tetos; the lookbook
out tomorrow for the @momrry-ficfest | my ao3
i: the man of the lake
The black gown that encases his body hides his silhouette. The sharp cut of skin between the collar of his neck and where his curls begin is stark, the skin ghastly white. His hair, that is usually honey coloured is jet black. The material of it looks to cost more than anything Louis’ ever worn in his life, softer too. Silky, shiny… gliding down his body in ripples.
ii: a paragon in periwinkle plissé
What really makes Louis frown is his blouse. Garish, it is. Muted lilac, not grey but could be. Plissé chiffon that hangs loose off his arms and rests upon his waist. The layers are so thin that Louis can see the pale expanse of his skin underneath where he's bare. If he were to touch, he’d feel the heat radiating from his ribs; he could press his palms over the jutted backbones and watch the blood drip. Louis can see the dark colouring of Harry's nipples in the right lighting. It’s absurd. The wind is no friend.
iii: your sweet seduction
“What do you feel?” Louis grunts, moving lower to dip his tongue into the crevice of his collarbones. His fingers work on undoing the top button of Harry’s blouse, groaning when a blossom pink silk brassiere comes into view.
iv: so tonight that i might see
The entire thing is backless. Backless. So Harry’s bare skin is kissed by the moon, milky white and long, dotted at parts with freckles Louis would appreciate if given the chance. It ends skilfully, draped just above the swell of his ass, under the two dimples Louis wants to carve his fingers into. He’s mesmerised by the endless thin strings of diamonds that swing over his back, matching his necklace.
He’s breathtaking.
v: to feed on your darkness
By his side, wrapped in a satin buttermilk gown is Harry, propped up against the headboard. Louis rolls over, blue eyes fixed on him. His legs are on show under his babydoll. The hem of his gown reaches mid thigh; he looks like art sitting there, Sylvia on his lap as he strokes her white fur.
vi: your touch, so bittersweet
The new moon settles in the sky, and Harry’s body comes to life under it. His tattoos have darkened, his skin looks like snow and all over, spanning every inch, Louis’ love lingers. Red marks by his neck, indents of teeth. His nipples are surrounded with the same maroon bruising. By his hips are fingerprints, he must bruise easily. It aches Louis’ heart to see, but it satisfies something dark in him.
vii: and with you, i’m consumed
Made from net, thin branches like twigs crawl up his body, assets covered by small scraps of black fabric. The shape of his body is on show: broad shoulders, tattoos, thighs… Louis can even see his nipples, brown and perked in the breeze. He’s not ashamed to say that his eyes have been on Harry all evening, and when they haven’t been, his hands have instead. Nestled on his lower back, guiding him to his seat, resting on his knees under the table—he won’t even mention what they’d been up to in the car.
viii: won’t you stay?
Harry comes out all soft curves and long legs in a polka dot skirt, tight around his hips. It stretches down mid calf, figure clinging and thin. The top is tight, cinched around his body, and in a classy halter neck style. The crevice between his tits is noticeably bare—Louis would love to leave a trail of hickeys there.
ix: tender is the night
This is the closest he’s been to Harry. Sat on the grass, with his warm body on his lap, facing the sky as he holds Harry to him. He indulges in the curve of his waist, the thin material of his dress grants him pleasures he’s missed. The high slit lets Harry’s thigh slip out, smooth and unblemished, Louis holds him tight. Strokes up and down, fingers trailing under his knee and circling the bone.
x: fin.
The door opens, and Harry comes out, his long legs shiny as he prowls closer in just a fur coat. Inky black, coloured like the night sky, resting down to his mid-thigh. Louis raises his brows, head cocked to the side as he hums playfully, “This is my surprise?”
“You know it,” Harry shakes his shoulders saucily, giggling as Louis licks his lips. The sleeve of one hand slides low, exposing the skin of his neck. The necklace that pools in the dip of his collarbones. Louis eyes it darkly. “I feel like Sylvia.”
“You look like her,” he grunts, shifting on Harry’s mattress, far awake now. “Come here, kitten.”
“I’m not done, Harry pouts. Half of his face is shaded by those glasses, he looks sexy. Louis feels himself hardening.
“What else have you got for me?”
Sly like a cat, he grins, sharp teeth on show. After pushing his glasses up into his hair, Harry cocks his hip, knee popped out as he drawls, low and deep, “Ask me nicely.”
