Randominity

Title: Shut Your Mouth and Hold Your Breath (Part 1/3)
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Louis/other, Louis/Hannah, Harry/Louis
Warnings: Recurring sexual abuse/dubcon/noncon
Summary: Written to fill my own kinkmeme prompt here. Louis is coerced into performing sexual favors in order to progress through The X Factor and to protect the other boys in One Direction.
A/N: I'm so very sorry.

Read the whole thing at AO3.



"You have three 'yes's," Simon tells him, and it's the best news Louis' ever gotten in his life, right up there with "you're going to be a big brother," even better still than "you've won the role of Danny, lad." His face already hurts from grinning by the time he makes his way off the stage, can see Dermot chatting with Stan and can't wait to run off with him and yell about it, to sweep Hannah up in his arms and kiss her silly. He hands off his mic and fixes his fringe, dodging another contestant and the cameraman following her, and someone taps him on the shoulder. It's a member of X Factor staff, and he nods at Louis when Louis points to himself and mouths, "me?"

"You're wanted for an interview," the staffer tells him, jerking a thumb over his shoulder. "Can you come with me?"

"Oh, yeah, sure," Louis shrugs and glances back over his shoulder at Stan and Hannah, catches their eye. He waves and gestures to the staffer, makes a "beats me" face at them. He's led past assorted family and friends gathered in pockets to support their respective contestants, to a less-populated section of the hall, ducking into a short corridor lined with a few doors.

"Right in here," the staffer tells him and opens the door, gesturing for Louis to go inside.

"Thanks," Louis tells him, checking for a nametag and finding none. "Sorry, what was your name?"

The staff member seems surprised that Louis asked. "Dean," he says.

"Thanks, Dean," Louis says. "I'm Louis. Thanks again," he repeats, holding out his hand.

Dean looks at his hand and shakes it quickly. "Right, sure, cheers," he says, and disappears around the corner.

The room is more greenroom than office, sofas and ottomans and endtables, a few mirrors around and a toilet toward the back. Louis wanders around it, touching surfaces and picking up small carvings of animals, tracing a few plaques that hang on the walls. He checks his mail on his phone and texts Hannah "having interview, not sure how long, sorry for the wait" and waits to get her "np :) xx" before slipping his phone back into his pocket and sitting down to wait.

It's a while, and Louis is starting to wonder if maybe he's been forgotten, because the corridor wasn't exactly on the beaten path, but eventually he hears voices and the door opens and Simon Cowell walks in, followed by Louis Walsh. Louis almost feels he should stand, and is halfway to doing so when Simon waves him down again, drinking from a water bottle. "Please," Simon tells him. "Stay sitting. You should be comfortable."

The other judge just heads past both Simon and Louis to perch on the arm of a sofa in the far rear corner of the room. He raises his eyebrows at Simon, as if expecting him to take the lead, and Louis' gaze is torn between the two of them, unable to take them both in at once.

"Now, Louis," Simon says after he's closed the door behind him, "why do you think you're here today?"

"Erm, I was told there'd be an interview?" Louis says. He'd also figured there'd be cameras, but when he thinks about it, he's never seen a televised interview from within a room like this before, so maybe this is the standard.

Simon glances heavenward as if to ask why he has to put up with the help, and smiles, not unkindly, at Louis. "All right, then," he says. "Let's start with this: how do you think you did on your audition?"

"Well," Louis says, feeling his cheeks grow hot, the memory of every flubbed note and his crushing anxiety still so near, "I could've done better, I think, 'cause I was just so nervous, you know, um, but then, you said yes, so." He reaches up and smooths his fringe self-consciously.

"You need a lot of work," Louis' voice comes from behind him, and Louis whips his head to look over his shoulder, having forgotten for the moment that the other judge was here, too, or that he'd got behind him. "More work than we can give you in Bootcamp, I think," Louis goes on. He sighs. "Listen, you seem like a nice kid, but what we're saying here is that you got our vote based on your potential, not your raw talent."

Well, all right, that's a bit harsh, Louis thinks, but he's already admitted his audition wasn't up to scratch, and he's not sure what else they want from him, so he thinks, just like a job interview, then,, and summons a grin. "Well, I really appreciate the opportunity," he says, trying to seem cheerful. "I know I'll do better in the Bootcamp stage; I know I'm gonna have to work hard to prove myself." He nods. "Thanks so much, really."

"Oh, for god's--" Simon huffs impatiently, jerking his chin over Louis' shoulder to the other man. "Louis, you're being too subtle for the kid. You, contestant Louis," he says, turning his attention back to Louis. "Look, I'm gonna have to tell you: your voice didn't earn you those yes votes; your pretty mouth did."

Louis' smile wavers, uncertain. He knows that looks play a part in determining someone's X Factor from previous seasons, and he's happy that Louis and Simon think they can work with what he's got, whatever it is that he's got. He doesn't really like the way Simon said it, though, as though he only got through on his looks or something. He's not the best singer - he knows that - but he knows he's all right, he just needs work and maybe training and he really, really just wanted to know if they thought he could sing or not, so if they don't, well, then... then he doesn't know what. "I'm sorry?" says, hoping for some clarification.

"Well, let's not beat around the bush, here," Simon says, folding his arms. "You're a big boy, I'm sure you understand how these things work. We've done you a favour, passing you through to Bootcamp, and now we expect you to show a little gratitude. We scratch your back..." Simon trails off and raises an eyebrow.

Louis jerks his head back, feeling like he's been struck. "What?" he says before he can catch himself, and this has got to be a joke; someone has got to be having him on and there has to be a camera around here somewhere because, Louis thinks, this is the sort of thing that happens in movies, like casting couches and he's. He's a lad from Hall Cross sat in an X Factor audition hall and he has to have mis-heard. This will be funny, he thinks, when his heart comes down from his throat.

Neither man says anything for what seems a long while, and then Louis speaks up from behind him. "You heard him," is all he says.

Louis is well aware that he's gaping, can hear his breath loud in the insulated room, and he shakily rises to his feet, head swimming. "I'm not--" he starts, glancing between the judges, his throat dry. Gay, he thinks, or like that, and he realises it doesn't matter anyway, does it, what he's like, if this is what they want him to do. "I'm... no," he says, shaking his head slowly, hating how small his voice sounds to his own ears. "No," he says again, and glances at the door.

"Oh, of course you're free to go," Simon says nonchalantly, following his gaze. "You'll have to explain to our security outside the door that you didn't, in fact, nick anything of ours, of course. Oh, and explain to your friends and family about how you just got through to Bootcamp but have suddenly decided you'd rather go home. I'm sure they'll find your excuses very convincing. How long did you wait in line to audition today? I'm curious."

"I-- I could yell," Louis says numbly. He's feeling light-headed, the sound of his breathing the only way he's certain he's still taking in air.

"How soundproofed are these walls, Louis?" Simon asks, deferring to the other judge.

"Bands rehearse in here in relative peace and quiet," Louis shrugs. "You tell me."

"Oh, god," Louis whispers. He has no idea how he's even going to... what they will make him do. He has no idea if Hannah and Stan will even notice if he's gone too long, or what he would tell them if he left now, or what he would tell them if he didn't. He has no idea if he will even be able to look them in their faces.

He feels the fight leave him, sinks back down into the chair, and realises he's biting furiously at his thumbnail.

"Not over there," Simon tells him. "Come here."

His mind is racing and he hasn't any answers and he feels like time has somehow just... stopped, in the room, with no one to turn to, and so Louis goes, feet dragging like they weigh a few stone each, until he's close enough to Simon to touch without stretching out an arm. Simon points to the ground at his feet, and, swallowing hard, Louis kneels, his eyes burning. He sets his jaw and refuses to cry, not even a little. He can be hard, he knows. He's not always pretty. He can show them that.

And then maybe he'll be sent home anyway, after, a small voice says in his head, to his horror, as though some part of him has already accepted that he's going to do this to secure his own success.

"I hope you don't need further direction on this," Simon tells him, smirking. "I'm sure you can figure out what to do."

Louis delivers what he hopes is a withering glare upward through his fringe, then jerkily goes through the motions of all the things he knows about getting blowjobs; belt unfastening, trouser unbuttoning, fly down. He has to steel himself before reaching inside, and then fight to keep from jerking back when he finds Simon's cock, already hard. He pulls it out through the opening in Simon's pants and takes a moment too long to begin, because Simon sighs impatiently, saying, "you know we have to get back out there and judge in a minute," and Louis opens his mouth just as Simon fists a hand in his hair and pushes him down.

Simon's cock bumps his lips and then slips inside, and Louis' first thought is, I could bite, and yeah, everything would be over for him then, but it would be for Simon Cowell, too. What he does instead is brace himself with a panicked hand on Simon's hip, pushing back on Simon's hand with his head until Simon releases his grip and mutters, "get it right; I don't have time to teach you."

And he tries. He tries to keep his teeth away and tries not to think about Simon's cock, the musky smell of him. He makes himself bring up a hand to circle what his lips can't reach, squeezing and letting his spit wet it, for what feels like forever, just numbly moving and trying not to think about anything, until Simon grunts. It's the only warning Louis has before warmth and salt flood his mouth and when he tries to pull off, Simon's hand is back, trapping him again. "Can't be getting in your hair, now, can we," Simon says, voice strained, and Louis feels moisture slip from his lips, his own saliva and Simon's semen, as he tries to swallow and not choke. He holds his hands under his chin to keep from getting any on his clothes, then drops to all fours when Simon releases his hair, retching once, quietly, though thankfully nothing comes up.

Then another hand is forcing him down toward the carpet by the back of the neck, and he barely has time to think - Louis - before the bottom of his shirt and jumper are rucked up and warm stripes paint his back. His eyes fill with tears at that, and he pants harshly, staring wide-eyed at the floor, afraid to blink and let any fall.

Simon and Louis only allow him a moment before a box of tissues is set down beside him. "Get a hold of yourself," Simon says as he crosses the room to the door. "Someone could come in here and see, once we're gone."

Louis waits until they've left, then grabs blindly at the tissues and reaches behind himself to wipe at the streaks on his back before pulling his shirt and jumper back down. He rushes into the toilet to look at himself, and finds he still looks relatively composed despite his red, wet lips. His eyes aren't red-rimmed and his skin isn't mottled or flushed. If anything he's a bit pale, he thinks, and then is hit by a wave of nausea, gets suddenly sick in the sink bowl.

Strangely, he feels a bit better after that; he cleans up, washes his hands under the tap and splashes his face with cold water, rinses out his mouth, and exits the room alone. He passes the security detail that's now posted outside and nobody stops him, or spares him a second glance at all.

Hannah and Stan are waiting for him in a corner of the hall, having been supplanted from their spot before the monitors by the friends and supporters of another contestant. Their heads are tilted together in conversation, and Stan sees him first, whooping and throwing his hands in the air. "Man of the hour!" he shouts, and he and Hannah jog over to meet him halfway. Louis puts on the biggest grin he can muster and hugs Hannah tightly, bussing her on the side of her neck where she's warm and smells so familiar and welcoming, before pulling Stan into the hug.

"You were good," Hannah's telling him, "you did so good, I'm so proud," and Louis can't stop himself shaking his head; he keeps his face buried in her neck, takes a deep breath, holds it.

“Thanks,” he manages, murmured against her collarbone.

-----

Louis spends the week before Bootcamp running songs by Stan, digging through his collection of covers, singing and stopping and changing the key and starting again until his voice breaks and Stan grabs him by the wrist, pulling his hand off the mouse. He says, “Lou. Louis, you're gonna wreck your throat. It's great; leave it, would you?”

He can't. He has to get this perfect, he has to show he's got something, something they can work with. He needs to earn this and he feels like this is a first audition all over again and he'll never find a song that just works. He tells Stan as much, more or less, and Stan nods, says, “right, we'll just. We'll look at more songs tomorrow, yeah? “

They agree he'll do “Make You Feel My Love” for his second audition if it's an option and if he makes it that far--

“if,” Louis says, from around a fingernail, “I make it that far.”

“You'll make it that far,” Stan tells him, hand on his shoulder.

--and Louis rings Hannah, sings it to her over the phone, his voice slightly raspy. “My popstar boyfriend,” she says, fondly, and he makes himself huff a laugh instead of disagreeing.

He spends the day before he leaves at Hannah's while her parents are at work, showing off all the new clothes his grandad bought for him, and carefully packs them all into his suitcase he brought over, with Hannah's help. They snog for a long while, laid out on her bumblebee bedspread, and it's nice, warm and comfortable, Louis with one hand up under her shirt on Hannah's back and the other threading through her hair.

Eventually Hannah slides her thigh between Louis' legs and distantly, he thinks they ought to be having sex already, would be, probably, but he's only just now starting to get worked up. It's just... he's going to London tomorrow and he's got so much to prove. There are so many things he's not sure about what will happen, and what will happen after those things, and he wants to draw this moment out somehow, just freeze himself here, him and Hannah and her bumblebee bedspread, her hair caught between his fingertips.

Hannah moves to straddle his hips and it's like time starts moving in jumps and skips because suddenly he's got his trousers and pants down and she's rolling a condom over him. He reaches down, frowning, and touches himself, stroking a couple of times, watching his own hand move because for a moment he could have sworn his hard-on belonged to someone else, and that's... he's so turned on and he doesn't remember getting there. Hannah smiles against his mouth as she sinks down on him, displacing his hand and murmuring, “greedy,” and Louis looks up at her and feels like he can see her from above.

She's warm and tight around him and he has his hands on her head, and he can see them, his fingers clenching into fists and releasing in her hair, the bumps of her spine as she moves over him, the skirt she's kept on despite removing her pants. He feels more, watching them fuck from some spot on the ceiling, than he does from the press of her breasts against his chest, her knees around his waist. He comes, quicker than he thought he would, quick enough that he doesn't even have time to try to hold it off; that's for the first time in a long time, and suddenly Hannah's in focus above him again, looking flushed and confused, giving him a small smile.

“You didn't say anything,” she says. “You all right?”

He nods and grins at her a bit sheepishly, wanting to play it off, because he's not sure if he is all right, or what that was. “I think I just had an out-of-body experience,” he says, licking his lips, his cheeks hot with embarrassment.

“Oh-- well, then,” she giggles, flicking her hair, and rolls off him. “Compliment accepted! I love you, too.”

-----

The first day of Bootcamp is like being in a new school and sitting for exams combined, and Louis occupies himself in every free moment seeking out friendly faces, or at the very least boys who look more frightened than he feels. He's feeling shy, doesn't think he can fake confidence right now if his life depended on it, but when it comes to giving someone a leg up, that's where he's a natural.

He hits it off straight away with a kid named Aiden who looks like he was just born to perform and whose voice gives him chills, and there's a quiet boy calling himself Zayn from Bradford who's actually quite clever once he starts talking. He tells Louis, “my mum made me go audition, I didn't even really want to,” and “I just don't feel like I even belong here,” which makes Louis glance at him sharply, wondering for a moment if he's... if maybe they've got that in common. But then Zayn's huge brown eyes are peering around the room at other contestants, as he says, with awe, “it's like everyone else has got, like, training or summat, like, stage presence,” and Louis chalks his statements up to lack of confidence instead.

It's strange and unsettling both, hearing his voice put up for contrast against the other members of the Boys category as they sing Man in the Mirror, when some of the other lads have these huge, booming voices and Louis' never been able to sing as well as he can yell. He keeps count in his head of the boys he thinks he's done better than, but the judges aren't giving any direct feedback, no matter how he searches Simon's and Louis' impassive faces. At the end of it he can't tell whether he feels he ought to be in the top half or the bottom half, but he did all right, he thinks, wouldn't do it differently if he had it to do over.

And if it's not enough, he doesn't know what he'll do, or if they'll even offer, or if they'll... give up on him. He doesn't know what he could be made to do, and the thought makes his stomach clench because he doesn't want it, any of this, but if they end up deciding he's not worth it, like he's just nothing... he doesn't understand how that thought can hurt more than what they've already done, and he hates that it does, hates himself a little for it.

He's not cut. He's called onstage with a group of Boys and he recognises Zayn, and Aiden, and the curly-haired boy he met in the toilets, and he thinks, oh my god, I'm in. I'm really, properly in, and has to fight the beginnings of a smile behind his hands because they haven't been told yet, but he knows there's no way they're letting those boys go home.

The rest of Bootcamp passes in a blur until his second audition; Louis'd be more anxious about the dancing but he's had to learn choreography before, and looking around, he's far from the most awkward boy trying to co-ordinate their steps. There's something about the fact that they have to do the dance together that soothes him. It's just so much nicer, not having to be singled out, that he just does it, throws himself into it and lets himself be a little silly when it comes to freestyling because he knows they're looking for personality, too, and that's not something he's ever been short on.

Things are so different when he's next stood on stage alone in front of Simon and Louis and Nicole, and he should have known, really, should have seen that coming, but he'd been all right so far, and he'd thought... He hadn't thought. He'd been so stupid, he realises, and now he's supposed to sing Adele all by himself and he's holding his mic tightly with both hands to stop them shaking and if he loses pitch, if he loses pitch right now....

He misses his cue by a half beat and soldiers on anyway, staring far over the judges' heads into the audience instead of at either of them, and it's all he can do to get through the number and he's done, he knows. He can't expect this to be one of the better performances they've seen today, and he's counted himself out before Simon's even signalled for the music to stop, giving him a curt “thank you.”

“Thanks,” he mumbles into the mic, pursing his lips more than smiling, and makes himself walk the length of the stage before thrusting the mic into a staffer's hands and making a beeline for the toilets.

Dermot intercepts him with a surprisingly strong grip around the shoulders, saying, “hey, now, wait, wait, are you all right?” and Louis knows he signed waivers about his likeness on the telly and everything, but he's not going to let England and his mum and Stan see him cry over this, so he nods furiously, adjusting his fringe, saying,

“Yeah, yeah, I'm fine, I'm good,” and Dermot pulls him into a hug with a firm hand to the shoulderblade and murmurs,

“No cameras here, lad, you're all right,” into his ear.

Oh thank god, Louis thinks, and lets himself sag gratefully against him, his hands pawing up the back of Dermot's blazer. He still doesn't cry properly, just allows himself a shaky breath exhaled into Dermot's lapel while Dermot pats his back in comfort, and then Dermot's pulling away from him, holding him at arm's length with an appraising look. “Were you that unhappy with your audition?” he asks gently. “It didn't go so badly, did it?”

“I just wanted it to be,” Louis knows he sounds miserable and his voice breaks; he clears his throat and continues. “I wanted it to be perfect. I really... I just wanted to show them what I could do, and I,” he says, and leaves it at that, lets Dermot wrap his arms round him again.

“Well, it's kind of their job to see through all those nerves to your potential, isn't it,” Dermot tells him, and Louis can feel himself smile sarcastically into Dermot's shoulder, detaching himself from the embrace.

“Yeah,” he says, and finds he can't look into Dermot's eyes when he continues, “it's all about the potential,” and Dermot grips his shoulder and dips his head into the path of Louis' gaze where it's directed at the floor.

“You're a good lad,” Dermot says insistently, holding Louis' gaze steady, “and young. If this doesn't work out, you have next year, so many years, so don't let this mess with your head, yeah? Don't let them get the better of you.”

Louis bites his lip and stares at Dermot, feeling Dermot's fingers massaging the back of his neck, and Dermot doesn't know, he can't know, can he, what's happening, or what's happened. Louis doesn't think so, but for a second, Dermot's eyes are sad and compassionate and Louis thinks, no cameras, sucks a breath in and wonders if he could ask Dermot to talk to him somewhere else, thinks maybe he could say it if it were just Dermot.

A staffer comes up behind Dermot's shoulder, touching him lightly, and Dermot gives Louis another squeeze before straightening up and leaning away to address her, and just like that, the opening's gone. Louis rubs at his cheeks with his hands and nods reflexively when Dermot turns back to him, apologetic. “Well, I have to be off,” Dermot's telling him, “but you hang in there, you'll be fine, all right?” and Louis raises his eyebrows, lips pressed together, and says,

“Right, thanks,” and turns away so he doesn't have to see Dermot leave.

-----

Louis' not particularly surprised when he emerges from the toilets on the final day of Bootcamp to see Dean the staffer casually patrolling the corridor. In fact, he finds he has to refrain from laughing at first, because the idea that Simon Cowell and Louis Walsh have a staffer dedicated to sniffing out boys who might be willing to suck their cocks is just the sort of morbid tale he'd have found amusing from a tabloid journo, before.

If Dean mistakes Louis' stifled smirk for a greeting, he gives no indication, just nods at him in acknowledgment. “Could you come with me?” Dean asks him, and Louis simply shrugs a shoulder, sliding his fingers into the pockets of his jeans. He's led through a section of the arena he's not seen before, starts seeing more staffers than contestants, and then Dean's gesturing to the door to the staffer toilets, unlocking it and pushing it open a crack. Louis stares hard at the door, shaking his head slowly in dismay, but he can't bring himself to direct the glare he so wants to fire at Dean because Dean has to know, he must, and Louis doesn't think he could handle seeing it for himself in Dean's face.

He takes a breath and pushes in the rest of the way, casting his eyes around the large room, the single stall, and Louis' voice suddenly comes from the side corner of the room. “You're a strong dancer,” the judge says, by way of greeting. “Could be a strong dancer, with good choreography behind you.”

Louis nods stiffly, turning to face him and bringing his hands back behind him to grip the counter top.

“I have an opening,” Louis continues, conversational, as he starts to unbuckle his belt. “One more name I can submit for the pool of final contestants.” He frees one hand to beckon with it, and Louis forces himself to let go of the counter, takes a halting step forward. “It's yours if you want it,” he says, and he has his trousers undone and his pants pulled down below his cock by the time Louis' sluggishly made his way across the room, as if there's no question that he'll drop to his knees once he gets there.

Louis is kinder with words than Simon was, but rougher physically, gripping a fistful of Louis' hair through his beanie and directing his pace, and that makes it harder for his mind to stray and simply go through the motions, each sharp tug or push keeping him from holding his eyes shut, or making him gag and squeezing tears from the corners of his eyes.

The judge bumps Louis' beanie unceremoniously from his head and pulls him off his cock when he comes, holding him in place while he spurts over the side of his face and into his hair. Louis hears him murmur, “so pretty, oh, what we could do with you,” from above and opens his eyes, glancing up, appalled, as though this is actually some sort of attempt to flatter him, or to be tender.

It's then he realises, with a sick jolt in his stomach, that Louis has been watching them both in the mirror across the room the whole time.

-----

Aiden's name gets called, and Paije's and Matt's, and then Simon's saying that's it for the Boys, and Louis isn't shocked, exactly. He doesn't believe in divine retribution, but his hair is still damp under his beanie, haphazardly washed in the sink then dried with the hand dryer in the staffer toilet, and it's almost satisfying to be disgusted with himself for how quick he was to get to his knees, like maybe he deserved to be had. How much honesty could he really expect from someone who would give him something for a blow job, anyway?

He stares out at the Judges Table and bitterly thinks that's showbiz, Tommo, then turns to pat the back of the nearest crying Boy, as they leave the stage.

It's a different staffer who comes for him this time, a female one, telling him he's wanted for more interviews, and he doesn't even know what to think at that, his stomach churning and flipping in turns. He simply stares at her, feels himself squint, mouth open in disbelief, and he must look fierce because she blinks, takes an involuntary step back. “Erm,” she says, gesturing with her clipboard. “Over there, with the other contestants, they're, er. Waiting,” and he looks where she's pointing and sees them, safe and out in the open and most importantly, being filmed. He closes his mouth and breathes out, caught between embarrassment and relief.

“Oh,” he says, nodding. “Right, sure.”

And then they're ushered onstage, and Nicole's saying they were too good to let go, and Louis doesn't even attempt to hide the smile that spreads across his face. He's seen these other boys, he knows how gutted they all were, and he throws himself into the arms of the curly-haired boy he now knows is Harry, whispering “told you so, told you so,” in his ear because he had, he just knew this kid would be something. Harry doesn't even stumble, just grabs him under the thighs and spins him once then puts him down, and they pull apart, grinning at each other.

Backstage, and later outside the arena, Louis can't stop touching any of them, pulling them in by the shoulders again and again, because all he can think, all he keeps thinking, is there was one more opening, and I'm in it.

end part 1
part 2