It's Just Sweeter When It's Wrong...
Warning Larry smut; Incest (brothers); slight, not-detailed mentions of het-sex (very slight memories).
It’s not until after Harry’s 15th birthday that he realizes what he so desperately wants.
It’s cold outside, and it’s dark, and it’s getting late, and he’s just laying there on his bed, thinking. His hands rest on his stomach- or, at least one does, because the other has made its way down under the waistband of his boxers, and his eyes are closed, and he’s thinking of the girl he was snogging at the party Niall had dragged him to over the weekend, and he’s thinking how soft she was, and how sweet she’d tasted, and how she moved against him, and how lovely she’d smelled after he’d been kissing her a while, and her legs had opened for him to move between, and his hand is gripping his cock, stroking firmly as he thinks of how she’d moaned and wiggled under him, and how warm and wet she’d felt against his fingers, and he’s still stroking himself, trying to get hard, when he hears the shower burst to life in the next room.
His thoughts change quickly to the weekend his parents had been in France, and his older brother had been at his girlfriend’s, and Harry had invited that pretty little blonde from his brother’s choir class over to swim, and they’d rushed upstairs, and turned the shower on, and she’d willingly dropped down infront of him, and sucked him off, and kissed him right after, mouth still salty and sticky, and he’d loved it; been hard again so fast…
He’s still working his cock with his hand, the other having moved down to cup his balls, but he’s still not getting it up as quickly as he might like, until he hears a stuttered moan from the next room, and he’s instantly focused on it, and now that he’s paying attention, there’s another, and a grunt, and a whine, and jesus he’s so hard, so fast, and now he’s not thinking of the blonde girl’s mouth, or the brunette’s sweet smell on his fingers. No, he’s thinking about distinctly more masculine groans, and biceps, and a flat chest, and he’s thinking of the way his brother sounds, and wondering how he looks; if he’s backed up against the wall, stroking himself, head back, throat taut, hips rutting forward, and Harry thinks maybe he’d like to be on the floor in front of him if that’s the case, and with one final gentle squeeze and a firm pump, he wonders what his name would sound like falling from his brother’s lips, and he comes hard- so, so hard- and the only noise in the room is a gasped, “Yes, Lou!” and the panting breaths that follow it right into sleep.
After that, Harry’s much more aware of the situation. He tries to block it out, at first- embarrassed because he’s essentially getting off to his older brother, and that’s obviously not okay. The problem is, though, that it’s decidedly harder to avoid getting hard thinking about your brother in such situations, when he’s in the room next to you, on the other side of the wall, making himself come so hard some nights that he slams his fist against the wall. Louis always comes loudly. Always. Some times more subdued than others, but always loud and urgent, and fucking hot. And Harry always comes right along with him, much quieter. Much, much quieter. Harry’s got a secret.
He keeps this secret for the remainder of his 15th year of life, and even into his 16th. Louis is 18, and loud and obscene as ever. Always. Especially when he comes. Especially now that he’s got that dark haired, pretty boy in his room almost every night. Harry wants to be jealous. Wants to be angry while he listens to Louis’s moans and grunts and shouts and he wants to hate the way Zayn’s name sounds when Louis screams it. He wants to hate, even more, the way “Louis” sounds when Zayn screams it, because he knows it sounds much better when he, himself, whispers it; knows it’d sound better being choked out of his own wrecked throat. But he isn’t angry, and he doesn’t hate it, because it’s so fucking hot, and it feels so, so fucking good.
So good, even, that one night when Harry thinks Louis has Zayn over, thinks they’re fucking, thinks maybe Zayn’s opening Louis up, because he doesn’t hear the other voice, he lets his release out a bit louder than he would’ve if he’d known Louis didn’t have Zayn over. Louder than he would’ve, had he known Louis was alone, finished, laying there taking everything in instead of trying to make his partner come. Loud enough that Louis hears, knows, gets up and storms into Harry’s room, where he’s just cleaning himself up, and Louis seems mad.
“Are you… were you… Were you listening to me, you little pervert?” Louis accuses, glaring down at the curly-headed, gangly mess of limbs that threw itself under the blanket when Louis barged in.
Harry doesn’t know how to respond; doesn’t know what to say, so he just nods, flushes, looks away.
“How often?” Louis demands, cheeks red, but Harry can’t tell if it’s from anger, embarrassment, sex, or a mixture of all three. Harry still doesn’t know what to answer, so he shrugs, and Louis just waits, waits for an answer, so Harry chokes out,
“About… about a year… I guess…”
Louis just stares at him, then. Just stares, and Harry can almost hear his brain working like clockwork, and he can see the exact moment when Louis finally clicks. His eyes change, darken, cloud over, and he bites his lip. He moves closer, and the door is slammed carelessly behind him.
Harry starts a bit, sitting up and scooting back into the blanket.
“Mom and dad…” he warns, but Louis is quick.
“Dad’s gone, mom’s drunk- asleep. Do you really think I’ve fucked myself that hard, came so loudly, if I thought they’d hear?”
Harry feels his cock twitch back to life at his brother’s words. He shakes his head, blushing, looking down, and suddenly Louis is there, on his bed, pulling the blanket back.
“Have you ever fucked yourself, Harry? Do you put your fingers up in yourself and imagine it’s me? Do you do that, or do you just fuck your fist until you’re coming inside me?”
Louis’s hand is roaming up Harry’s thigh, eyes intent on the erection growing there. Harry can’t help but blush, whine, because Jesus Christ, Louis is hot. He’s all tan and golden and freckles and sun-bleached auburn hair and biceps and smooth hands and Harry groans as Louis’s hand grips his hard on.
“You don’t finger yourself for me, do you, Harry? No, no. I think you just think about fucking me down into your bed, don’t you?”
His hand moves up and down Harry’s shaft with a practiced technique. He’s leaned forward now, words whispered into Harry’s warm ear, and already Harry thinks he’s really…really…really close.
Louis flicks his wrist just right, and Harry just about loses it.
“You like that?” Louis whispers again, lips soft against the shell of Harry’s ear. “You like my hand around you, Harry? Is that what you want? Or do you want my mouth? Hm?”
Louis words are like hot silk against Harry’s skin, and Harry’s bucking up into Louis’s fist, whining, panting, eyes pleading, and Louis continues to taunt him with words and intricate hand movements.
“How do you think my mouth would feel, Harry? Do you think you’d like to find out? Or would you rather bury yourself down to your hips in my tight ass? Personally, I’d like it all…” Louis squeezes Harry’s hard, throbbing cock a couple of times, and Harry ruts up into his hand, fucking his brother’s fist, thinks about fucking him up his ass, thinks he’s about to…
“God Lou, fuck, yes, you’re gonna make- you’re- I’m gonna…” And Harry can’t even piece a sentence together cause Louis is making this slutty little gasping moans in his ear, like “Harry, Harry, fuck me, fuck me, harder, come, come, co-” and just like that Harry stills and Louis’s name is all his mouth knows, over and over while he comes in hot spurts over his brother’s hand, and when he opens his eyes, Louis is licking it off; licking himself clean, leaving just a bit in the palm of his right hand, which he snakes into his own boxers now and wraps around his cock and leans into Harry and pulls himself out of his shorts and he works it hard and rough and fast and it takes probably less than two minutes before Louis teeth bite into Harry’s sharp shoulder and he comes hard against his younger brother’s bare stomach, which he doesn’t hesitate to lick clean, as well.
When they’re both clean and tucked away, and Harry’s settled into his bed, Louis tucks the blackets tight around his skinny frame, kisses his forehead, chilled from sweat that had broken just minutes before, and swipes his small hand through thick, soft curls. He pats Harry’s soft cheek once before whispering what sounds like, “Love you, Hazbear…” and slipping out of the room.
Harry’s left there- cheeks flushed, head spinning, body soft and pliant and sleepy, eyes heavy, and somewhere between being confused at what happened and worried about what will happen, he drifts off to a safe, sound sleep.