"I can't fucking get her out of my mind," Harry mumbles. He's half-asleep, half-drunk, half-hard.
Zayn is quiet on the other end of the line. "She doesn't exist, Harry," he says. He's half a world away. "It was a music video. She was a character."
"She was beautiful." Harry rolls over on the bed, face smushed against the pillow. He wedges his hand beneath his body, cups it around his dick. "I miss her."
What he means is: I miss you. But that's not something he'll ever bring himself to say.
"You're still in New York, right?" Zayn asks, abrupt. "From your show this morning."
Harry doesn't ask whether Zayn watched his show that morning, just like Zayn doesn't ask why Harry called him about Veronica again, out of the blue. "Yeah."
"Same hotel as usual?"
Harry's heart gives an improbable, wrenching sort of leap. "Yeah. Mick Greenberg."
"She was never real, Harry," Zayn says, and he rings off.
The miracle, Harry thinks, is that Zayn answered at all. He does, sometimes; more often, it goes straight to voicemail in the way that lets Harry know Zayn's phone is off or Harry's number is intermittently blocked. Either is equally likely.
He presses his fingers into his dick as he stares at his half-dead phone, indecisive. It still has some chub to it, but it's softening from Harry's lack of focus, and he doesn't necessarily feel like jerking off into a tissue tonight. He grips it with purpose, then sighs, flopping back over onto his back and reaching for his phone to thumb through old pictures, from Before.
Harry's seen Zayn, but not recently. It's more infrequent than Zayn answering his phone, at least.
He doesn't allow himself the anguish of hope following the end of the phonecall until the knock comes on the door to his suite.
It takes a moment for Harry to drag himself upright, adjusting his slouchy boxer-briefs over his hips. Zayn is standing outside the peephole, one hand shoved in his pocket, green-streaked hair falling into his eyes as he hunches forward. He's more clean-shaven than he's looked in pictures for a while, hair longer than Harry'd thought it would look in person.
Harry wrenches the door open. "Hey," he says.
"Gigi's at Taylor's," Zayn says, pushing his way in and dropping a Whole Foods tote bag on the floor. His tone is weirdly pointed; Harry's not sure if Zayn's reminding him that he's in a relationship, or that he's friends with Harry's ex now, or that he knows, innately, that Harry jerked off to the I Don't Want To Live Forever video for three weeks straight.
"And you're here," Harry says, just as pointedly. It works as a response to pretty much any of Zayn's underlying meanings.
"Yeah," Zayn says, deflating a little. His hand hovers close to Harry's hip. Harry wants to reach out, pull it in, feel the heat of it on his flesh, but he doesn't want to be the one to capitulate first. "I'm here."
Harry tosses his head, a throwback to when his hair was long enough to flip back with the movement. It's been almost a year, but he's still not used to the way that he can't tuck it behind his ears anymore. "Not that I'm not glad about it," he allows, because he is; he's pushed past most of his bad feelings about Zayn leaving and even sometimes lets himself miss seeing him regularly, "But why?"
"Wouldn't fucking shut up about Veronica, would you?" Zayn says. His hand trembles a little, and he finally, finally lets it settle on Harry's waist.
Harry lets out a sigh he didn't know he was holding in, and shifts, pushing his hip into Zayn's hand. "I only mentioned her a little bit," he says.
"You wrote an entire fucking song about her," says Zayn.
So Zayn did watch Harry's show that morning. Harry feels a surge of triumph, but there's an undercurrent of ache that overtakes everything within moments. "I guess," Harry says. Doesn't say: if she's not real, why did you come up with such an extensive backstory for her. Doesn't say: I still have the selfie we took with her pale pink lipstick on my jaw.
Zayn nods, and then he looks at Harry for a long, quiet moment, hand still hot and heavy on Harry's side. Harry stares right back at him until he can't handle it anymore, and he leans in for a kiss.
But Zayn leans away, and Harry stumbles, neatly, into Zayn's body, knocking them against the wall to the entryway of the hotel suite.
"Sorry," he says. He's still a little drunk, still feeling desperation hum under his skin and swirl up his spine. His fingernails ache with the need to scratch down Zayn's back the way he used to do.
"It's not that," Zayn says, putting his other hand on Harry's chest, right over Harry's fucking heart. "It's -- I brought something."
"Oh," Harry says. "What?"
Zayn looks uncertain, but only for a split second. "Gimme five minutes," he says. He strokes his fingertips further down Harry's chest, barely grazing Harry's skin; Harry's entire body shivers with the sensation. "Go wait in your room, yeah?"
"Are you --?"
"Do you still use the same word you used to?" Zayn interrupts.
"Are you going to stay till the morning?" Harry counters.
Zayn sucks his lips in between his teeth, skin around them turning white with the force of it. "Yeah," he says, finally. "If you want me to, then yeah."
"It's still the same word," Harry tells him.
Zayn nods. He drags his hand up to cup Harry's cheek, fingertips pressing hard against Harry's jawline and thumb stroking just under Harry's eye, but he doesn't lean in to kiss him. "Go. Give me five minutes."
When Zayn comes into the room -- closer to ten minutes later -- he's wearing a wig. His hair is awkwardly shoved up under it, some of the dyed-green strands peeking out. It's not Veronica's hair; it's the same colour, but it's straight, only coming down to brush just below Zayn's collarbones. There's a slash of deep berry lipstick across his mouth that mostly stays along the lines of his lips.
He's wearing a bra and panties, the same deep berry of his lipstick. No padding, but the lace stretches delicately over his chest just the same, straining a little where he has one hand held behind his back. It makes his shoulders seem even broader than usual.
Harry's mouth goes dry. He feels suddenly, overwhelmingly sober. "Zayn…" he says. He's been lying back, legs hanging over the side of the bed, but he sits straight up at the sight of him. He reaches forward, hand open, grasping.
"It's Veronica, actually," Zayn -- no, Veronica says, voice pitched high. "Zayn said you were missing me."
"Missed you both," Harry admits. He doesn't hold back from the truth, now. Both he and Veronica have words they can say if they want to stop this -- talking included.
"Well, I'm the one here now," she says, stepping closer and closer, until she's within his range.
He reaches for her, then pauses. "Can I?" he asks.
"Please," she says, so Harry takes her hips in his hands and pulls her close, spreading his legs wide so she can tuck in between them. She leans down, and he leans up, capturing her mouth with his.
The slick of lipstick is weird, waxy but tasteless against his tongue. He can feel it smearing across his face, and his dick starts to chub up again at the feeling of the mess of it against his skin, the way that Veronica's mouth is hot and wet underneath it all, lips closing around Harry's own, sucking them into her mouth. She bites at him with little nips that are just this side of not-hard-enough.
Veronica pushes him a little bit back against the bed, then climbs into his lap, straddling him and sinking down to her knees as she leans in, licking into his mouth and biting his lips again, harder. He can feel her cock against his, hot and hard, between the flimsy lace of her panties and the cotton of his pants. "Should've gotten naked while you waited," she murmurs.
"Didn't tell me to," Harry points out. "Wouldn't want to do anything you didn't tell me to."
"It's okay," she assures him. "I'm not here for your dick, anyway."
Harry groans a little at that. He has to force himself not to buck up against her, rolling his hips -- and his cock -- against her own when she says that. "You're not?"
He can feel her smirk against his mouth. She runs a hand down his side, scratches at his skin lightly. "I'm not," she says. She flattens her hand and pushes him back, until he's lying down again.
It's a great vantage point, actually. He can see the way her cock is thick against her flimsy pants, precome already darkening the material.
Idly, he wonders if they're Gigi's. Then he forces himself not to think about that at all. Instead, he focuses on how much he wants to reach up and feel if her nipples are pebbled and hard against her bra. "What did you come here for, then?" he asks, dragging his eyes away from her cock and her tits.
"Thought I could give you what I know you've been missing," she tells him, licking a finger and dragging it down his chest. "Thought you could eat me out."
Harry's mouth goes dry at the thought of it. "Your arse?" he asks. "Or your cock?" He doesn't know which he wants more. He grips her thighs tight, one in each hand, to keep his fingers from trembling.
She grins at him. It's another smirk, actually, and a self-satisfied one at that.
"Or me cunt," she says, and draws her other hand from behind her back.
In her hand, there's a little silicone vagina, dusky pink, the exact shade that Zayn's dick gets when it's hard. It's slick with lube and fits neatly in Veronica's hand.
As Harry watches, she lowers her hand slowly until the back of it is pressed firmly against her straining cock, like she's cradling her pussy just for him.
"Or," she says, drawing the word out, "You could fuck me bare and eat me out." She pauses, watching his face carefully. "As long as I get your tongue."
"Fuck," Harry says. He can't stop himself from bucking up this time, rolling his hips hard, dick nudging against her hand and her cock and her pussy.
"I'll take that as a yes," she says, smirking again.
"Fuck me," Harry says, reverently. He reaches forward, closes his hand over her own, feeling the way that the silicone of her cunt is warm and soft against his hand. His fingers brush against the precome on her panties when he reaches past the edge of the pussy. Saliva floods his mouth.
"Could fuck you with my dick," she says. "While you fuck my pussy. If you want."
Harry does -- oh lord Harry does -- but he'd rather Zayn fuck him before Veronica does. It's a nuance, maybe, but it's an important one. Zayn hasn't fucked him since he left the band. They've hooked up, sure, but neither of them have given in to penetration in years; it's a step further than they've been willing to go so far. "Next time," he promises. "Need to talk to Zayn about that first."
Veronica hesitates noticeably for a second before nodding. "I understand," she says. Her voice is lower, heavier, when she says that, and when she makes eye contact with Harry, a spark flies between them.
"Thanks," Harry says, rearing up to kiss her, hot and wet and desperate. He moves his hand to her waist, tries to drag her in closer.
She pulls away after a few minutes, chest heaving. "Put that mouth where the money is," she says, reaching forward to wipe a smudge of lipstick off from under Harry's lip with her thumb, then running that same thumb over the visible nub of her clit, leaving a smear of lipstick behind on it.
"Sit on my face?" Harry asks. "Or. I could fuck you first. I liked that idea."
"I was hoping you'd say that," Veronica says. "Zayn's told me how you get about your own jizz."
God. God. Harry drags his hand from Veronica's waist over her thigh -- hair coarse but sparse on it -- to his own crotch, where he shoves it down his pants and grips the base of his cock in a tight ring of his fingers. He's so hard. He's so fucking hard he's aching with it. "I need--"
"I know what you need," Veronica promises. She shifts up higher on his lap, rises up on her knees and moves the hand holding her soft damp pussy lower, till it's positioned roughly at the base of her cock. She tugs at the waistband of Harry's boxer-briefs with her other hand, so Harry scrambles to push them down, cock springing free as he does so.
Once his pants are wrestled down to his knees, Veronica carefully slips her pussy over the head of Harry's cock, guiding it down until he can't push any deeper in. It's shallow, Veronica's silicone cunt, only going about halfway down Harry's shaft, but it's warm from her hand and wet from the lube, and she follows it by pressing the swell of her own thick cock against the other end of it, clutching the base of the pussy against herself as she rolls her hips.
Harry's mouth falls open, panting as he grips Veronica's hip in one hand and wraps the other around the hand holding her pussy against her dick. His knuckles brush against the wet smear of precome soaking down the lace of her panties, and he gasps. "So wet," he mumbles, rubbing at the material as Veronica tightens her hand around her pussy, squeezing the head of his dick. There's a squelching sound as the lube gathered in the base of the rubber cunt shifts, but he's so far gone that he barely even notices. "So wet for me, Z - Veronica."
"You turn me on so much," Veronica admits, rolling her hips again. Her cunt drags against the head of Harry's dick, lifting off and pushing back on. "Can't believe -- it was just one day. One day four years ago. You wrote a song about me."
"I wrote a song about you," Harry agrees. She feels so good, warm and tight and wet around him. He wants to close his eyes and just feel the way that she's enveloping him, but he doesn't want to look away from where the head of her cock has worked free of the waistband of her panties, nudging up against her stomach as she fucks down against him.
"You say I'm a good girl," Veronica says. She's tossing her hair back, wig falling a little askew, eyes closed as she props herself up with one hand and starts rolling her hips forward, bearing down repeatedly with a punishing pace. Her cunt pulls against Harry's dick in a persistent, delicious drag.
"But I know you would, girl," Harry half-sings, teasingly, until Veronica's eyes fly open and she glares down at him.
"That's not my song," she says, voice slipping down a register or two with the state of her arousal. The 'anymore' goes unsaid.
"Good girl, she feels so good," Harry amends, staring up at her. "Met her once and wrote a song about her, I wanna scream --"
"You can scream," Veronica interjects. She carefully lifts the hand she's using for balance up off the side of the bed and scratches her nails down Harry's front hard enough to leave thin little welts behind. "Scream for me."
"Fuck," Harry shouts, tightening the hand he's got wrapped around her pussy. He lets out a grunt that's practically a yell as she scratches down her torso again, then wraps the hand around the base of his cock.
"Come for me," Veronica adds, twisting the hand at the base of his cock one way, gently, and twisting her cunt around the other way, just enough for Harry to yelp at the soft tug of skin on his dick -- just enough to ache deliciously, but not hurt. "Fill me up."
"God," says Harry. His tongue feels too big for his mouth. "Veronica."
"I said come," says Veronica, rolling her hips so hard that she nudges her cunt away from her body, panties catching on the end of it and pulling lower, enough that more of her cock slips out.
It's the sight of the dusky head of her dick -- the same colour as the pussy she's got in her hand -- rubbing precome against the hair low on her belly as she squeezes her cunt around the top of Harry's cock that pushes him over the edge, and he comes with a shout, spilling a few long, hot pulses into the base of Veronica's vagina.
"Ready to eat me?" she asks, after she's given him a moment to catch his breath. When Harry looks down, she's still hard and leaking against her stomach.
"Sit on my face," he tells her -- begs her, so she pulls her cunt off of his dick, carefully, and knee-walks up his body until she's hovering over his head. She hesitates for a moment, then settles down on his chest, holding most of her weight off of it.
"Ready?" she asks, and he nods, and she lowers her cunt to his face, holding it firmly in place as he licks into it, parting the stiff folds with his tongue.
It's weird as first, especially as Harry comes down from his orgasm. He's used to tasting other people when he licks himself out of them, feeling their musk mingling with his own on his tongue. Now he just tastes his own jizz -- a little sour, a little salty, a little thick; he's always liked his own taste but he also really needs to eat more pineapple -- the sticky-sweet flavoured lube she'd used on her cunt before she fucked him with it, and the subtle sterile-chemical flavour of the silicone underneath everything else.
But she gasps when he licks at her clit, bearing down on his face as he licks lower and lower, finally shoving his tongue inside of her and coming up against the thick load he left inside her, dripping slowly downward. When he opens his eyes, she's shoved her panties down completely and wrapped her hand around her dick, pulling herself off in quick, practised strokes as she stares down at him, and where his tongue is straining to push inside her.
Jesus. If he hadn't just shot off this huge load slowly percolating on his own tongue, he'd be getting hard again at the sight of Veronica's cock in her fist, somewhat obscured by the pussy shoved down over his face but still so familiar from all the times he and Zayn would wank each other off after a show.
Harry wants to ask her to come on his face like she's squirting from the way he's licking her out, cleaning her up for the next time. He can't talk, though, can't do anything but hunt for every dollop of his own come, straining his tongue as he alternates his focus, shoving it deep inside her and then pulling it out, licking over her folds with the flat of it and teasing at the tip of her clit.
He reaches up blindly, twisting his arm awkwardly until he can work it under Veronica's lab a little, cradling her soft balls through her softer panties, running his thumb over the fabric as they bump down against him -- his hand and his chest -- with the force of the way she's jerking herself off. She lets out tiny little soft groans when his thumb bumps against the heel of her hand at the base of her cock, higher-pitched and breathier than the groans Zayn would make, and his cock gives a solid, stubborn twitch at the thought.
I love you, he thinks, because when he's stripped down to his birthday suit with Veronica hovering over him, her cock in one hand and her cunt in her other, he feels like he's never stopped. She makes him feel so good still. He felt phenomenal the time when he first hoisted her up on that set office table and sucked her off, pencil skirt hiked up around her thighs and glasses slipping down her nose, curls bouncing as she rocked her head back against the wall, and he feels even better now, with his tongue is root-deep in her cunt, sucking every last drop of himself out of her.
"Harry," Veronica cries, voice low and gravely now, hips jerking against her hand. She shoves her cunt even harder down on his mouth and he has to relax his jaw and hold his tongue rigid, letting her fuck her clit against it. "Fucking hell, Harry, you're so --"
Veronica breaks off then, and lets out a wordless shout that's loud enough he's momentarily concerned they'll have heard it outside of his suite. Her come, warm and wet, spurts down over the back of her hand and onto his chest; some of it slides onto the base of her cunt and flicks down to his chin.
She rolls off of him and slumps down at his side, thrusting her legs over the side of the bed so that they can tangle with his. Gently, Harry pushes her pussy out of the way, and she relaxes her hand, dropping it onto the duvet next to them.
He takes her other hand in his and brings it up to his mouth, licking her come off of it. The consistency is thinner than his, and it's tangier, and the flavour of it mingles with the little bit of his own jizz left on his tongue in the way that he was missing when he was licking through the folds of her plasticine pussy.
"Fuck," she says, pushing her hair out of her face. She rolls onto her side and meets his gaze, bold with the bra stretching over her chest and the wig still mostly on her head. "So I'm all you think about, then?"
"Guess you've just found out," Harry jokes. Daringly, since it's clear that she's familiar with the song that he debuted just that morning, he reaches across the distance between them and wipes away one of the lingering smudges of lipstick from the side of her mouth with his thumb, and then leans in, following it with a quick, soft kiss. "In a manner of speaking, yes."
"Got a book for every situation," she says, reaching up to scratch at where her green-tipped hair is coming out from under her wig. "Sounds more like my friend Zayn than me."
"Yeah, well," Harry says. "Don't think I remind him of home much anymore." Suddenly aware of how that sounds -- no matter how truthful it may be -- he adds, "Plus, I didn't write a song after meeting him once years ago, did I?"
"Suppose not," Veronica says. She's quiet for a long, pregnant moment, not looking directly at Harry but not looking away, either. Eventually, she leans in and kisses him once more. "Mind if I go get changed?"
"Sure," Harry says, wiping his mouth off with the back of his free hand as she starts to sit up. He holds onto her hand with his other one, squeezing it tight until she pulls it gently away, then gets up to pull his boxer-briefs back on.
She's gone just long enough that he's starting to regret this. There's something about her -- about Zayn, too -- that he just opens up so much under their mouth and fingers and dick, left vulnerable when they inevitably leave again. The song he'd written about them was more about the idea of them than anything else, about wanting to shout out till they hear him and how much he -- well.
He likes them both so much.
He supposes that Zayn did, at least, answer his phone today.
Veronica doesn't come back in from the suite's living room, but Zayn does, face wiped clean of any lipstick, hair disheveled, trackies low on his hips and a red crease on one shoulder where the bra strap had been cinched too tightly. He stops just inside the doorway, rubbing at the hair on his lower belly as he regards Harry with those quiet dark eyes of his. "All right, Harry?"
Harry licks his lips, thinking seriously about the question. The sex is over, but Zayn can still safeword out if Harry gets too honest, so he shrugs. "I will be if you come here and cuddle."
"The sex?" Zayn asks, brow furrowed so slightly that Harry would miss it entirely if he hadn't essentially lived out of Zayn's back pocket for the better part four years.
"It was really good, Zayn," Harry says, reassuringly. "Was it for you?"
"You know it was," says Zayn, quietly, coming over. He's more subdued when he's not Veronica, but he gathers his confidence back around himself more and more with each step he takes toward Harry.
They curl up in the middle of the giant bed, Zayn lined up against Harry's back, arm slung low and heavy over Harry's waist, sheet pulled up around them but duvet shoved off to the side.
"You'll tell me, right," Zayn says, quietly, just as Harry's starting to drift off. "If you need something more right now, right?"
"Don't worry," Harry mumbles. "You still clearly remember how to do aftercare with me."
But -- "Harry," Zayn says, warningly.
"Fine," Harry huffs, but he's glad that Zayn is taking care with this. He's not reading into it, but he's still glad. "I'll tell you."
"We can talk through everything more in the morning," Zayn promises, and something inside Harry settles at the knowledge that Zayn's not going to slip away while he's still asleep.
It takes a few more minutes for Harry to get up the courage to say anything else, and he's not entirely sure Zayn is even away anymore -- his arm is resting heavier on Harry's waist, and his breathing is slowing down, evening out. Still, eventually, Harry says, "You could pick up the phone more often."
Zayn doesn't say anything, but his hold on Harry tightens briefly for an infinitesimal moment. Harry's not entirely sure if it happened, or if he imagined it, or what. But a few minutes later, just as he's starting to drift away, he feels the pressure of Zayn brushing a kiss against the back of his head.