Take Me Down Slow (Larry Stylinson)

The Oncoming Storm

Louis wakes with a start, eyes squinting, a beam of light shining through the gap between the curtains and directly onto his face. He can't hear the familiar sound of his blaring alarm tone on his phone though. Why is he awake? A series of sharp knocks on his door refocus his attention.

"Louis?! Louis are you awake?" Liam shouts from the hallway, a hint of urgency in his tone.

"What do you want, Leeyum?" The door bursts open before he's even finished groaning out his response. "Ugh. I was sleeping, you great knobhead." Louis grumps, rolling over on his side to face his intruder, scowl fixed on his face.

Liam marches straight over to the closet, grabbing Louis' duffle bag and chucking it on the floor at the bottom of the bed. "Up! We've gotta go. There's a massive storm coming, if we don't get out ahead of it we'll be stuck here for god only knows how long."

Louis sits bolt upright, covers pooling at his waist. "Wait. What?!"

"Storm coming. Blizzard. Trapped. Leaving in thirty minutes."

Suddenly, Louis is very awake. Throwing off the covers, he heaves his legs out of bed, feet hitting the carpet and shaking his head, disbelief and anger coursing through his veins. "Fucking typical," he mutters under his breath.

"Downstairs. Thirty minutes!" Liam yells over his shoulder, racing out into the hallway, not bothering to close the door behind him.

Louis is sweaty, sleep-shirt clinging to his back and his muscles still ache. He's barely conscious but he senses something isn't quite right. Maybe he just needs to splash some water on his face, then he'll be okay. He stands and wobbles, then topples back down onto the bed. Taking a deep breath he tries again, this time managing to stay upright but the room is spinning, a fuzzy, dark shadow at the edge of his vision.

Steadying himself, he walks toward the en-suite, stopping near the tall dresser, arms outstretched, reaching for the top. A wave of dizziness hits him like a truck and he stumbles forward, catching himself just before he falls. Then he feels it. An ooze between his arse cheeks as a thick dollop of slick gushes out. Fuck. FUCK. What the hell is happening?

Grabbing a towel from the top of the dresser, he stumbles back to the bed, throwing it over the rumpled sheets and collapsing face down on top of it. He grinds his hips down and more slick pushes out, soaking through his boxers. Oh god.

He's in heat.

Two weeks early.

Fear and panic wash over him, his head a mess of rampaging thoughts vying for dominance. He doesn't have his toys, or his scent soothers, or his heat easers, or his... anything, and there's a fucking blizzard coming, but he can't leave. Regardless of whether he could physically make the trip, which he absolutely couldn't, it's illegal to be in public during a heat or rut, not to mention ridiculously dangerous.

Fuck.

Rutting down again, he swivels his hips, hands gripping the pillow above his head as a whine escapes his mouth.

It doesn't make sense. He's been on his heat regulators for fucking years and they've been like clockwork. Racking his brain he searches his memories for what could've happened. Shit. His flu. The antibiotics. But he's sure he took the counter medications to protect the regulators. Didn't he? Wait. Oh, buggering-shit-fuck!

Turning over with a groan, his slick seeps up to his balls and down his inner thighs, sheets scratchy on his sensitive skin, hair is matted to his forehead.

The sound of somebody stomping down the hallway catches his attention, heavy footsteps coming closer as he turns his head to see who it is.

Harry stops dead in his tracks at the open doorway, nostrils flaring, head whipping around. He stares, mouth agape, frozen on the spot.