Larry Stylinson | Fanfics

Send Me A Dirty Picture, Babe.x

Written by: liberateme

Summary:

Louis knows exactly what he should do. Apologise politely to the stranger- so as not to provoke him- delete the text, and forget about the matter.
So why does he find himself texting back, 'Nice dick.'?

Work Text:

Well. Unexpected is a word Louis would certainly use in a situation like this.

He's gawping down at his phone, held in his slippery grasp, at a more than graphic image of a man's dick. He can see every detail- the etchings of black ink along the man's arm, strained and taut as it's wrapped firmly around the dick, pre-cum dribbling out of the tip. He can see the swell of muscles in the arm, the more-than-average sized dick, the promise of impressive muscles, lightly defined on the tanned torso.

He continues to stare, heart thudding at the sight. The thing was- he wasn't gay. At least, he'd always thought so.

He'd been through a countless number of girls, with their slender frames, tousled hair and breathy gasps. He knows how to make one writhe underneath him, the effect his 'talented mouth' had. But his extensive knowledge of the female species seems worthless to him; he's always craved something more, that a woman couldn't give to him. He can't explain it.

It's the feeling of being treated roughly, tossed around like a ragdoll. He wants to be destroyed, wrecked by someone, so he's barely able to form coherent sentences, hobbling around the next morning.

Which is probably why he doesn't text back a; 'Sorry mate, wrong number.' and instead finds himself texting back, 'Nice dick.'

He's not sure what to expect, and certainly doesn't anticipate the stranger- who he's seen probably more than what you'd tend to see on a first date- replying with two sentences that have him picturing scenes that have him blushing furiously, and squirm in his seat: 'thanks. can only imagine what yours looks like. x'

The kiss at the end of the text has Louis pondering. Musing over what kind of person he'sreally talking to. From what he's gathered, it's clearly a man. He really does hope. The stranger speaks to him as if they've met before; Louis' guessing it must have been a brief meeting at a club, little dialogue and fumbling hands, hot mouths connecting. It displays some sort of endearment towards him, so it could be he's meant to have met this stranger more than once. He's also guessing the poor man's been given the wrong number purposefully. Louis finds it odd he feels a scrap of sympathy for a man who appears to be sexting him, but what else is new? Welcome to his life.

Surprise, surprise, the wrong number turns out to be his. What a shitty turn of events.

His phone buzzes with a new text, and his eyes glance downwards, at the glowing screen. Another text from the stranger, who interprets Louis' silence as something that has the tips of Louis' ears a lovely shade of marroon, desperate for some sort of friction as he grinds filthily into his seat. 'i sent you mine, only fair you return the favour. ;) x'

A winky emoticon. It seems this conversation's taken on a whole new meaning. Louis doesn't find himself minding, as he can feel a light sheen of sweat plastering his forehead, quaking hands unzipping his unfairly-tight jeans. He slips them off with some difficulty, his cool hands hitting the burning skin there. It's then he realises- with a little humilation- talking to this man and staring at a pixelated image of a dick for so long it's been engrained into his mind, is having an effect on him.

He's not sure whether to deny the feeling, or relax and admit a small part of him may have always wanted a man's dick inside of him.

But that's too extreme, isn't it? A step too far?