Louis likes to pick up the things the fans throw on stage, likes sticking silly hats on Niall and sending blurry snapchats to unsuspecting teenage girls, which is why he doesn’t fully register that he’s picked up a pair of knickers until he looks down and realizes that they are most definitely in his hands and they are most definitely knickers. He surveys the crowd for the perpetrators, finding two older girls near the front giving him truly terrifying grins.
He rolls his eyes, mouthing ‘perverts’ at them as he sticks the incriminating article of clothing into his back pocket to dispose of later. He can’t just leave a pair of lace panties on the stage- it’s a hazard; someone could fall on them or Harry could end up with them on his head. The internet doesn’t need to see that. No one needs to see that.
He barely even thinks about them after that. It’s not like they’re all that bulky and his pants aren’t as disgustingly tight as Harry’s. In fact, he completely forgets about them until after he’s done showering off at the hotel and spots them hanging out of his pocket. They’re quite pretty really, pale pink and a little bit sheer, cream lace ringing the top. He pulls them out before he can think too hard about what he’s doing, just looking at them in the half light.
He knows he should just throw them away and be done with this, but he doesn’t want to just leave a pair of panties in the garbage can; that’s weird. Some poor housekeeper is going to draw terrible, awful conclusions about that sort of thing and sell them all out to the nearest tabloid. Louis Tomlinson wears ladies undergarments, brings disgrace to all of one direction. Imagine his mum picking that up in the dentist’s waiting room. Unacceptable.
Which is why he sticks them at the bottom of his suitcase to be disposed of at the proper time.
Louis doesn’t think about the panties for another two weeks, not until they’re in Florida and he’s digging around in his suitcase for something cool enough to sleep in that doesn’t already smell like sweat or sunscreen. He’s about two seconds from texting one of the boys to bring him one of their shirts when his hand touches something silky and he pulls out the little pink panties.
He’d meant to throw them away, but in the rush of the tour had somehow forgotten, and standing here in the sticky heat he has the first inkling of an idea. It’s not like it would hurt to put them on, it’s really not the weirdest thing he’s ever done, and he can’t help but be the smallest bit curious.
“That’s unsanitary. You don’t know where those have been.” He says, mostly to himself but also to the room in general, yet he doesn’t set them down or throw them out like he probably should have the night he’d picked up. They look clean, and there’s a tiny little Victoria’s Secret tag safely pinned on like they’ve never even been worn.
He slides his boxers slowly down his legs, and stands stark naked in the hotel room for longer than he really wants to think about, contemplating the panties in his hands. If he’s honest, he’s definitely done stranger things, and it’s not like anyone will know if he puts them on. He’s pretty positive none of the boys have the key to his room. All he has to do is slip his legs through the holes and he’ll be wearing them.
He leans down slowly, putting one leg in and then the other, sliding the smooth fabric up over his calves and up his thighs, letting the waistband land across his hipbones. The fabric is silky against his skin and it feels nicer than it should, all soft and delicate.
It’s normal, he’s wearing girl’s panties and that’s totally fine until he looks over and catches his reflection in the mirror, because shit. It’s not like he isn’t aware of his body; he knows he’s pretty and if he were to meet himself in a dark club he wouldn’t hesitate to spring for a one night stand, but there’s something about the way the fabric pulls across his ass and stretches around the bulge of his cock that’s just a little bit obscene.
He swears softly under his breath, walking slowly towards the mirror and wishing the way the tight fabric rubs against him wasn’t so hot. He thinks that it shouldn’t feel this erotic, it’s just a piece of clothing, but when he gets in front of the mirror, the image full and near to his sight, he can’t help but flush.
He bites his lip, clasping his hands in front of himself and turning to the side, looking over his slim shoulder at himself, eyes widening when he sees the profile of his arse. It looks round, even more than usual. He stares, turning this way and that, cheeks light pink and eyes hazy before he registers the gravity of what he’s doing.
‘This isn’t just a piece of clothing, this is wrong’ and he’s folding his upper body down to grasp the waistband and tug the flimsy panties down. He kicks them off and picks them back up with two fingers, walking utterly bare to the bedroom of his suite and throwing them a touch violently back into his suitcase. He heads dazedly to the master bathroom, standing at the sink and gripping the edge of it, trying to will himself to calmness. His heart rate is higher than it should be, the flush reluctant to leave his cheeks.
He knows he needs to get rid of the knickers, but some part of him can’t bear the thought of throwing them away. There isn’t even a reason for it, no explanation that makes sense other than that he just doesn’t want to. He tries not to think about what that means.
The whole fiasco comes to climax during their next concert.
He’s back in the hotel, chewing on fruity gum and his bottom lip as he sorts out the mess of clothes in his suitcase with his feet. He’s fairly sure the boxers he’s wearing aren’t exactly concert material, he’s actually going to have to suffer through wearing jeans like a normal human being.
He’s about to give up on being lazy and actually get on the floor to sift through his clothes when his toe gets caught on something hidden underneath a gray t-shirt. He feels like he should see the next part coming, and yet he’s completely surprised by the appearance of the knickers caught on his big toe.
He lets his body fall onto the floor, hitting the hardwood with a thump. It was supposed to be dramatic and graceful but his ass hurts a little bit and he thinks that’s an adequate enough metaphor for the Stupid Pink Panties Situation. He picks the panties back up, wondering if it’s better to shove them to the bottom of his suitcase or actually try and work through this. Whatever this is. He’s usually a really big fan of ignoring all problems until they go away, but he kind of wants to figure out what this is about.
It’s not wrong per se, it’s just a piece of fabric. He shouldn’t feel ashamed about how much he wants to put them on again. It’s just, he looked really good, that’s it. Well, that’s mostly it. He just wants to try them on one more time. For curiosity reasons. He wonders if this can still be considered curiosity if it’s the second time he’s done it, but he’s not really willing to think too hard about that.
He kicks off his boxers, standing up with a tiny little sigh. If he doesn’t think about what he’s doing, it’s really not that upsetting. He’s putting on women’s underthings. It’s fine. There are first times for everything. And second times.
He wishes he didn’t have to process the heat curling low in his stomach when he feels the satin rub against his cock or the way the lace presses against his lower back. He runs his hands over his hips, back over his ass and down his thighs. He thinks maybe it’s even worse this time, because he’d almost forgotten how he looks in them, how the pale pink offsets the tan of his skin.
He palms himself through the fabric, knowing even as he does that he doesn’t have time for this even if he’s willing to stoop to that level. He just feels so needy, has to fight to slow his breathing as his cock swells against the material. He’s just about give in to the feeling of it when he hears a knock on his door, startling his eyes open.
“Louis! Hurry up, we have to be at soundcheck!” It’s Harry, because if he were to be caught by anyone in the band standing around in lacy panties, of course it would be by him. He’s actually pretty sure that Harry would be the most chill about it, but he can’t face him like this, not considering all the pesky feelings he’s been trying to tamp down since 2011. “Paul gave me a key, I’m coming in there!”
It’s almost impressive how fast the predominant emotion in Louis’ head goes from arousal to sheer panic. He dives for his suitcase, grabs the first pair of jeans he can find, and pulls them on just as a key card clicks into the door. He’s fairly sure it’s the fastest he’s ever moved in his entire life.
“You ready?” Harry asks, walking into Louis’ room like he owns the place.
“Yep!” Louis hopes Harry doesn’t pick up on the way his voice sounds about 9 octaves too high. He can still feel the panties underneath his jeans, can feel the satin bunched a bit underneath the denim.
“You okay? You look a little flushed.” Harry says, looking so concerned Louis isn’t sure whether to laugh or cry. “Do you have a fever?”
“No, I’m fine.” He says, rooting around for a shirt and throwing on a black one he’s fairly sure he’s worn to about five concerts already. “If I was sick I’d be a lot whinier, I promise.”
Harry doesn’t look convinced, and thus feels the need to keep his hand hovering over Louis’ back nearly the entire way to the concert. It really shouldn’t be as terribly hot as it is.
The soundcheck itself is possibly worse than the way there. They never get properly nervous anymore, not for small shows like this, but Louis feels like he’s about to jump out of his skin with worry. They’re all absorbed in their own pre concert rituals, but Louis knows they’re going to realize how off he is soon enough. It’s just, no one can ever know about any of this, whatever it is. If anyone saw, if anyone got pictures, he’d have to dig himself a hole and never come out.
Liam lifts his eyebrows at Louis, who is scratching blunt nails down his jean-clad thighs furiously, and Louis hopes he doesn’t look as manic as he feels. He really can’t take it anymore, not with everyone watching him. He feels exposed, jumpy and terrified that someone will figure out his secret. He feels like he’s been half hard for most of soundcheck, doesn’t know if that’s because of the panties or because of what he thinks would happen if the one of the boys found him out. The implications tied to that second option make his stomach twist. He just wants someone to fuck him and he wants to not have to think too hard about anything other than that.
He’s half assing ‘More Than This’ and contemplating whether or not he’ll wank on the bed or in the shower when Harry covers his face-mic with a hand. “D’you guys want to go out tonight? I found this great club, it’s been ages since we’ve been out.”
Niall lets out a whoop, and Zayn gives a nod of agreement. Liam gives Harry a thumbs up, and Louis curses his rediscovered kidney. He used to be able to count on Liam as the resident buzzkill.
Harry grins, at which point they all seem to realize that Louis hasn’t said anything even though drinking and dancing is most definitely his thing.
Louis thinks this would be an ideal time to go into unexpected cardiac arrest.
“Oh, well um.” He closes his mouth, looking up at the ceiling and praying for it to drop down on all five of them.
“I can’t, sorry,” He says lamely, looking down at his twitching fingers. The lace is rubbing him in all the wrong places and he can’t tell if it’s arousing or the most annoying thing he’s ever encountered. Maybe both. He just wants to fix them, but he knows there’s a thin line between adjusting and fondling himself on stage and he’s not sure he currently possesses the self control to keep himself on the safe side of that line. “But of course that doesn’t mean you guys can’t go.”
They’re all looking at him carefully when he lifts his head up again, but finally Niall shrugs and Louis thinks they might actually drop it without too much pestering.
“I mean, I just thought you’d enjoy it, you don’t have to come.” Harry says, offering him a sweet little smile. Harry might actually be a godsend.
Thank you, Jesus, Louis thinks, giving Harry a smile that definitely comes across as a little bit psychotic.
So he makes it through soundcheck alive, if only barely. It’s once the concert starts that the real pain begins. Harry, it seems, has decided that Louis must be sick and needs mothering. He sticks to his side far more than is necessary, and Louis can see him sneaking looks when he thinks Louis has looked away. Objectively, it’s really sweet. Since Louis is not sick and is in fact wearing panties, it’s horrible and basically Louis wants to die.
“You look really flushed.” Harry whispers to him during twitter questions, pressing a hand to his lower back to pull him in. Louis thinks every single nerve ending he has might be on fire from Harry’s proximity, and how close his hand is to the waistband of Louis’ pants.
It’s not just Harry, it would have been the same if it had been any of the other boys, probably. Whatever feelings he might maybe have had for Harry at the beginning of x factor don’t matter at this point. It’s just, he’s so close and so warm and his hands are so big and Louis wants to cry and attack Harry with his body.
“It’s warm in here. We’re in a stadium with like, 50 bajillion people.” Louis replies, wiggling a bit to try and shift the panties around. He’s this horrible combination of ashamed and turned on and he’s not sure if he’s into it or if he wants to hide underneath the nearest bed and never come out again.
“Yeah, but you didn’t want to go out? Are you feeling okay?” Harry asks, his voice all low as Zayn and Niall make animal noises at each other.
“Harry, I’m seriously fine. I’d whine and complain if I wasn’t, we’ve already been over this.” Louis says, trying to sound debonair, something that’s decidedly difficult when Harry is massaging what are probably supposed to be soothing circles into his back with his stupidly big hands.
Harry nods, and Louis isn’t sure if he’s convinced but he really, really needs Harry to stop touching him before his semi turns into more than a semi in front of a million screaming fans. “Maybe I’ll come to the club.” He regrets the words seconds after they come out of his mouth. He literally regrets them as his lips are forming the syllables, regrets them again after he’s said them, and then once more after that.
Harry’s face lights up, his eyes going bright. “Promise?”
Louis nods and wonders if maybe he could just decapitate himself. “Of course.”
If the concert was ten times worse than soundcheck and the club is forty three times worse than the concert, then Louis’ life is a math problem from the deepest fiery pits of hell. The heat of the place hits Louis like a wall, and the whole place smells like booze and sweat and he can feel the bass pumping in his chest when he steps in. Harry shoots him an eager smile, because it’s been ages since they’ve gone clubbing like proper pop stars, and Zayn is already making his way towards the bar.
Louis grins, and hopes it doesn’t look too crazy as he disappears into the crowd of dancers, trying to lose his bandmates so he can get to the bathroom and take the fucking panties off. He’ll go commando if it means he can stop feeling like he needs to hump something or he’ll die.
He’s just about made it halfway through the throng of bodies in search of the bathroom when someone comes up behind him, slipping their hands onto his waist. “Want to dance?”
Louis feels himself sag against the warm body before he can help himself, turning to look at the taller man behind him. He’s gorgeous, all tan skin and dark hair and eyelashes that curl upwards in a way that almost doesn’t look real and he’s really too horny to say no to this sort of thing right now.
He nods, letting the man hold onto his hips and grind up against him, working his hips in slow circles against the man’s cock, reaching up behind him to tangle his fingers in his hair.
“What’s your name, baby?” The man asks, and Louis doesn’t answer, just dances closer to him and wonders if it’s weird that he’s already this hard. “I’m Alex.”
Louis reaches one hand down to palm himself through his jeans, keening softly when he rubs the fabric against his cock. Alex runs his hands across Louis’ stomach, fingers brushing down below the waistband of his jeans. Louis stiffens when his fingers ghost across the fabric of the panties, his breath hot against Louis’ neck as he tries not to moan.
“You’re a naughty boy, aren’t you?” Alex asks, running his fingers down over the lace, and Louis can’t breathe, can barely think because this man knows and he’s touching Louis in all the places he’s yearning to be touched but it’s still not enough.
Louis whines low in his throat and he thinks he should be embarrassed about this, but his entire body feels needy and all he can think about is the way Alex is touching him with his big rough hands and grinding his half hard cock against Louis’ ass. He wants him so bad it hurts.
He’s not sure how long they dance, long enough for his hair to slick damp against his forehead with sweat and long enough for him to feel drunk and aching with how much it all is. He feels like everything is building up inside him, pent up sexual energy making him electric.
He’s about two seconds from taking Alex by the hand and dragging him to the bathroom when he hears his name being called by a horribly familiar voice. “Louis? Louis!”
He blinks himself out of the sweaty fog he’s fallen into, unfocused eyes falling on Harry. He stumbles into him when Alex loosens his grip just the smallest bit, small hands on Harry’s shoulders.
“You’re Harry Styles!” Alex says, apparently recognizing him. Louis wonders what he’d have to do to master teleportation in the next 2 seconds, thinks that might be the easiest solution to this problem. He turns to Louis, face lit up in surprise. “You know him?”
Harry still looks completely dumbstruck, something alarmingly close to anger on his features. “What the fuck, Lou.”
Alex steps back, holding his hands up in a gesture of innocence. “Didn’t know he was your boyfriend, man. Sorry.”
Harry just stares at him, and Louis can see the confusion and anger bubbling to the surface and wishes he could smooth the furrow out of his brow and fix this. “He’s not.” Harry growls, grabbing Louis’ bicep with a hand and dragging him outside before Louis can apologize about the situation at large.
“What if someone had seen? Do you know what pap shots of that could do to us?” Harry asks, looking at Louis with a hard look in his green eyes once they stumble into the cool night air. “It’s like you don’t even care.”
“Sorry.” Louis says, wishing he had a cigarette just for something to do with his hands. He’s still overwhelmed by the whole thing, but it’s more a buzzing low in his stomach and less of a frantic need. He thinks it might be the disappointment in Harry’s eyes.
“Are you?” Harry asks coldly, and Louis just wants to go home, to wash everything off of his body until he feels clean and soft again. He feels dirty all of a sudden, because of the panties and the sweat and how bad he still wants it.
“I said I was fucking sorry, Harry. Don’t fucking get mad at me.” Louis grumbles, stumbling away from Harry’s judgemental stare.
“I’m not mad at you.” Harry growls, and Louis knows he is, can see the way his jaw clenches, the way his voice breaks a little bit.
“Just fucking leave it.” Louis says, throwing open the door of the nearest cab and throwing himself inside. He tells the cabbie his address in a broken voice and sinks his head into his hands. He’s just tired of pretending he doesn’t feel the things he feels.
It’s a blur; getting in the taxi, getting out of the taxi, paying the driver, glaring at paps standing at the door of the hotel and finally, somehow, getting into his room. He slams the door shut, walking over to the bed and letting his body fall onto the soft sheets. He groans into the pillow, squeezing his eyes shut as his nasty words replay in his head, a sick feeling pooling in his stomach.
The Stupid Pink Panties Situation is probably going to destroy his life and he’s almost too horny to care.
He sighs into the rough fabric of the pillow, his mind racing with Harry and how he could have ruined it for all of them with such a stupid mistake and the way his cock is literally aching now, pressed in the tight knickers and so hard it hurts.
He rocks down against the mattress, letting out a whine at the friction. He feels wild and strange and he wants to sink into that feeling. He squirms out of his shirt, the scratch of the duvet almost welcome as he unbuttons his pants with shaking hands. He lifts his hips up from the bed, nearly collapsing back down every time his fingers brush against his cock.
He feels too full of everything, arousal and deceit thrumming through his veins as he cups himself with a hiss. The satin is wet with precome and he rubs the fabric over his cock, biting down on the pillow to keep himself quiet. He hides his face from the light of the room, stroking his free hand across his stomach and down his hip, feeling the lace against his skin.
He almost wants to see himself, wants to watch the lace tug and pull, but even the thought of it makes him feel closer to the edge than he’d like to admit. He closes his eyes tight, thinks of Alex and his hands and his body and doesn’t think about why in his imagination Alex’s eyes always flash green.
He imagines those hands on him, touching him and holding him and whispering into his ear. He can barely think about what he said without whimpering. Naughty. He’s so close, every movement making him cry out, but it’s not quite enough.
His thoughts have gone hazy, half formed images of curly hair and the memory of Alex behind him, the flash of darkness in Harry’s eyes.
He comes with a gasping moan, one hand around his cock and the other fisting the delicate lace as his orgasm washes over him. He feels tears prick the edges of his eyes and curls in on himself, his vision blurring as he comes into the fabric.
He barely has his breath back before he’s swearing into the pillow case. Of course this is his life. Of course it is. He slides the panties down his legs, wishing he wasn’t so into the way his come soaks the satin, dragging across his thighs as he kicks the panties as far under the covers as they’ll go just so he doesn’t have to see them anymore.
He feels like he should think about this, about how much he liked all of it even though he wishes he didn’t. He looks up at the clock, 3:46 mocking him in red LEDs, and he buries his face back into the pillow.
He sleeps fitfully and wakes up sweaty and sticky in a way even the shower can’t completely fix. His body feels heavy, regret weighing down his limbs and making him sluggish. He feels like he’s eighteen again; shaky and unsure about everything, alone and lovesick. He thought he was over this stupid infatuation for the last time, that he was finally starting to think of Harry like a friend and nothing more.
He does feels better once he’s clean, and once he slips back into sweats and a tee shirt he feels comfortable in his skin for the first time since before the concert.
He shuffles tiredly over to the bed, shuffling the sheets together so they don’t look so completely debauched. It’s only when he lifts the comforter up that he sees the panties, dirty and ripped up on one side, the satin torn and stained. He’s not sure what the feeling welling up in his gut is but he really doesn’t like it, and he can’t tell if it’s shame or sadness because they’re ruined and he feels a little ruined inside too. He picks them up with careful fingers, heading to the bathroom and wrapping them up in toilet paper before shoving them to the bottom of the bin.
It’s all a little bit sad.
Breakfast is awkward. The other boys are still nursing hangovers, and when he makes it down to the lobby there’s only Harry in his dumb moose pajama pants hunched over the waffle machine. He refuses to acknowledge Louis’ presence until he literally slides up next to him, their arms pressed flush. “Morning.”
Harry gives him a glance, looking irritable and sad and soft in that sweet morning way of his. “Hey.”
Louis looks at him for a moment, the curve of his nose and the bow of his lips. “I’m sorry about last night. It was stupid. I was being an idiot.”
Harry’s face falls a little, all pretenses of anger dissolving in the fluorescent light. “Well I shouldn’t have yelled. I know it’s hard for you.”
Louis laughs bitterly, feeling some hurt inside him heal a little bit. He doesn’t think he and Harry have been mad at each other for more than 24 hours since the day they met. “It’s all so ridiculous. I want to fuck boys, it’s not a goddamn crime.”
Harry smiles at him, and it’s laced with pity. Sometimes Louis wishes he was Bi like Harry, that he could at least sleep with girls when he didn’t want to be alone. He knows that isn’t fair, that Harry is pretending just as much as he is, but he can still be a little bitter about it. “I know. It’s so stupid, but it won’t be forever.”
Louis could throw out platitudes about being strong and making due and it is what is but he says what really matters instead, leaning up against his shoulder. “Love you.”
“Not sure I deserve that, but thanks.” Harry says with a self deprecating little shrug.
“Oh be quiet.” Louis tells him, watching the timer on his waffle tick closer to zero. He’s planning on stealing it.
The thing about this, is that it’s completely his fault. He went online and he ordered them and now they’re here and he nothing to say for himself except that his decision making skills are terrible and his self control needs serious work. He lifts them out of the box, half in awe and half in horror of the cream colored bows and pale blue fabric. They’re beautiful and they give him that desperate nervous feeling in his gut he almost missed.
“What are you doing?” He asks, because apparently he’s talking to himself now. Fabulous. This situation couldn’t possibly get any better. He supposes he can’t call it the Stupid Pink Panties Situation anymore, thinks he might just amend it to the Stupid Louis Panties Debacle, which also has a pretty nice ring to it.
He lets out a whine, dropping his head into his hands and mentally preparing himself for what has to come next. He’s going to put them on. And he’s probably going to enjoy it. He paces for a little while, tries hiding them under his bed, takes a shower, and makes himself a cuppa before digging them out again, staring them down as he scrubs a hand through his still damp hair.
He drops the towel, reaching for the panties first, because at least that part’s familiar, and pulls them up his legs. He shivers at the feeling of them, the slippery fabric as it slides up his thighs, and he snaps the waistband against his hipbones, adjusting himself in the pretty blue fabric. He can’t quite breathe right, taking quick gasps of air as he runs his fingers over his bulge.
He reaches into the box on autopilot, pulling out a pair of white thigh highs and rolling them up his legs, careful not to rip them. They make his legs look beautiful, the feminine line a strange contrast to his muscular calves. He fingers the braces, clipping them first to the tops of the socks and then to the panties, tightening them so everything pulls taut.
He pads over to his mirror, whining a little at the way the fabric moves against him. The memories of the night at the club are almost visceral; sweat dripping down his neck, hands roaming his torso, Harry’s eyes flashing with anger and something darker.
He’s terrified to look at his reflection, to see himself staring back like this, but he wants it too, wants to see the way the fabric stretches and pulls over his body. It’s not meant for him, doesn’t quite fit right over his cock, and the strain of it makes his whole body feel tight.
He steels himself, catching his eye in the glass and moving his gaze down so he can see his whole profile. He’s flushed, glassy eyes and wet lips and it’s ridiculous that he should be affected by this but he can’t help it. It’s just as amazing as he remembers, his skin gold against the pale colors, the lace cutting shapes against his hips. He’s mortified at how much he likes it, but he doesn’t want to be. He remembers the way Alex seemed to like it, wonders if he could get someone else to like it to. He tries not to think Harry but his name comes to mind unbidden.
“I’m such a fucking idiot.” He says, but it doesn’t make his semi go away. He wants to show this to someone, to be praised and petted and told he’s pretty, damnit.
He palms himself in the mirror, watching the fabric move and glancing up through the fringe. The first time was an accident, second time a coincidence and now he’s pretty sure it’s a pattern.
He’s not sure how he managed to convince himself that wearing his nice sheer lace white thong to a concert would be a cool and fun idea, but he definitely regrets whatever thought process led him to this point. Or at least, he’s pretty sure that if he tells himself he regrets it enough times it will negate the thrill he feels every single time the fabric shifts. He’s beginning to suspect that he might be a masochist, which is not really ideal.
Harry keeps shooting him concerned glances, which is definitely also not ideal. This is definitely reckless, and thinking too hard about it makes his cheeks heat.
“Everything okay?” Harry asks when they pass each other, their hands brushing together. Louis tries to slow his breathing and stay calm enough to make it through their songs. He tries not to catch Harry’s eye as he whispers his affirmative into his ear, terrified Harry will catch his too wide pupils and the desperation in his eyes.
He sits down on the couch, wriggling to try and adjust himself, a gasp slipping from his lips at the movement. Shame and arousal well in his stomach and he digs his fingers hard into his thighs to tamp his feelings down. He is literally going to go home and build himself a time machine so he can warn past-louis about the strange and wonderful dangers of panties before he ends up in situations like this.
To his dismay, Harry keeps mothering him with hot breath on the back of his neck and big warm hands like a well meaning sex monster trying to drag Louis to his inevitable sexy death. He wants to scream, to fling himself at Harry and tell him to please, please stop before he loses the remainder of his sanity, but he just smiles instead, letting Harry do as he pleases.
Somehow, through sheer willpower and luck, Louis makes it to the end of the concert without combusting from sexual frustration. He even makes it back to the hotel without incident, pretending to be asleep on Harry’s shoulder on the bus. He’s fairly sure Harry knows he isn’t asleep, but he wraps an arm around Louis’ shoulder and doesn’t say anything of it.
Louis trudges back to his hotel room in a daze, stumbling through the door with a barely stifled groan. He pulls his shirt off, barely bothering to throw the door shut, running his hands across his chest with a strangled sigh. He can’t keep doing this to himself, but he honestly doesn’t think he could stop even if he really wanted to. It’s just, he knows how wrong all of it is but he can’t help the way it makes him feel.
He undoes his pants, kicking them off until he’s standing in the white panties. He rubs his palm over his cock as he walks over to his suitcase, digging around until he finds his thigh highs and sliding them up his legs. The garter belt and braces come next, wicked and beautiful when he tightens them enough to press into his skin. He stands in front of the mirror admiring himself, running his hands over his curves and over the soft lace and trying to remember how to make his heart beat steady.
He backs up slowly, pressing his back to the wall and watching the mirror so he can see himself, every breath that moves his chest and every ripple of the fabric. He cries out when he reaches through the panties to touch himself, a strangled noise that doesn’t mean to fall from his lips. He trembles under his own hands, and he presses two fingers past his lips, sucking on them until they drip with saliva.
His knees go weak and he slides down the wall, moaning at the way the fabric pulls up, sharp and nearly painful. He reaches behind himself, pressing a tentative finger to his hole. He never does this, always thought it felt too humiliating to really enjoy, but he’s far past pretending he isn’t gagging for it.
He presses a finger inside himself, gasping at the pressure and moaning as it slides in. He can’t seem to keep quiet anymore, desperate noises falling from his lips as he adds another before he’s really ready for it.
“Louis?” The word comes through the wall and he freezes, his throat closing up in panic. “Is everything alright?”
He slides his fingers out, taking heaving breaths and setting his head in his hands. This isn’t happening. “Just fine!”
He can hear Harry shift closer, hear him knock against the wall. Louis can barely breath at how close Harry is to him when he’s like this, how close he is to knowing everything. “You’re worrying me a little.”
“Everything’s fine.” Louis says, but his voice sounds ten different kinds of wrong, hoarse and broken even to his own ears. He wishes he hadn’t been such an idiot about this. Of course Harry is in the room next to him and of course the walls are paper thin. Why should he expect anything else at this point.
“Can I come over?” Harry asks, tapping a rhythm on the wall. “I could sleep with you. Like we used to.”
The words make Louis’ stomach turn over, nostalgia making him feel faint and horrible. “Please don’t.”
“Stop pushing me away.” Harry says, and Louis shakes his head. Why now. Why fucking now.
“Please.” Louis says, so softly he isn’t even sure it’ll be heard through the wall.
He hears shuffling, Harry getting up. “I’m going over there, okay? I have a key.”
It’s the worst kind of deja vu as Louis runs toward his suitcase and tries frantically to unzip it, swearing as the zipper refuses to budge. He can’t hear Harry outside over his breathing and the beating of his heart and he thinks he might combust from how horrible it all is. Harry can’t see this. He just can’t.
He hears the key slide in the lock just he yanks the zipper open but he knows it's too late to do anything, so he just crouches there as the door swings open.
“You know I just don’t underst-” And then Harry stops talking.
Louis doesn’t move, holds completely still and tries to make himself as small as he possibly can. Maybe if he makes himself very, very small, Harry won’t be able to see him. Maybe he’ll disappear into the carpet and never have to talk to anyone ever again. “Lou?”
“What.” He says, his voice very small and very shaky and Louis hopes this means he’s turned into a lady bug.
“What are you doing?” And it sounds more curious than judgemental, but Louis can still feel tears prick at the edge of his vision. He’s not going to cry over this, except he has a terrible feeling he already is.
“What does it look like I’m doing, Harry. Literally what does it look like.” He snaps, except he can feel a tear escape down his cheek and his voice won’t stop breaking, so he doesn’t think it has much heat behind it.
“Hey, no, hey why are you crying?” Harry asks, his voice going higher in distress.
“Please leave. This is possibly the most mortifying experience of my life ever so please just leave.” Louis says, taking a very serious interest in the carpet.
He can hear Harry walking closer and sees Harry’s feet as he crouches next to him. “Can you please look at me.”
“Definitely not.” Louis says, squeezing his eyes shut.
Harry reaches out to him, sweeping his sweaty fringe out of his face. “Louis, please. I’m not- I’m not going to tell anyone. I don’t care okay? I don’t care I think-” He pauses, hands fumbling to brush stray tears off Louis’ flushed cheeks. “You look amazing.”
“Don’t make fun of me.” Louis says, because Harry can’t just say things like that, can’t give him everything if he knows it isn’t true.
“Why would I do that?” Harry asks, voice soft.
“I don’t know.” Louis says, and nothing makes sense , because Harry should be running away and he’s not. “I feel really stupid right now.”
“I don’t think you’re stupid.” Harry says, and his voice is still soft and still kind and he’s still here. “Is this like, a thing for you?”
“Yep.” Louis answers shortly, and his erection has mostly gone away but he’s pretty sure if Harry looked down at his crotch it would still be embarrassing for both of them. He barely says the next part, his voice just above a whisper. “I just like it.”
Harry doesn’t speak for a little while, and when he does, his voice is quieter too. Louis feels like they’re both afraid to disturb whatever all of this is. “I like it too. Like, on you. It looks nice and I didn’t just say that to make you feel better. You look nice.”
Louis heaves in a breath, sneaking a hand across the carpet until his fingers lay over Harry’s. “Thanks.”
They sit there in silence for a minute before Harry stands up, and Louis glances at him, at his outstretched hands. “Come on, get up off the floor.”
Louis laughs low under his breath. This whole situation is ridiculous, and if it were happening to anyone other than him and Harry he’d probably find it hilarious. He still feels ashamed of everything he’s let happen but Harry doesn’t look disgusted with him yet and that helps a little. Still, he’s not sure he’d really be able to handle the drag of the fabric that always happens when he moves. “S’nice down here.”
Harry laughs under his breath and it hitches a little. “Can’t stay down there forever.”
“Probably could,” Louis tells him, but Harry keeps holding his hands out so Louis reaches up for them, letting himself be tugged standing. He grits his teeth through it and it’s all fine. He can feel himself blushing even harder, self consciousness swelling inside him as Harry stares. If he focuses on Harry’s embarrassment instead of his arousal he might actually be able to make it through this. “Eyes are up here, thanks.”
Harry blinks, blush growing deeper. “Sorry, sorry.”
Louis gives him the smallest of smiles, a tentative sort of warmth spreading over him. “You do like it, don’t you?”
Harry squeezes his eyes shut, fighting a grin as he covers his face with his hands, mumbling his reply past his palms. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, fuck.” He lets his hands fall. “Can I just...?”
“Can you just?” Louis asks, crossing his arms over his chest and trying not to grin.
“Yes.” Harry says, stepping closer to him, close enough that Louis can feel his breath against his neck, close enough that it makes his own breathing go wrong.
“Can you just what?” Louis asks, even though he already knows, because he needs to hear it. He can feel his self control slipping away as he glances down at Harry’s lips, and it takes all he left not to grab him.
“Touch you.” Harry says, like that’s something friends say to each other, like this is something that’s ok and not the scariest, strangest situation he’s ever been in.
“Okay,” is what Louis means to say. “Please,” is what actually comes out. Harry’s hands curl around his hips and he gasps, pressing his face into Harry’s neck and trying not to think. He can feel himself getting hard again and reaches for Harry’s arms to stop him, but only ends up with his fingers curled around Harry’s biceps.
“I can’t believe how good you look.” Harry says, and Louis has the vague suspicion that he doesn’t mean to actually say it, but it still sends a rush of arousal through his body.
“Harry, you can’t just say things like that if you aren’t going to do anything about it.” Louis says, his voice panicked and rushed against the crook of Harry’s neck. “I can’t, I can’t let you do that okay?”
Harry’s fingers brush over the sheer material, one finger sliding underneath the waistband. He doesn’t answer right away, just slides his hands over the curve of Louis bum. “Do you want me to do something?” He asks, and Louis whines just a little bit, lifting his chin up so he can look at Harry, their noses brushing as their eyes meet.
Louis opens his mouth to say something, anything, when suddenly Harry is kissing him, lips warm against his, possessive hands pulling him closer. He wants to stop, to push Harry away and make him explain himself, but he’s kissing back before he can help himself, hands clutching Harry so he doesn’t fall.
Harry is so warm against him, and the noise Louis lets out as Harry licks into his mouth is soft, drawn-out, and more of a whimper than anything. His hands are kneading the soft skin of Louis’ hips, pulling him close until they’re chest-to-chest, the cotton of Harry’s clothes against
Louis’ bare skin.
Louis’ slides his hands up into Harry’s curls, tilting Harry’s head down so he can kiss him better. Harry allows Louis to nip at his bottom lip, and Louis doesn’t feel so ashamed anymore, like maybe he can like all of this and have it be ok. He’s trying to slip his tongue back into Harry’s mouth when he turns his head to the side. Louis pulls back, irrational fear pulling a furrow into his brow.
“Why’d you...” he trails off, his eyes following Harry’s line of vision. “Oh.”
Their reflection stares back at them, Harry in his concert clothes and Louis in his lingerie, wrapped together in the stale hotel light. He can’t help the whimper he lets out, cheeks flushing at the picture they present, yet he can’t look away.
He’s naked but for his knickers and stockings, pressed flush against Harry’s chest. The fact that Harry’s still fully-dressed gets to him in ways something so silly shouldn't, and Harry smirks a bit, keeping his eyes on the mirror as he dips down to nip at Louis’ neck, pulling a surprised gasp from him.
“You look so pretty. Lou, God, you look so fucking pretty, you see?” Harry’s eyes are closed when his hot breath touches Louis’ ear, making him shiver.
“Um,” he croaks, eyes flickering down to where Harry’s toying with the belt of the garters, drawing it back before letting it snap against Louis’ waist. He clutches Harry harder at the movement, gasping curses and pleas.
He tightens his grip in Harry’s hair as he rocks his hips, trying to gain friction. Harry stops him with two firm hands on his waist, and Louis whines, burying his face into the crook of Harry’s neck.
“C’mon.” His voice is strained, as Harry thumbs at his skin, gentle and teasing. “You said you’d do something. Don’t play.”
“You never asked me to do something. It’s always polite to ask before you assume.” He’s being smug and Louis thinks if he gets out of this without dying of sexual frustration he might actually kill him.
Louis inhales, Harry’s scent making him dizzy. He’s going to have to beg for this, and he’s not really sure how he feels about that. Judging by the way his cock twitches at the thought, the verdict seems to be aroused. “I- I want you to do something. To me. Please.”
“What exactly do you want me to do to you?” Harry asks, pressing his fingers just a little harder.
Louis swallows hard, looks up at Harry’s eyes and knows that he could ask for anything, that even though he’s the one begging for it, Harry will do anything he asks. When he finally replies, his voice barely even trembles. “Can you fuck me?”
Without another word, Harry draws back, pulling Louis by his wrist over to the mirror. Louis goes easily, silent as he lets Harry nudge him forward, until he’s directly in front of the glass. Harry reaches forward and takes Louis’ wrists again, pressing them firmly against the wall on either side of the mirror.
“Have you got anything?” Harry asks as he begins unbuckling his belt, and Louis swallows around the lump in his throat before looking over his shoulder.
Harry looks up at him briefly, pulling his belt out from the loops and tossing it to the floor. “Lube.”
“It’s in the suitcase,” he says, feeling breathless all over again as his cock starts to harden back up where it lays against his hip. “Front pocket.” Louis tries to keep his voice steady as Harry finds it and walks back over to him.
“This isn’t your first time, is it?” he asks as he uncaps it and coats his fingers, voice casual even though Louis can see his fingers shake.
“Of course not,” Louis says hautely.
“No need to be catty.” Harry says, but there’s amusement behind it.
Louis has a comeback on the tip of his tongue, he’s sure of it, but then Harry’s slipping two fingers under the knickers and tugging them to the side, holding them away from Louis’ hole with one hand as he presses the tip of his finger inside.
It’s a bit strange at first- because it’s so little to clench around, but then he begins to push it deeper, until it’s in to the knuckle, and he crooks it slowly, his eyes on Louis in the mirror.
“More.” Louis wriggles his hips the slightest bit, squeezing his eyes shut. “Please, just. One more.”
“If you’re sure” Harry says, sliding a second finger inside. Louis can’t stop himself from clenching around them, making a soft noise of approval. He rocks his hips back because he feels too wired to stay still, gasping at the feeling of it all, feeling only a little bit smug when he hears Harry gasp as well.
Harry works his way into a rhythm, and Louis tries to stay quiet even though Harry’s fingers are just as devastating as they look. He continues to slowly fuck them in and out, and Louis’ can’t keep quiet anymore, breathy moans escaping his sealed lips.
Harry adds a third finger, pressing into him slow and deep, and Louis cries out when his fingers brushes his prostate. Harry stills like he’s afraid of hurting him and is about to pull his fingers out when Louis shakes his head, reaching back to still his wrist, keeping him there.
“Don’t-” he starts, his words faltering as he fucks himself back onto them, widening his stance to get them deeper. Harry scissors them open, and it’s heaven, leaving Louis fully-hard and leaking precome against his navel.
“M’ready,” Louis pants, pressing his face into the crook of his elbow in a last-ditch attempt to cover up his desperation. “C’mon.”
“Please,” Louis stresses, and he’s shaking now. “Please, Harry-”
“Never heard you say please so often,” Harry says, and it’s more reverent than anything else. He pulls his shirt over his head and unbuttons his pants, shoving his jeans and boxers down. Louis watches Harry in the mirror as he gives his cock a few quick pulls, watching the way his tattoos move with glassy eyes.
“Fuck,” he whispers, and Harry gives him the smallest of smiles as he slicks himself up. If Louis didn’t know better, he’d think Harry was nervous.
Louis licks his dry lips as Harry steps forward, pressing himself flush against Louis’ back. Louis whimpers when he feels the head of Harry’s cock catch on his rim, thick and hot.
“Tell me if it’s too much.” Harry says, stretching the knickers to the side and lining himself up, sinking into Louis until they’re flush against each other.
The whole world seems to have dulled around them, just Harry’s cock and his hands smoothing over his hips and the panties tight against his cock. Louis feels like the air’s been pushed out of him- he’s so full, it’s like he can feel it in his throat. He slowly circles his own hips, feeling how Harry’s cock shifts in him, and his knees nearly buckle.
“Move,” Louis pleads, moaning when Harry’s fingers slip under the waistband and grip him tight as he snaps his hips out and then back in. Louis’ goes pliant as Harry fucks into him, sure and slow. The twist of Harry’s hips has Louis jerking in place, knees going weaker by the moment. Louis looks down at himself in the mirror, in real life, whines at the way his body moves every time Harry pushes into him, his muscles flexing to himself upright.
Louis’ hands drag down the frame of the mirror and he collapses against the wall, panting hard, his breath fogging the glass. Harry pulls out, wrapping two arms around his waist and lifting him up, carrying him over to the bed. Louis waits for the familiar feeling of the mattress and blinks in confusion as Harry sits down on the edge of the bed, lifting Louis up so he’s sitting on his lap, Harry’s cock pressed against his back.
Harry kisses up his neck, whispering softly in his ear. “Can you get back on, love?”
Louis nods, letting Harry help him back and holding the knickers out of the way as he sinks back down onto Harry’s cock, the slow slide nearly too much, his thighs aching with the effort.
Harry bounces on the mattress and Louis gasps, only Harry’s arms around his waist keeping him from keeling forward as the head of Harry’s cock drags across his prostate.
When he can open his eyes again, he’s met with their lewd reflection.
Harry’s eyes are staring right at his; dark and blown-out as he sinks his teeth into the skin of Louis’ shoulder, hot and dirty as he bounces Louis up and down on his lap. Louis screws his eyes shut as Harry kisses the shell of his ear. “Watch me fuck you.”
Louis doesn't open his eyes for a moment, and Harry stops moving, pulling Louis down and keeping him still when Louis tries to wiggle. Louis forces his eyes open and lets his chin loll against his chest, eyes trained on the mirror. “It’s no fun if you can’t see.” Harry says, kissing him gently behind the ear like an apology for stopping.
Louis’ fattened cock stretches the front of the knickers, and his thighs are on either side of Harry’s, pulling at the garters. His skin looks soft, his thighs swollen and jiggling each time Harry’s cock disappears back inside him.
It’s dirty and amazing in all the ways he never thought he could ask for, and he grinds his hips down to meet Harry’s thrusts, letting Harry tilt his head back for a messy kiss. The lace rubs against the sensitive head of his cock with each shift, and he’s desperate to come but he almost wants to stay like this forever.
He’s close, though, the pit of his stomach tightening, saliva leaking down his chin and to his throat, and when Harry licks into his mouth, murmuring “maybe some lipstick next time,” he’s mewing high and coming over his quaking torso, splattering to his chin as Harry reaches forwards and strokes him through the panties.
He’s shivering, shoulders caving inwards as Harry picks up his pace, nuzzling his face into the space between Louis’ shoulderblades, tongue flicking out to swipe over it before he’s moaning into the skin, sending a ticklish vibration up Louis’ throat as he spills into him.
They don’t move for a long moment, and Louis slowly relearns how to breathe, unclenching his hands from Harry’s upper arms with a shaky laugh. Harry turns them over, sliding out of Louis with a hiss. “I’ll get a flannel.” He says, voice cracking halfway through the sentence.
Louis lets him go, pushing himself up the bed and lying down, trying to get a handle on reality. He still feels so overwhelmed, doesn’t entirely believe that any of it could actually happen, that Harry could see him like that and want him, but the memories are too real to be even the most vivid of hallucinations.
Harry’s smiling when he comes back out of the bathroom and it’s a little contagious, a pleased little smile finding it’s way onto Louis’ face. “Lets get you cleaned up, yeah?”
Louis nods, feeling his gaze go warm as Harry undoes the garter and unclips the braces, sliding the high socks off his legs. “I still can’t believe you’re into this.” Louis says, poking at Harry’s thigh.
Harry ducks his head into his chest. “Are you serious? I can’t believe you’re into it. I thought I might have died and gone to heaven when I first walked in here.” He says it with a laugh like it’s supposed to be a joke, but Louis can read him well enough to know he’s being at least a little serious.
“I feel like they don’t let lingerie clad boys parade around in heaven but whatever you say, H.” Louis quips, satisfaction making it impossible for him to keep a straight face. “I can’t believe we did this.”
Harry shrugs, pulling the thong down Louis’ legs and wiping him clean. “I always wanted to.”
Louis freezes, giving him a sharp look. “Quit taking the piss.”
Harry shrugs, tossing the flannel onto the carpet and laying down next to him. “I’m not. I’ve always thought you were gorgeous. I had the biggest crush on you. Still do.” He says it all so calmly, like it’s not making Louis’ heart do somersaults in his chest. Naturally, Louis hits him in the arm. “What was that for?” Harry asks, pouting at him from the other half of the bed.
“For not telling me you wanted to fuck me when you knew I was a sad and lonely gay boy.” Louis says, kicking him in the shin for good measure.
Harry pulls him closer, octopus limbs wrapping around Louis’ waist. “Sorry.” He says into Louis’ neck.
“You’re forgiven.” Louis tells him, because a naked and handsy Harry Styles is surprisingly hard to argue with.
“Yay.” He mumbles, nudging up against Louis’ chin.
“You’re actually so ridiculous. Two minutes ago you’re all ‘tell me what you want me to do to you’ and now you’re a kitten.” Louis says, pressing a kiss to the top of Harry’s head. He wishes he wasn’t so damn endeared.
“Just sleep with me.” Harry says, looking up at him with warm eyes and soft lips and if Louis had even been thinking of saying no it would be a lost cause.
He lets himself be dragged closer to Harry, their legs tangling together in the half light. “For old times sake?” He whispers.
“For now times sake.” Harry says, kissing up his neck.
Louis laughs, grinning helplessly. “That too, love, that too.”