larry smut

wrap me in pink

https://archiveofourown.org/works/1010503

~✰~

When Louis had first taken off, he'd been soaring high on his new high income and the influx of new friends in his life. His name was everywhere, his face plastered on magazines and posters and albumn covers.

But with the popularity, came pretty leggy girls who were to be draped over Louis' arm, for cameras to flash and plaster the image of Louis Tomlinson, New Playboy over every ragmag and newspaper in several countries.

Thoughts of pretty boys being introduced to his friends and family or pretty boys on his arm in public were stuffed into a box which Louis could only think of fondly, hidden far back, too deep in the closet.

On Thursdays, Louis earns a treat.

It's a simple treat, common to the miserable married man, but costing a larger sum when a face is as well-known as his.

On Thursdays, he wears dark sunglasses and pulls his hoodie over his eyes and takes a seat in a shiny leather booth.

On Thursdays, his team gives him the go ahead to go drinking, having pictures of him with a pretty brunette ready to be posted on social networks so make alibi.

On Thursdays, he drinks the first drink that pops to mind, sits back and feels the electric thrum of sticky music, from his toes to his neck.

On Thursdays, he can sit back and watch as an impossibly pretty boy slides his well-oiled body down a well-oiled pole, or rids himself of a kitsch costume, one sequinned tassel at a time.

So it's no surprise that it's a Thursday when.

'What can I get you?'

Louis tears his eyes from the golden skin closest to him, to the source of what he thinks he would describe as a 'sex-line operator's' voice. Or perhaps a 'sex-kitten'. Perhaps.

He's got a face to match the voice, his eyes a bit sparkly and his lips a bit pink and Louis decides he must me a sex-kitten; must be a little minx that claws at the sheets and purrs as he gets fucked.

Louis' favourite is what's on him, wrapping up the sweet little gift of his body. The boy smooths the bubble-gum pink fabric over his thighs as he waits for Louis' answer, as Louis just takes sweet time to drag his eyes over candyfloss-pink tennis shoes, and white cotton socks that stop just under mid-calf, thin knees and smooth thighs and a short skirt that wraps up to where it's tight at his waist and nips his body in, before a tempting strip of buttercream skin and a short sleeved shirt.

Louis eyes the pink over his shoulders, the bow beneath the hollow of his throat, back up the pale line of his neck to settle on his glossy lips. He must be too young to work here. His eyes are innocent and bright and his smile is trusting and inviting and his face is soft. He looks like he's just skirting at puberty.

'You can get me a scotch,' he say, ready to pull off the hood of his sweater and look the boy in the eye, give him a wink, get him into his bed. But he knows that's silly, so he keeps his head down.

The boy grins and turns away, his hips flicking in a way that makes his skirt swish with the sway of his hips. Louis watches after him until he can't see him anymore before he reluctantly looks back to where the oiled body gyrates on the oiled floor.

Louis watches as thin fingers set a tumbler down in front of him, liquid dark and ice making the glass sweat.

'Will that be all?' his voice purrs. Louis wants to hear him whimper his name, claw his at his back, bite his neck.

Louis lets his eyes sweep over him again, biting into his lower lip and itching to push his hood off his forehead and use his name to get the boy on his back.