. By late afternoon, Harry’s everywhere at once, collecting admirers. He talks to everyone, poses for every photo, climbs to the sun deck and lounges across beanbags in what has to be a very intentional display of flesh. He’s a good-time slut and doesn’t care who knows it.
It’s not until sunset, when the music slows to a throbbing bass, that Harry manages to break something in Louis. He’s curled up on Markus’ lap, giggling into the man’s neck, fingers tracing lazy lines on Markus’ bare thigh. Their faces are close enough to touch. Markus whispers something into Harry’s ear, and the omega melts, head falling back in a show of unselfconscious pleasure.
That’s enough.
Louis is across the deck in four strides. He doesn’t say anything, just grabs Harry by the elbow, gentle but unyielding. Harry blinks up at him, lips parted in a perfect O.
“Sorry,” Louis says to Markus, voice ice-cold. “Harry’s needed for a group photo.”
Markus releases him, a little stunned. Harry follows Louis willingly, stumbling only once as they move through the press of bodies. At the edge of the deck, where the wind is strongest and the music a little muffled, Louis stops, turns.
“Am I in trouble?” Harry asks, voice small but a little thrilled.
Louis wants to yell, shake him, or pin him to the railing and fuck the smugness out of his entire being. Instead, he takes a breath.
“You are the trouble.”
Harry beams. “Can we do the group photos in front of the sunset?”
The group photos don’t exist, but Louis can’t say no. He never could.
··•🍹•··
They barely make it through the lobby without incident. Harry’s hair is still matted from salt water, streaked with starlight and sweat, and he giggles like a deranged heiress every time Louis hisses at him to keep it down. The penthouse suite glows with its own artificial sunrise when the door clicks shut behind them. Harry kicks off his sandals, guaranteed to have cost something absurd, and pads inside, trailing the scent of spilt champagne and expensive sunscreen. He goes directly to the balcony, all arms and lolling grace, and leans over the banister.
Louis stands, watching the omega’s long, bare legs, thighs marked with red from a chaise lounge and the suction of someone else’s mouth. He stretches, croons something about the “moon being really big tonight, huh?” then forgets what he’s saying and turns with a twist of his hips that’s pure, accidental seduction.
Louis feels his own self-control chip at the edges. He smooths his hands over his trousers, counts backward (yes, in French). He’s here to ensure that this walking lawsuit gets into bed safely, and that’s all. The wet, swollen ache in his own groin is irrelevant.
Harry moves inside, kicks at the edge of the rug, and flops backwards onto the bed. “God, I’m so tired,” he whines. “Did you know my parents wanted me to take fencing? When I was little? Imagine me with a sword. Wait, did I ever tell you I have a sword? I’ll show you.”
Louis stays by the door, one hand on the deadbolt, but his vision is narrowing. Harry’s scent is crowding the oxygen out of the room; humid, sugared, ripened by heat and alcohol and the last hints of slick he never even tried to hide. It’s not even a proper heat; it’s just Harry, so fundamentally gorgeous omega he doesn’t need a cycle to send half the world’s population into a slow spiral of obsession.
Louis could leave now. He should. Instead, he stands at attention, the dutiful staff member, watching the most expensive disaster on the Riviera pillow-hump the luxury linens, legs kicked up and crossed at the ankles, pink toes splayed.
Then Harry turns over onto his back, throws an arm over his face, and says, in a voice that could topple entire civilizations: “M’so wet all over. Can you believe it? They said there was a freshwater shower on the boat, but it was honestly a scam.”
He lifts the cover-up he’s wearing, and exposes his stomach, hips, the defined curve above his cock. His skin is flushed, marked in some places with faint impressions of hands, in others by the sun itself. He wipes at his abs like he can brush the sweat away. Then, as if he’s entirely alone, he hooks his fingers into the band of his shorts and works them down, past his thighs, and lets them dangle at the knees. His cock is already half-hard, glistening at the tip. The smell of him is immediate, irresistible, dizzying.
“You don’t have to look,” Harry says, eyes closed, voice dreamy, as if Louis isn’t standing there devouring him with every sense. “I just hate feeling all icky.” He sighs, rolls onto his stomach, and the shorts drop away completely, leaving him ass-up, legs carelessly apart.
Louis feels the alpha in him rupture. It is not a soft, beckoning thing, but a sudden, raw insurgence: a wave of molten heat, an unmanageable, animalistic loss of control.
He’s across the room before he knows he’s moved. He’s never lost control like this, not once in twenty-some years of orchestrating every aspect of his own life. But the image of Harry, spread and leaking, skin gleaming and soft, overrides something in his willpower. He’s on Harry in a blink, pinning him to his back with a hand around the throat and a knee between his thighs. Harry makes a delicious, startled gasp.
Louis grips his throat harder, thumb pressed to the vulnerable spot just under Harry’s jaw. “Look at me,” he says, and it comes out as a growl, his grip forcing Harry to look at him. “You don’t even fucking know what you do to people, do you?”
Harry blinks, dazed and dumb, lips parted and glistening. He tries to answer, but all that comes out is a whimper, the sound vibrating through Louis’ hand. Louis leans in, mouth to Harry’s ear, and repeats, “Do you?”
Harry shakes his head, curls brushing Louis’ cheek. Louis slides his grip upward, slipping from Harry’s throat to the back of his head, threading his fingers through the slick curls until he can force Harry’s chin up, expose the line of his jaw. The omega’s pulse is frantic against his palm. He noses along the curve, inhaling, letting the scent soak into him. Harry shudders, lashes fluttering, lips parted wet and soft.
Louis grits into his ear, voice shredded with contempt and something far less civil. “You this obscene on purpose?” He pushes Harry’s face down, makes him feel the weight and the focus. “Hoping to get every fucking alpha in the city to want you?”
Harry moans, turned on and gratifyingly desperate. He tries to speak, but Louis won’t let him, only twists his hand deeper into the mess of hair and drags his mouth down his neck. He finds the spot just above the collarbone where Harry’s scent spikes, sharp-sweet, as if someone had spilled champagne and vanilla on the hottest skin in Monaco. He bites there, far from gentle. Harry’s hips stutter against the mattress, rutting up without shame.
Louis laughs, low, degrading. “You’re so easy,” he breathes, and lets his teeth scrape over the tender gland, tongue pressing cruelly into the heat. Harry’s whole body jerks, slick blooming between his thighs, a fresh, soaked wave that makes Louis want to ruin him until sunrise.
“Please,” Harry rasps, and the word is nothing like speech, more like a pulse that travels through Louis’ hand and into his own bones. “Please touch me.”
Louis gives him what he wants, but only piece by piece. He kisses Harry hard, bites at the gloss-sticky mouth, and Harry fucking melts, whimpering against Louis’ lips, opening up with desperate, mindless hunger. His slick tongue licks into Louis’ mouth, sweet and frantic, like he’ll die if he stops for air. Louis palms the back of Harry’s head and holds him there, makes him take every second of it.
When he pulls away, Harry chases the kiss, mouth wet and pink, eyes blown so wide it’s comical. His hands fumble at Louis’ shirt, tugging until the buttons strain, but Louis bats them away, pinning Harry’s wrists to the mattress. He has to see this: the way Harry looks when he’s denied, when he’s so desperate he can’t control himself.
Louis slides a hand down, slow on purpose, fingers tracing the slicked line of Harry’s throat, down his chest, over the soft curve of his belly. Harry is trembling, every muscle tensed, like he’s holding himself together by a single thread. Louis grips Harry’s inner thigh, feels the shiver, then spreads him wider, until Harry’s knees are splayed and Louis can see his hole pulsing.
He pushes two fingers inside with nothing but the slick already drooling out of him. Harry’s body clamps down so hard and so fast Louis bites back a smirk. He shoves his fingers in to the knuckle, just to hear the sharp, strangled noise Harry makes.
He keeps his weight braced over Harry, arm rigid, watching the omega’s face contort, his eyebrows pinched, mouth falling open, the flush on his cheeks spreading down his neck and chest in a bloom of ugly, gorgeous color. Harry’s thighs snap shut around Louis’ wrist, then kick open again, a stuttering, desperate rhythm that’s pure reflex and no thought.
“Fuck, you’re soaked baby,” Louis says, and he curls his fingers as he says it, just to make Harry’s back arch and his hands claw at the sheets. “You get like this at every party, or just the ones where you’re the center of attention?”
Harry’s gaze won’t focus. His hips jerk, chasing the movement of Louis’ hand, greedy for literally anything. Louis flattens his palm and grinds it down, thumb pressed hard against the soft, slick skin just above Harry’s hole, and he can feel every tremor vibrating through Harry’s body, like the omega’s bones are going to shake themselves apart.
Louis adds another finger, then another, and Harry takes four, slick running down to soak the crease of his thighs.
“Oh, fuck, fuck, feels s’fucking—” He can’t even finish a sentence, but the intent is clear in the way his body jolts, frantic.
Louis’ hand is absolutely fucking drenched. The sound is purely vile: slick, wet, louder than the crash of blood in Louis’ ears. He pumps his fingers in and out, knuckles-deep, the tight ring of Harry’s rim stretching and shivering around the swell of his hand. Harry’s moans are a high, reedy echo off the painted ceiling, his thighs shaking so hard the mattress trembles beneath them both.
“Jesus Christ, listen to you.” Louis can’t stop himself from twisting, spreading, working Harry open even further, until the resistance is almost nothing, just a hot, yawning pull that tries to drag every inch of him inside. He fans his fingers, watches the way Harry’s greedy cunt muscles try to suck them back together.
Harry tries to breathe, but it’s just a hiccup, a raw, helpless little omega whimper. His hips cant in frantic little circles, cock heavy and untouched, dripping a string of clear pre that sticks to the sheet and beads at the head. The air’s so thick with wet, desperate omega that Louis is nearly, gloriously suffocated.
He pulls his fingers out of Harry, wet to the knuckle, and shoves them up against Harry’s mouth. The omega latches on, desperate, lips glossy and parted obscenely wide. He sucks, eyes shut, like it’s bliss, moaning on each inhale. Louis can feel the drag of tongue and teeth, the way Harry chokes himself trying to swallow every inch, the sweet little pulse of his throat as he moans around the intrusion.
“God, you’re such a little slut,” Louis says, voice grittier than he’s heard from himself in years. Harry only shivers, eyelashes wet.
Louis drags his fingers slow from Harry’s mouth, glistening and flushed with spit, and watches the omega chase after them with a whine so needy it’s almost pathetic. The sight of Harry’s lips, stretched pink around knuckles, makes it certain Louis needs his cock there. Needs it more than he needs air. He yanks at his own belt with one hand, undoes the zip, works himself out, already fully hard.
He fists the base, lines up the head with Harry’s mouth, and taps it over Harry’s lips, smearing the taste of himself over the swollen, pretty bow. Harry’s tongue comes out instantly, lapping at the slit, and Louis almost blacks out from the rush of feeling. He presses in, just a little, lets Harry mouth at the head, then pulls back with a growl.
Harry looks up at him, eyes huge, and parts his lips wider, wordless, the picture of debauched invitation.
Louis can’t say no to this. He fists Harry’s curls, tight, and feeds the omega his cock, just the tip first, then more. Harry moans as it sinks in, chokes a little, but relaxes his jaw and takes more, and more, until Louis feels the hot squeeze of throat around him and loses the last scrap of composure.
“Fuck,” he mutters, jaw clenched, fighting the urge to just fuck right down Harry’s throat until he can’t breathe. He rocks his hips, slow at first, savoring the slide of tongue, the wet slap of drool down Harry’s chin, then harder, one hand braced against the headboard, the other locked in Harry’s mess of curls.
He can see his cock stretch Harry’s mouth, his plush lips pinked from the pressure. Harry gags, a tear streaking down his cheek, but even that seems to please him. He works his throat open, swallowing down every inch without difficulty.
Louis pulls back, letting Harry cough and gasp, then shoves in again, slow and remorseless. “You like that?” Louis mutters, voice a broken, velvet thing. “Dumb cockslut like you? This what you’re made for?”
Harry can’t answer, mouth full, but his eyes flutter ecstatically, high on being used and degraded. He lets himself be Louis’ toy, tongue working frantically every time Louis bottoms out. Drool pools at the edge of his lips and spills down his chin, onto his neck, onto Louis’ hand on his jaw. Louis watches the whole thing, transfixed, hating himself for how beautiful it looks, the way Harry’s pretty mouth opens up around his cock, the gurgle in the back of his throat as he takes it deeper each time.
“Mm, you’re so pretty when you’re a mess,” Louis says. “Pretty and empty. Like there’s nothing going on in that gorgeous head except what I put there.”
Harry whimpers, a noise that vibrates right up Louis’ spine, and tries to push himself farther onto Louis’ cock, needy and insatiable. Louis pulls out with a slick pop, leaving Harry’s mouth open, gasping, spit-roped and desperate. The omega paws at him, tries to follow, but Louis clamps a hand around Harry’s jaw and forces his chin up, makes him look. Harry blinks, dazed, lips swollen and pink, his face a mess of drool and pre-come. His legs kick uselessly across the sheets, like he’s forgotten what to do with them.
Louis wipes his cock along Harry’s cheek, smears a glistening trail. “You need it so bad,” he says, voice low, “absolutely dripping and I haven’t even fucked you.”
The pleading sound Harry lets out is more feral than anything human. He pushes up on his elbows and meets Louis’ mouth with a rough, needy collision, tongue hot and frantic. The taste of himself, of skin and slick and spit, is thick between them. Harry moans into the kiss, arches his back, tries to grind his cock against Louis’ thigh, the motion so desperate it’s nearly graceless.
“Please,” Harry manages, breathing it out against Louis’ teeth. “Want your cock so fucking bad…need—need you to fuck me, please, please,—” He can barely even talk, just rutting his hips up, leaking slick onto the sheets like a broken thing.
Louis shoves Harry back onto the bed, presses a knee between his thighs, and shoves his own cock against the curve of Harry’s ass. It’s a mess, slippery and filthy, the two of them rutting like Harry’s in heat.
“You want me to stuff that pretty little omega pussy of yours?” He draws the word out, a knife between Harry’s legs. “Think you need all those empty thoughts fucked right out of that head. C’mon, present nice for me, baby.”
Harry scrambles to obey, rolling over and up in a fluid snap. He props himself hands and knees, arching his back to a ridiculous, pornographic degree, thick thighs spreading to show off the mess Louis made. The omega’s cock dangles heavy, beaded with slick and pre-come, and when he turns his head to look over his shoulder, it’s with the dumbest, prettiest smile Louis has ever seen.
“Like this?” he pants, hair in his eyes, eyelashes stuck together with tears and desire. He wiggles his hips, a shameful little dance, and spreads himself wider.
Louis doesn’t answer. He slaps Harry’s ass, hard, a shock of contact that leaves his own hand stinging and Harry gasping, arching even higher. Skin flushes pink immediately, then red, a perfect print blooming on the left cheek.
Harry’s moan is shameless, high and breathless, and he looks back with his mouth open, panting, begging for more. Louis gives it to him: another smack, harder, then a third, the sound echoing in the monstrous penthouse bedroom. Harry’s thighs tremble, spreading for balance, and he drops his chest lower, presenting so openly.
“Yeah, good boy, just like that,” Louis whispers. He lines up his cock, thick and leaking, and shoves in with a single, brutal drive. Harry’s whole body jerks; the sound punched out of him purely guttural. Louis drags out, then slams back in, relentless, hips snapping forward to bury himself as deep as he can go.
Harry takes all of it, choking and whimpering highly, hair stuck to his flushed, sweaty face. Louis grabs Harry’s hips, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise, and fucks him with reckless force. Every thrust slams Harry forward on the bed, his arms buckling, legs spread so wide Louis can see everything; the squeeze of slicked flesh around his cock, the way Harry’s hole spasms and drools, the bounce of his ass every time Louis hammers in.
There’s nothing in the world except their movement, friction, the fucking sound. The headboard keeps slamming the wall, and there’s the slap of skin on skin, the sopping wet noise of Harry’s cunt getting split open. Harry’s moaning nonstop, half words and whimpers, as pornographic as he looks.
Louis leans over, crowding Harry down into the mattress, pinning him flat. He bites at Harry’s neck, right behind the delicate omega gland, and sucks hard until he knows he’ll leave a mark. Harry shudders, pushing back into every thrust.
“Y-eah, yeah,” Harry slurs stupidly, “nmmmph, don’t stop—fuck, it’s so…good—” He loses the thread, just moaning high pitched, hands fisting the sheets.
“Yeah. You were made for this,” Louis says, one hand around Harry’s throat, not choking but holding him steady as he pistons in. “Good for nothing but getting split open, are you?”
Harry shakes his head, curls bouncing, mouth wide open. “No, no, just a warm little hole, fuck, just a hole for you, alpha.” He’s so far gone it’s like the rest of the world doesn’t exist anymore.
Louis grins sickly, lets his teeth scrape the curve of Harry’s jaw as he pounds into him, relentless, until Harry’s arms collapse and he’s just sprawled out, taking everything.
“Gorgeous like this…” Louis bites out, “fucking mess, can’t even keep yourself together.” He reaches down and jerks Harry’s cock, fist slick and punishing.
Harry comes instantly, shuddering so hard he locks up, moaning brokenly into the mattress. But Louis doesn’t let up, not even when Harry sobs from overstimulation, not even when he tries to twist away. He keeps fucking him, talking, holding him in place.
When he’s finally ready, he pulls Harry up by the hair, licks the sweat from the side of his neck, and bites down, hard, on the scent gland, not enough to bond, but enough to claim. Harry sobs loudly and comes again, limp and utterly abused.
“Mmm you love that. Being marked like a good little thing I just fucked full.” Louis pants, his words hot and wet against Harry’s ear. “Bet you’d take anything I gave you.”
Harry mumbles something, face mashed into the pillow, but Louis hears it: “Please, please, come on me, need to feel—” and that’s all it takes.
He tightens his grip on Harry’s hips, hips stuttering as he fucks in, deeper, letting the tight, gloving heat of Harry’s cunt milk every inch. Harry’s making a noise now, high and continuous, a keening siren that only makes Louis fuck him harder. He’s going to knot if he doesn’t get a handle on himself, he’s going to lose it entirely, and he should at least try to maintain a shred of dignity.
At the last possible second he yanks out, cock slick and pulsing, and strokes himself twice, hard, and comes across the small of Harry’s back in thick, hot stripes. Some of it spatters the curve of Harry’s ass, some of it runs down between the cheeks and drips right onto the rim of his ruined hole. There’s so much of it, it’s filthy, pooling in the dimples of Harry’s lower back and dripping down onto the sheets. Louis rubs the head of his cock along Harry’s hole, smearing the mess in, watching as it oozes inside. Harry’s spent, but the way he arches into Louis’ hand says he’d take another round if offered.
Harry’s still shaking, body clenching and loosening in aftershocks. Louis lets his cock nudge at the slack hole, resting there, watching the way Harry’s body trembles at the heat.
Harry slumps, mouth open and flushed all over, breathing so hard his whole body rocks with it. Every inch of him is branded with Louis’ hands, every strip of skin pink or glossed with slick. He reaches down, pawing between his thighs, and drags a streak of come across his thigh, smearing it in like lotion. He’s a mess. He’s perfect.
“Fuck,” Louis says, letting his hand fall heavy to Harry’s hip. “You’re…” There’s no word for it in any language he knows.
Harry doesn’t move for a long minute, just lets the air conditioner blast over his dripping skin, lets his hole gape and leak and twitch, legs still spread in a slow sprawl. Eventually he rolls onto his side, yawns, and pulls the pillow to his chest. He’s grinning, dopy and satisfied, and when he looks at Louis his eyes are glassed over with exhaustion and triumph.
“Is that how you say goodnight in Monte Carlo?”
··•🍹•··
Louis wakes to a sound he doesn’t recognize and the feeling of something heavy dragging itself up his chest.
He has a single, perfect moment of not knowing where he is or whose skin is pressed against his, and then Harry’s thigh slides up between his legs and the answer is everywhere, all at once. There’s a hand on his jaw, an arm curled under his neck, long hair spilling over his collarbone, lips already ghosting a line up his cheek.
It’s pitch black except for the faint blue from the suite’s terrace, and Louis can’t see Harry’s face, but he can feel it: the shape of his mouth, the heat of his breath, the absolute, relentless grind of Harry’s hips against his. Louis makes a noise, something between a grunt and a yawn, but Harry ignores it, just keeps rolling his body down until Louis is fully awake and rapidly losing his mind.
“Harry,” Louis croaks, voice stuck to the back of his throat. He’s never been this tired and this hard at the same time in his life.
Harry is breathing like he’s run a marathon, little pants that shiver across Louis’ cheek. “Louis,” he says, soft, and then he bites, sharp and barely pulled. “Need you. Right now. Knot me. Please.”
Louis wants to say, You had me hours ago, but he can’t get his mouth to work. Harry’s cock is rutting against his stomach, leaving sticky heat everywhere, and the mess of it is somehow the least overwhelming part.
He tries to lever Harry off with an arm, but it just ends up wrapped around Harry’s waist, holding him tighter. “You’re— what the fuck— it’s the middle of the night,” Louis manages, which is ridiculous because he’s already lining up their hips and arching for more friction.
Harry whimpers at the contact, a full-body shudder, and then he’s kissing Louis like he can’t breathe without it. The taste is different than before; sweeter, cloying, like overripe fruit or syrup in the summer. Louis feels the spike of it straight down to his cock, and he shoves a hand into Harry’s hair to pull him away, just long enough to see if Harry’s even conscious.
“Are you high?” Louis asks. It’s not a joke. Harry’s eyes are blown, and he’s sweating so hard it’s dripping onto Louis’ pillow.
Harry shakes his head, curls in even closer, and mouths at the corner of Louis’ jaw. “Heat,” he mumbles. “It’s—oh, god—‘m in heat, Louis.”
Louis stills completely. For a single, suspended second, it’s like someone’s poured cold water over him.
“Now?” he says. “Right now? Are you sure?”
Harry laughs, breathless. “You, like, triggered it,” he says, like it’s obvious. “Wasn’t supposed to happen ‘til I got home. I was—fuck—supposed to have a week.”
Louis tries to process this. Tries to care about the logistics of it, but Harry is grinding on him like his life depends on it, and the sheets are slick, and something in Louis’ brain just shorts out.
Harry's mouth lands on his ear and doesn’t budge, breathing filth into it: want you want you want you, need you to fuck me, need knotted, need to be split open and bred, please Louis please, nonsense, but filthy nonsense, and it’s crawling straight to Louis’ cock. Harry’s tongue flicks over the shell of his ear, then he latches on and sucks hard, all while rutting his cock in a wild, helpless rhythm against Louis’ hip.
Louis tries for dignity, some low, growled “Jesus, Harry, slow down,” but Harry just digs his hands deeper into Louis’ hair and licks a filthy, wet stripe down the side of his neck.
He grabs for Harry’s ass on pure instinct, tries to keep him in place, but Harry’s sweating and urgent and slippery, wriggling until he’s straddling Louis’ thigh. The heat between Harry’s legs is unreal, and Louis wants to pretend he’s above humping like teenagers, but he is absolutely not.
Harry claws around to grab Louis’ cock, then shoves up onto his knees and sits on it, heavy and perfect. He does it without warning, just the wet, molten clamp of Harry’s body, slick and absurd, swallowing him to the root in a single, desperate push. Louis’ vision whites out. He fists the sheets, tries to breathe, but Harry’s already moving; rolling his hips, grinding down and making a fucking mess of both of them.
The heat is blinding. Louis can’t think, can’t parse the way Harry’s cunt clenches and milks him, the way slick drips down his balls and pools on the sheets. Harry’s hands find Louis’ shoulders, nails digging crescent moons, and he rides like he’ll die, every bounce making Louis’ cock throb harder, thicker, already threatening to knot.
Harry leans down and catches Louis’ mouth with his own, mashing their lips together, open-mouthed. Louis’ tongue is already there, meeting Harry’s, slick and hot, and then they’re just—tongue fucking, tasting each other. Harry licks into Louis’ mouth, messy, rutting his tongue the way he’s rutting his cock, like he wants to get so far inside Louis he might never find his way out. The kiss is more just biting and sucking, and the wet sounds of their mouths fighting for space, Harry sucking Louis’ tongue in and then letting him take it back, trading places until Louis’ jaw aches and his cock aches worse. Harry moans into him, high and raw, then sucks on his bottom lip until it’s numb.
When Harry finally tears himself away, lips bruised and spit-slick, Louis is not sure if he’s breathing, or if it matters. Harry’s hair is everywhere, wild, and Louis clutches it to pull him in, but instead Harry’s head lolls back, throat bare, jaw slack, so gone on it he can barely keep his eyes open.
Louis licks a stripe up Harry’s neck, then fits his mouth right against Harry’s ear, voice low and dark: “Had my cock once and went straight into heat, hmm? You’re so wet it’s dripping down my fucking thighs,” He bites down on the shell of Harry’s ear, hard enough to make Harry whine, then keeps going, words a growl: “What’s left of that brain, sweetheart? Anything at all?”
Harry’s gone past words, just a trembling, panting mess. He’s so fucked out he can’t even answer, just shakes so hard Louis can feel it against his body. Louis shoves him higher, lets Harry’s body slide up his chest, cock still buried inside and twitching. Harry’s nipple brushes Louis’ mouth, sweaty and flushed and begging for it, and Louis closes his lips around it, sucks hard, bites down.
Harry explodes in an instant. He comes with a wrecked, strangled cry, shooting all over Louis’ stomach and chest, shaking so violently it rattles the bedframe. He doesn’t stop, either; just keeps pulsing, helpless, cock leaking against Louis’ skin. The noises out of his mouth are brainless, just a stream of filthy, broken pleading: “fuckfuckfuck, need it, need your knot so fucking bad, fill me, please, fuck, oh fuck—” slurred, desperate.
Louis is done pretending he has any restraint. He grabs Harry by the waist, lifts him off, and flips them, pinning Harry flat to the bed. Harry’s body is limp, arms flung wide, thighs open and shaking, cock still twitching as he blinks up at Louis. For a split second, Louis lets himself appreciate the impossible beauty of this omega, the wreck of him, the tangle of hair, the ruined tear streaked green of his eyes, and the way Harry’s hole is still fluttering, desperate and empty.
Louis lines himself up, and fucks back in, hard enough to punch a noise out of Harry that’s broken. He snaps his hips, pounding home, and grinds out, “This what you wanted, then? Someone to ruin you for good so every slick-drunk alpha knows who fucking claimed you?”
Harry’s eyes roll back; he’s drooling, moaning, nails sinking deep into Louis’ biceps. Louis can’t get enough of the way he sounds, the way he opens up, takes it ruthless and shameless.
“Feels so thick—s’so big, I’m gonna split, you’re gonna break me—I want it, I want it, I want it, knot me Louis.”
Louis wants to draw it out, savor the sight of Harry clawing at the sheets and stuttering on every breath, but there’s no time, not when Harry’s body is already rippling around him, trying to empty his cock for everything he’s got. He shoves Harry’s knees up to his chest, folding him in half, and pins him there with one arm, the other braced at the headboard. He fucks in hard, every thrust punching a gasp out of Harry, until the slick is everywhere, soaking their thighs, the sheets. It’s unbelievable, the way Harry’s cunt grips him, how the walls flutter and squeeze like they’re trying to memorize the shape of him.
Louis bends low and bites at the sweat-slicked curve of Harry’s shoulder, just to hear the way he keens. “You don’t even know what knotting means, do you? Just want something big to fill you up and shut your mindless mouth.”
Harry nods, wild, curls pasted to his forehead, eyes glazed and frantic. “Yeah, yeah, body’s made for you, keep going, keep going, don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t—”
Louis just slams in, grinding his cock as deep as it will go, and feels the telltale swell begin, base thickening, stretching Harry’s body so wide Louis can see the strain in his thighs. Harry sobs, writhes, but it’s not pain, never pain, just desperate, all-consuming need.
Louis knots, and the rush is electric, a whiteout that blinds him for a second. Harry’s cunt clamps down, spasms so tight Louis thinks he might actually black out, and then Harry starts coming again, second wave so brutal it arches him off the bed. His cock paints both their stomachs, ropes of it, and he screams, a sound that’s half-moan, half-sob.
Louis rides it out, rutting through the aftershocks, not stopping until Harry’s body has wrung every drop from him, until his ears are ringing and his thighs are shaking and there’s nothing in the universe except the two of them, welded together, mess and sweat and bruises and all.
When he finally collapses onto Harry, chest heaving, he keeps his arms braced so he doesn’t crush him. For a long minute, there’s only the ocean roar in his ears and the feel of Harry’s heart hammering against his own, both of them ruined and stuck and exactly where they want to be.
He waits for Harry to come back to earth. Watches the slow, stupid smile spread across his face, the way his eyelids flutter, the way he grabs aimlessly at Louis’ sides until he lands a hand and keeps it there. Louis is still inside him, knot solid, and the thought alone makes his cock twitch.
Harry laughs, voice shredded raw. “Needed it, but like, can’t feel my legs.”
Louis grins, pleased. “You’re welcome.”
··•🍹•··
Louis wakes again with a dry tongue and the taste of Harry’s skin in his mouth. The room is orange and dim, some hour between late and too early, and Harry’s hair is fanned across the pillow, strands glued to his forehead. He’s out cold but still managing to cling, full-body drape, as if he might evaporate if Louis let go. The bed is a disaster: sheets twisted and damp, pillows on the floor, the air heavy enough with slick that Louis wonders if it might trip every alpha in the resort.
He breathes Harry in, tries to catalogue the details for later: the way the flush starts along his jaw and works its way down, the sticky shine at his throat, the damp between his thighs. Harry shifts even in sleep, hips grinding lazily against nothing, like his body’s working overtime to squeeze every last drop of pleasure from the night. His hand is still wrapped around Louis’ wrist, limp, but refusing to let go. Even unconscious, he’s greedy.
Louis thinks about waking him, but the omega’s probably got a few minutes if he’s lucky before his body starts screaming again. Better to let him have the rest. He untangles himself, slow as he can, sets Harry’s arm down on the mattress and tugs the comforter up to his waist. Harry whimpers, a tiny, cute sound, but he doesn’t wake.
Louis pads to the bathroom, flips on the tap, and sticks his face under cold water until his brain feels like it’s rattled loose. He pisses, runs the hot water, and steps into the shower. The tile is cold, the water stinging the bruises on his hips and the bite marks on his neck. He braces both hands against the wall and lets the spray hammer down until his brain empties out, just steam and heartbeat and the echo of Harry’s voice in his ear.
He’s only been in for a minute when the door cracks open and Harry stumbles in, bare feet slapping the tile. He moves like a sleepwalker, eyes half-shut, still naked. He doesn’t even look at Louis, just climbs straight into the shower and presses himself all along Louis’ back, arms winding under his ribs.
Louis laughs. “You’re supposed to be resting.”
Harry’s body says otherwise. He’s already hard again, rutting without shame, cock dragging a wet line up the back of Louis’ thigh. His mouth finds the nape of Louis’ neck, bites down, and Louis feels the sharp sting through the haze of heat.
“Can’t,” Harry says, voice muffled and hoarse. “Need you. Need it again.”
Louis turns, water sluicing down his back, and peels Harry off like a stubborn barnacle. He means to scold him, but Harry’s eyes are so wide and desperate, and his whole body is trembling with want. It’s not even a fair fight.
He pins Harry to the wall, one hand braced beside his head, the other wrapped around his waist. Harry arches into him, grinding his cock against Louis’ thigh, mouth open and desperate. He’s so far gone he can’t even string a sentence together; just whimpers and claws at Louis’ shoulders until Louis gives in and kisses him. Hard. The taste is as sweet as always, and Harry moans into it, tongue pushing.
Harry hikes his leg up, hungry for leverage, and hitches it around Louis’ hip, locking them together. The tile is slick, but Harry scrabbles for grip, nails scraping the grout. He buries his face in Louis’ neck and just loses it, grinding so hard Louis can feel the sharp cut of Harry’s hipbone through skin. The pressure is ruthless, a piston motion with zero rhythm, just need, need, need. Harry’s cock is trapped between their bodies, sliding panicked and slippery, and he’s making these wild, high noises that bounce off the tile and hit Louis right behind the eyes.
“Mmmff, yeah, god, I’m gonna fucking come.” Harry gasps.
Louis holds him steady, hand digging into the small of Harry’s back, feeling every tremor, every desperate shudder. Harry’s so close he’s vibrating, mouth open on Louis’ jaw, drooling and gasping. The shower fogs around them, steam sticking to their skin, but Harry’s heat is the only thing that matters. He’s not even pretending to control it anymore; every muscle is locked, his jaw clenched so tight it might shatter. Louis braces them both, shoulder to the shower wall, and lets Harry use him, ride out the burn, the only anchor in the world.
“Please,” Harry stammers, “please, I—” and then he’s coming, full-body quake, cock painting the inside of Louis’ thigh, the white of it swirling instantly down both Louis’ leg and the drain.
He’s still catching his breath when Harry slides to a heap on the shower floor, knees folding with a wet slap, hair clinging in black ropes to his cheeks. For a second Louis can only watch, dumbstruck, as Harry’s tongue flicks out, lapping a trail of come off the inside of Louis’ thigh, then up, up, until he’s mouthing along the length of Louis’ cock.
The kid’s got no shame. None. He looks up at Louis through the wet tangle of his lashes, pupils blown and mouth already open, and he’s so fucking pretty Louis could die. Before Louis can even pretend to protest, Harry’s lips wrap around the head, tongue swirling, and he sucks so hard Louis’ knees nearly give.
He braces himself on the shower wall, hot tile digging into his spine, and lets Harry work. Harry’s hands are everywhere at once: one sliding up to grip Louis’ hip, the other wrapped around his own cock, already hard and leaking again, like he’s never even finished. The obscene, slick sounds echo off the tile, and Harry’s got no finesse left, just pure, heat-fueled hunger, shoving himself down on Louis’ cock until it nudges the back of his throat.
Louis threads his fingers into Harry’s hair, twisting it at the roots until Harry groans around him. “Mmm, you love to choke on it,” he says, voice gone low and vicious. “Love being used as an alpha’s fucktoy.”
Harry whines and jacks himself harder, bobbing on Louis’ cock with feral movement. The suction is relentless, Harry’s throat working around him, spit and slick running down his shaft in messy strings. Louis can see the way Harry’s hand is moving, fast and ruthless, wrist flicking, cock flushed angry red and already dripping.
“Gonna come again, aren’t you?” Louis taunts, tugging Harry’s hair until his eyes water. “Get off with a cock in your mouth, just like a good omega.”
Harry’s answer is a choked, eager moan. He lets himself lose it a little, fucking into Harry’s mouth, shallow thrusts that make Harry’s eyes roll back, throat bulging with every push. The pressure builds fast, a coil low in his belly, and Harry’s hand never stops, it blurs over his own cock as he swallows Louis down to the root.
Louis comes with a curse, shoving Harry’s head down and holding him there as he spills down his throat. Harry takes it, keeps swallowing and jerking himself until he’s coming too, splattering white all over the tile and his own hand, breathing hard through his nose as he milks every drop from Louis’ cock.
They stay like that for a moment, Louis’ hand tangled in Harry’s hair, Harry’s mouth still soft and wet around him, both of them wrecked and shaking. When Louis finally lets go, Harry pulls off slow, licking the tip clean, then sits back on his heels, blinking up at Louis with a smile that’s equal parts innocent and sinful.
They manage to clean up, then Louis towels off, shakes the fog out of his head, and steps out of the shower, leaving Harry to mop up the mess he’s made of himself on the tile. The suite is silent except for the white noise of water and Harry’s ragged breathing. For a second, Louis thinks about slipping away and calling in room service, maybe even fleeing the whole continent, but there’s no universe where that works. Harry would follow, nude and dripping, and force some staff member to bear witness to his radiant humiliation.
He manages to find his trousers from the previous night, which are damp and missing a button, but salvageable. His shirt is a lost cause, balled up on the bidet and painted with a map of bodily fluids. Louis makes a mental note to apologize to housekeeping, then shrugs into the ruined linen anyway.
Harry’s still sprawled on the shower floor, legs splayed and face slack with afterglow, but eventually he blinks up at Louis, dazed. He peels himself off the tile and wanders out of the bathroom, trailing water. By the time Louis has brushed his teeth, Harry’s curled up on the armchair by the window, wearing nothing but a fluffy white robe, hair wet and wild. He’s already emptied a liter bottle of glacial water, which he cradles to his chest.
“Thank god for glacial. The tap here is so… French.” He says.
“Monaco’s its own country.”
Harry frowns, genuinely confused. “Since when?”
Louis wants to laugh, but it’s too easy. He runs a hand through his hair, then decides to get this over with. “Hate to break it to you, but you’ve got a brunch in forty minutes. Downstairs, in the conservatory.”
Harry’s face does a weird thing, shifts from blank horror to immediate delight. “Really? Oh my god, yayyy,” he says, flopping back in the chair. “I’m starving. They have those little orange mimosas here?”
“Probably. But I meant that you can’t go, you’re in heat. You can’t just—” He gestures vaguely at Harry’s body, at the robe that’s already gaping open at the thigh. The thought of any alpha in the room smelling him, losing it, makes Louis swallow down a bit of fury. “Trail the smell of your heat all over the place.”
Harry blinks at him like he’s being obtuse. “I have spray for that.”
Louis stares. “Spray.”
“Yeah, the new one from Saint Laurent. It’s, like, a clinical strength pheromone mask but it smells like pink pepper and suede. You can’t even tell.”
“Uh huh. What happens when you’re sweating and leaking and gagging for a knot?”
Harry gives a lazy, lopsided shrug. “I can probably just—” He makes a vague gesture, a hand-waving motion. “Hold it in.”
God there really must be bubbles inside that pretty head. Louis goes to explain that omega biology is not, in fact, a suggestion, but the image of Harry biting his lip and squirming through an hour of small talk is too good to pass up. He leans against the window, arms crossed, and lets Harry think he can do it.
Harry stands, robe flaring, and pads to the closet with his usual ballet-dancer grace. “Will you help me pick out an outfit?” He’s already sifting through the designer racks, pulling out things at random: silk tank, sleek pajama set, a pink baby tee.
Louis sits on the edge of the mattress, watching the show. Harry is a disaster, but he does have an instinct for what will photograph well. The end result is a pair of lavender silk shorts, a white tee, and a shiny lavender ribbon tied around his neck, covering his scent gland. Harry preens in front of the full-length mirror, turning this way and that, then does a full-body stretch, moaning like he’s turning himself on.
“God, of course you’re not wearing underwear.”
Harry purses his lips. “Panty lines will show in this material,” he says, scandalized.
Louis can’t even argue. He just watches as Harry spritzes himself all over with an atomizer that he imagines most omegas can’t afford, then dabs a touch of lip oil onto his mouth for good measure. The effect is, frankly, unfair.
“Okay,” Harry says, turning to face him. “How do I look?”
Louis sizes him up, lets his eyes linger a little too long at the silk around his throat, the line of Harry’s hips, the slice of skin visible beneath his tee. “Mm. Knockout.”
Harry beams. “Perfect.”
··•🍹•··
Louis walks Harry down to the brunch, an arm’s length of space between them, though Harry still manages to magnetize every gaze in the corridor. The lobby’s already a zoo: packs of guests in pastel linen, staff harried and smoothing it over, the air sharp with baked dough. Harry floats through it like a princess in exile, lavender shorts flashing with each step, ribbon fluttering, lashes dewy from a last-second spritz of rose water. He’s not even pretending to keep his hands off Louis; they brush, then cling, then tangle in the crook of Louis’ elbow until Louis just accepts it.
They hit the conservatory just as the sun is burning off the last of the marine fog. Tables are set with champagne towers and pyramids of macarons, the glass ceiling flooding the room with gold. Harry’s friends spot him in seconds; Zayn in a tobacco linen set, Claudia in a lacy white romper, both so photogenic it’s almost physically painful. Before Louis can make excuses, Harry’s swept into their orbit with squeals and hugs. Louis watches, a step outside the circle, as Harry greets Zayn with a peck right on the mouth, then does the same to Claudia, who giggles. It’s like some alien mating ritual with lips and smiles and perfume.
Louis thinks, not for the first time, that rich people are basically a different species.
He slinks off to the perimeter and finds Cecily posted up by a pillar with a clipboard and a glass of grapefruit juice. She raises her eyebrows at Harry’s performance and gives Louis a lopsided grin.
“Morning,” she says, dry as toast. “He’s still all…?”
“Yeah,” Louis says, “he is.”
Cecily laughs. “Well, he knows how to work a room. My money was on him showing up twenty minutes late with a new manicure.”
Louis glances back at Harry, who’s now draped across Zayn’s lap, feet in Claudia’s, ribbon askew and shorts riding high enough to be criminal. He’s talking with his hands, animated, but already squirming, rearranging the fabric over his lap every third sentence. Louis can almost see the moment the spray starts to lose its battle with Harry’s body: a trickle of sweat down his temple, a shift in the way the air moves around him. Louis wonders who will notice first.
He makes a circuit of the room, checking in with staff, pretending to care about the seating chart. He nabs a croissant and eats it in two bites, then grabs a coffee and posts up near Harry’s table, just close enough to intervene if things get ugly. He does not want to be responsible for an international incident involving an omega in heat and a buffet of legacy media heirs.
For the first half hour, Harry holds it together. He drinks two mimosas, eats a pile of strawberries and Belgian waffles, and poses for at least a dozen photos. Zayn keeps feeding him bites off his own plate, and Claudia keeps snapping candids, and Harry soaks it all up, glowing brighter with every click of the shutter.
But by the time the first round of speeches starts, Harry’s starting to come apart. He’s shifting in his seat, face flushed, hands restless in his lap. His thighs are pressed tight together, knees bouncing, and every so often he sneaks a look at Louis that’s pure, unfiltered need. The ribbon has slipped down to his collarbones, and Louis can see the slick sheen on his neck, the pulse hammering under his skin.
Cecily sidles up beside Louis and leans in, voice low. “No way, is Styles in heat?”
Louis just nods. He’s too busy watching Harry’s pupils swallow the green from his eyes, too busy wondering if he can get him out of here before the dam breaks. He’s thinking, logistics: which corridor is emptiest, which stairwell has a lock, how fast he can hustle Harry out without drawing a crowd.
He’s watching Harry, so he’s the only one who catches it: the way Harry’s hand slips under the edge of the tablecloth, slow, then disappears. For a second, Louis thinks he’s just fidgeting, maybe smoothing out his shorts or picking at a hangnail, but then the rhythm starts. Harry’s jaw locks, his lips part, and he rocks, barely, but enough for Louis to spot the grind of his hips against the upholstered chair. In the gap between Harry’s knees and the linen, Louis can just make out the twitch of his hand, clutching and palming his cock in the open, surrounded by a crowd of people who’d kill for a sniff of his sweat.
Louis feels a punch of heat in his own body, half horror, half something worse. He glances at the people nearest; Zayn, oblivious, picking seeds from his teeth with a gold toothpick; Claudia, snapping a selfie with a carafe of mimosa.
On the dais, someone is toasting the future of digital art, and Harry’s eyes are locked on Louis, wide and pleading. He mouths something, ‘please,’ or maybe ‘help,’ and Louis feels the tug in his gut, that familiar, predatory spark. His alpha is telling him to bend Harry over and knot him right there on the table, let every alpha in the area know who he really wants.
Harry tries, he really does. He lasts another three minutes before he’s up from the table, weaving through the crowd with a watery smile, lavender shorts clinging to his ass, legs shaking with every step, barely able to walk. Louis intercepts him at the edge of the buffet, grabs him by the elbow and steers him toward the service corridor. Harry melts against him, body already trembling, face pressed into Louis’ shoulder.
“I can’t, fucking can’t,” Harry whispers, voice a wreck. “Louis, please, ‘m so wet—”
Louis drags him through the double doors, into the empty hush of the back hall. The tile is cold, the fluorescents harsh, but it’s private…hopefully. He pins Harry against the wall, hands braced on either side of his head, and leans in close.
“You couldn’t make it through one fucking brunch?” Louis says, but he’s already got a hand under the hem of Harry’s shorts, already feeling the obscene heat between his legs.
Harry whimpers, arches his hips, and claws at Louis’ shirt. “Need it. Right now. Please, please, I’ll be quiet, be so good for you.”
Louis doesn’t bother with warnings. He yanks the shorts down, baring Harry’s cunt, slick already running down his thigh. He shoves his hand between Harry’s legs and finds him soaking, so wet it’s almost a joke. Harry bites down on his own wrist to keep from screaming and rides Louis’ fingers with wild, desperate thrusts.
Louis fucks him slow, two fingers then three, twisting deep until Harry’s whole body is shaking. Harry’s ribbon comes undone, falls to the floor, and his hair spills everywhere, wild and wet at the tips. He’s so pretty like this, ruined and begging, and Louis wants nothing more than to see him come apart again.
He leans in, mouths at Harry’s ear, voice low and rough. “Gonna make a mess all over my hand, aren’t you? Right here, where anyone could walk in and see what a desperate slut you are.”
Harry nods, frantic, and then he’s coming, hips jerking, slick pouring down Louis’ wrist. He clamps down on Louis’ fingers, thighs trembling, and makes a noise so loud it echoes down the hall.
Louis strokes him through it, slow and merciless, and Harry yanks Louis in by the belt loops, hard enough that the metal buckle presses right into his hips, and smashes their mouths together.
Harry is moaning before Louis even gets his tongue in, a desperate, half-strangled whine vibrating in the back of his throat. He grabs the line of Louis’ jaw, tilts it up, and drags his mouth down the length of Louis’ lower lip, slow and wet. He doesn’t stop to breathe, he buries his nose against Louis’ cheek and licks over Louis’ lips, sloppy.
Louis lets it happen. He’s never been kissed like this, never been devoured, not even close. Harry’s mouth is everywhere, hot and insistent, sucking at the corners, dragging his tongue up and down the seam, swirling it so deep that Louis’ cock throbs and his knees try to give out. Harry’s hands are all over, one twisted in the back of Louis’ shirt, the other cradling the base of his skull, holding him captive. The noise is disgusting and beautiful, the wet, messy slap of tongue and lips, Harry’s little whimpers and the high, gasping breaths when he pulls back only to dive in again, harder.
Harry works his way down, sucking hard on Louis’chin, lapping the stubble there, then back up to drag his tongue over the top lip aggressively. He’s drooling, spit running down Louis’ chin, and when Louis tries to say something it’s swallowed whole, lost in the swirl of Harry’s tongue. Harry moans again and then goes back in, grinding their mouths together, lips mashed so wide it burns at the corners. He sucks on Louis’ tongue, pulls it in, then lets go with a pop and a filthy, shattered gasp.
Harry’s body is shaking, hips jerking with every kiss, sweat slicking his forehead. He whines, loud and shameless, and then he’s coming—, just from the kissing, nothing but the filthy twist of their mouths and tongues. He goes rigid, clutching at Louis’ back, and shudders through it, moaning into Louis’ mouth as he paints come down his own thighs.
They don’t stop. Harry keeps kissing him through the aftershocks, tongue soft now, lips barely moving, but still open and hungry. He presses his forehead against Louis’ and shivers, then licks a line up Louis’ jaw, lazy and slow.
“Need to go back,” Harry says, voice so shredded it barely comes out. “Suite. I’ll need knotted soon. Gonna start hurting.”
Louis grins, taunting. “What happened to holding it in, sweetheart?”
Harry shakes his head and lets out an embarrassed whine. “Mean, mean, mean,” he says, fingers skating underneath Louis’ shirt. Then, he brings Louis closer by the back of his head, lips pressed to his ear. “Know you wanna knot me again. Only want yours—just want to be plugged full of you, want to smell like you for days after.”
Louis huffs, and in one motion, has Harry’s wrist in a vice and is hauling him down the service hall. Harry trips over his own feet, still soft from the last orgasm, already leaking for the next, and lets himself be yanked along, squeaking when the elevator doors slide shut behind them. He’s a mess, shorts clinging, face bright and wet with sweat, ribbon dangling from his fist. Louis doesn’t say a word; he just keys the suite and shoves Harry inside, shutting the door behind them.
The blackout curtains are half-drawn, dust motes spinning in a wedge of late morning sun. Louis steers Harry into the bathroom first, sits him on the edge of the tub, and opens the mini-fridge to pull out a bottle of water. He cracks the cap and holds it to Harry’s lips, and Harry gulps it down, gasping, then leans forward to rest his forehead on Louis’ sternum, clinging with both hands to the waistband of Louis’ pants. His breath smells like champagne and ozone.
Louis peels the sticky silk shorts down Harry’s thighs, balls them up, and tosses them in the corner. He turns on the tap, soaks a washcloth, and presses it to Harry’s forehead, then the back of his neck, working slow and gentle. Harry melts under the attention, knees splayed, cock softening but still twitching, the tip flushed and leaking onto his thigh. He’s so out of it he barely notices when Louis cleans him up, dabs at the inside of his thighs.
“You need to rest,” Louis says, voice low and steady. Harry shakes his head, eyes fluttering. “You’ll die if you don’t let your body cool off for five fucking minutes.”
“No,” Harry says, then grins, wobbly. “I’ll die if you leave me alone.”
Louis wants to disagree, but he’s probably not wrong. He dries Harry off, then manhandles him to the bed, tucks him in under the cool sheets, and hands him the water bottle. Harry clutches it to his chest like it’s a stuffed animal, legs twisted up in the linen, and watches with glassy eyes as Louis paces the room, pulling out his phone.
He dials his boss, leans against the window, and keeps his voice low. “Hey. It’s me. Styles is… not making the afternoon. Can you move the campaign call back a few days, and tell Zayn he’s got the green light for the afterparty tonight?”
“We’ll cover for him. You need anything?”
Louis is halfway through his answer when Harry comes up and shoves his hands down the back of Louis’ pants. “No, nothing urgent—” Louis hears himself say, as Harry’s fingernails rake up his thighs, then hook under the waistband of his boxers, yanking. He hisses, jerks forward, but Harry’s there in front of him, hair wild and lips parted. The phone is slick in Louis’ palm; his knuckles go white from how hard he’s gripping it.
“Sorry—bad connection,” he says, voice pinched. On the other end, his boss drones on, something about Zayn’s contract or the risk management team, but Louis can’t hear a word because Harry is kissing down his throat and pushing his trousers down to his knees, not even pretending to care that Louis is in the middle of a call.
“Yeah, just—uh—let me check on that and circle back,” Louis says, but his voice cracks on the last syllable because Harry’s got his cock out, cool air hitting him, and then Harry’s hand wraps around it, squeezing hard, thumb rubbing over the slit. Louis bites the inside of his cheek and tries to focus, but Harry rises on his tiptoes, and, with a single-mindedness that would be impressive if it weren’t so fucked, lines Louis up and tries to rut down on him, right there, standing.
Louis plants a hand on the dresser behind him, the other white-knuckled on the phone. Harry’s thighs tremble, using Louis’ shoulders for leverage as he tries to impale himself, eyes rolling back every time the head of Louis’ cock catches and slips. Louis can feel the wet heat of him, can smell it, Jesus, it’s everywhere, the whole room is just Harry and need and the scent of slick, poignant even through the closed window.
“Sorry, can you repeat that?” Louis says, voice a full octave higher, as Harry grinds down and almost, almost gets the tip inside. Harry’s got both hands on Louis’ hips now, nails digging in, face twisted up with effort, and he’s making these little choked noises, whimpering every time he has to back off and try again.
Louis’ boss is on a rant about liability clauses now, but Louis can’t hear any of it. He’s sweating, whole body tensed, and Harry fucking knows it. He keeps locking eyes, like he wants to watch Louis lose it and to see him break. Louis clamps a hand over Harry’s mouth, muffling the sounds, but that only makes it worse, Harry moans into his palm, tongue darting out to lick the skin, and then he’s rutting even harder, desperate, like he’ll die if he doesn’t get fucked immediately.
Louis tries to twist away, but Harry chases him, follows him step for step until Louis’ ass is pressed to the dresser and there’s nowhere left to go. Harry’s cock is leaking all over Louis’ thigh, and his own is slick with it, sliding against Harry’s entrance with every move.
Louis has never hated a phone call more. He cuts the line with no goodbye, just a stab at the screen, and the phone is already tumbling onto the carpet as he grabs Harry by the hips and forces him to bend over the dresser. The omega’s hands slap the wood, knuckles whitening, ass jutting out, feet barely braced. Louis grinds his hips up behind him, cock slippery with slick, and shoves Harry’s cheek flat to the surface.
“You can’t go five minutes,” he snarls, close enough that Harry’s hair clings to his lips, “without trying to get yourself fucked stupid. You’d humiliate yourself in front of every alpha in Monaco if I let you.”
Harry moans, loud and open. He pushes back, desperate, trying to impale himself, and Louis lets him rut for a second, just to watch him struggle. The dresser creaks. Harry’s thighs are shaking, already glistening with sweat and slick again. Louis takes both cheeks, spreads them wide, and spits, just to see the way Harry trembles at the sound.
“So empty without you,” Harry gasps, voice muffled by the wood. “Body’s screaming for you, fix it, fix it—put it in.”
Louis lines up, presses the tip in, and then slams home, hard enough that Harry’s whole body jolts. The sound is filthy, a wet slap and a choked whine. Louis fucks him straight into the dresser, hips snapping, hands bruising on Harry’s waist.
He leans over, grabs a fistful of Harry’s hair, and yanks his head up so he’s facing the mirror propped above the dresser. Their eyes meet in the glass: Louis, wild and flushed, Harry’s mouth open, eyes gone glassy with heat and need. He looks completely ruined, face streaked with sweat, lips red and swollen.
“Look at yourself,” Louis hisses, grinding in deep and holding, making Harry take every inch. “Look what a fucking mess you’ve made. You want everyone to see you like this? Want them to know you’re mine?”
“Yeah—yeah, want them to see what you do to me, I’mmm…mmmmm, yours.”
Louis fucks him harder, setting a brutal pace, slamming Harry’s hips into the wood with every thrust. The mirror rattles with the force of it. Harry’s hands grip the edge of the dresser, nails scratching at the lacquer, but Louis just pins him tighter, forces him to take it.
The heat in the room is suffocating with sweat and pheromone. Louis can feel the tremors building in Harry’s thighs, the way his body tightens, the way he’s right on the edge. He leans down, mouths at the back of Harry’s neck, then bites, hard, just how Harry likes it. Harry keens, arching into him, and comes all over the dresser, splattering the wood and his own stomach, shaking so hard he nearly collapses.
Louis feels the knot building, low and urgent, and he grabs Harry by the hair, pulls his head back to whisper, “Wanna be bred, baby? Gonna take it again like a good omega?”
Harry breathes a guttural “Yes,” and Louis keeps fucking through it, chasing the knot, cock swelling at the base, stretching Harry’s cunt until he’s sobbing. The pressure is blinding, a white-hot coil, and when Louis finally knots, he sees stars. He grinds in, pulsing, emptying himself dry.
It takes forever for either of them to come down. Louis is locked inside him, both of them panting, sweat dripping from his forehead onto Harry’s back. He watches their reflection in the mirror, the paralyzing picture of them stuck together, Harry’s ass flushed and splayed, his own hands digging bruises into Harry’s hips.
He finally lets go of Harry’s hair, pets it instead, and leans forward to press his lips to the nape of Harry’s neck. Harry is limp, face pressed to the dresser, but he’s smiling. A stupid, blissed-out, perfect smile. His lashes flutter, and he meets Louis’ eyes in the mirror, and for a second something in Louis’ chest goes very still.
He lets it hang there, suspended, then pulls Harry upright, careful as he can. The knot tugs, and Harry lets out a soft, helpless whimper, but he leans back into Louis, head falling onto his shoulder. They stand there, catching their breath, locked together, watching themselves in the glass.
After a while, Louis slides a hand down Harry’s chest, fingers tracing the line of his sternum. Harry giggles, breathless, and turns to nuzzle at Louis’ jaw, lips brushing the stubble.
“Think my leftover croissant is like…soggy now?” Harry asks, voice raw.
Louis can’t help his laugh. “I’ll get you more.”
They stand there until the knot softens and they can move again. Louis helps Harry to the bed, tucks him in, then climbs in after, not bothering to clean up. He pulls Harry close, wraps an arm around his waist, and lets the world outside the suite dissolve.
He presses his nose into the side of Harry’s neck, breathes him in, and wonders, suddenly, how he’s supposed to let go of this. Of Harry, of this impossible, maybe perfect, mess. He’s so easy to soften for, it’s almost pathetic. Louis would like to think he’s the type to keep his distance, keep things professional, but it’s been three days and he’s already reeled in, hook through the lip, trailing after this disaster of a boy like it’s his job. Maybe it is, technically, but that doesn’t explain the way he’s already anticipating Harry’s next move, the way he’s started to crave the mess and the noise and even the part where Harry gets him impossibly, illogically crazy with a single look.
Harry makes a soft, lazy purr, and burrows closer. He’s still trembling, but it’s not from need anymore; it’s the afterglow, the happy, melted kind. Louis is hyper-aware of every point of contact; Harry’s bare skin against his chest, the sticky-slick mess glued between their thighs, the heavy pulse of Harry’s heartbeat where their ribs line up like puzzle pieces. The smell is outrageous, but Louis could live inside it. He could live inside this moment, even.
Harry’s eyelids flutter. He stretches, long as a cat, then tucks his face into the crook of Louis’ arm. He blinks up, pupils huge, and there’s this wide-eyed, unguarded thing in his look that Louis can’t remember seeing before. It’s so earnest it makes something ache faintly.
“Would you stay?” Harry whispers, voice hoarse and gone. “With me. Through my heat. Even if it’s, like, boring?” He tries for a smile, but it’s scared at the edges. “Um, not just sex, but we can…hang out?”
Louis chuckles softly, but it’s not funny. Not at all. He strokes a thumb over the arch of Harry’s cheekbone, pretending it doesn’t matter. He’s not sure he’s ever wanted someone for the exact way they aren’tboring, couldn’t ever be.
He tugs Harry closer, until Harry is flush against his chest, and says, “Yeah. I could stand to spend some more time with you.”